Kitabı oku: «Passion», sayfa 2

Determined not to be beaten in her quest, Tilda went straight to the nearest library and used the Internet. She was initially infuriated by the discovery that Rashad was currently in London and yet nobody had been prepared to admit that. But when she noticed the date of the charity benefit he was to attend and realised that it was being staged that very day, it lent wings to her thoughts and her feet.

At the reception desk of the exclusive hotel where the benefit was being held, Tilda learned that admission was by invitation only. She paid for an eye-wateringly expensive soft drink so that she could sit in the hotel foyer. Sophisticated women in fashionable cocktail frocks walked in and out of the crowded ballroom. A door was propped wide to facilitate the exit of a man in a wheelchair, and Tilda caught a glimpse of a very tall, powerful male standing about thirty feet inside the room.

Her heart lurched as if she had suddenly been thrown high in the air without warning. It was Rashad, and there was something so achingly familiar in the proud angle of his dark head that she rose to her feet without being aware of it. Her attention roved from the crisp luxuriance of his cropped black hair to the bold lineaments of his strong profile. Below the bright ballroom lights, his skin had the rich sheen of gold, showcasing his well-defined black brows, a thin aristocratic blade of a nose and a fierce sensual mouth set above a hard, masculine jaw line. He was incredibly good-looking in a very exotic, un-English way. Back in the days when she had innocently dreamt of a future as an artist, she had drawn his face over and over again, obsessively attached to every detail of his hawkish features that might have been lifted from an ancient Berber hanging.

He was surrounded by a circle of people. She was willing him to turn his handsome head and notice her at the same moment that she registered that candy-pink female fingernails rested on his arm. For a split second she could not credit that she had not immediately seen the gorgeous brunette in her flimsy short dress flashing an intimate smile up at him. It was as though Tilda’s mind had censored that part of her view, only letting her see what she could handle. The last time she had seen Rashad in the flesh five years earlier he had also been with another woman, a sight that had ensured that an extra large dollop of humiliation had been added to her agonised sense of rejection.

Now, as then, pride and anger came to Tilda’s rescue. Just as her eyes swerved back onto him, Rashad finally looked in her direction. His keen, dark-as-ebony gaze was trained on her. Not a muscle moved on his lean, strong face. He blanked her as if she didn’t exist and her view was cut off as the door swung shut again. In shock at that lack of reaction, Tilda turned pale as death. She went back to Reception and asked to leave a message for Prince Rashad. She hovered while it was being delivered but the minutes ticked slowly past and no answer came back. She sat down again, hollow with physical hunger, for she had not eaten since early morning. But she had no option other than to wait. She dared not leave while there was still an ounce of hope that he might respond to her request for a meeting.

It was almost three hours before Rashad chose to make his departure. Several powerfully built Arab men emerged from the function room and fanned out in an advance guard before Rashad strode into view. He had fantastic carriage, moving with the grace of a prowling panther. His sinuous female companion had to almost run to keep up in her high heels. Tilda could not have broken through the tight cordon of security that kept lesser mortals at bay in the royal presence. She watched as the paparazzi outside flashed cameras and shouted questions. Rashad ignored them and moved down the steps.

‘Miss Crawford?’

A dark-skinned older man extended a card to her with a quiet nod and walked on out the door.

Blinking in surprise, Tilda studied the card, which contained an address and a time late the following afternoon.

She sucked in a tremulous breath. Rashad was giving her the chance to plead her family’s case. But if she had not dutifully waited all those hours like a lowly supplicant for His Royal Highness’s attention, she would not have got the concession. Anger stirring afresh, she recognised how Rashad made her suffer: first the whip, then the reward—but only if appropriate humility was displayed.

Reclining back into the comfort of his limousine, Rashad thought about Tilda Crawford, defiantly clad in the sort of masculine clothes he had never liked. Why did she only dress up like that for his benefit? Nothing could detract from such striking natural beauty. Even with her mermaid’s mass of curling pale blond hair tied back, her turquoise eyes and the heart-shaped pout of her full pink mouth bare of cosmetic enhancement, she had held every male eye in her vicinity.

Rashad had enjoyed keeping her waiting. He knew what kind of woman she was and he would give no quarter when he dealt with her. In truth, being very tough came naturally to Rashad, who had found restraint and tenderness a much greater challenge. While engaged in picturing Tilda he discovered that a sense of unlimited power could also act as an aphrodisiac. The eager brunette by his side rested a slim, caressing hand on his lean, powerful thigh. With a languid forefinger Rashad depressed the button to screen the windows …

CHAPTER TWO

TILDA sat rigid-backed on the crowded bus that carried her the last mile to her destination. Garbed in what her mother persisted in calling her ‘Sunday best’—a long black coat that she wore every winter to go to church—she was striving not to let nerves get the better of her temper.

Unfortunately every time she recalled how Rashad had just ignored her at the hotel, a sense of grievance grew inside her. What had she ever done to deserve such discourteous treatment? After all, it was not as though she had even had the slightest suspicion that her mother had asked him for financial help. She pressed cold hands to her hot cheeks as though she could cool the mortified heat that that fact still awakened in her. The whole ghastly business was threatening to tear her apart.

Metropolis Enterprises was housed in a massive contemporary office block. The company comprised a long list of different businesses, which were displayed on the inaugural plaque in the foyer. The building had been officially opened by Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar. She travelled up to the top floor in a glass lift. In the waiting area she sucked in a long desperate breath. For just a moment she thought she couldn’t do it, couldn’t face asking for time and understanding from a guy who had once torn her heart and her self-esteem to pieces.

‘Miss Crawford—come this way.’

Tilda straightened her stiff shoulders and followed the male PA. She was shown into a very large but empty office. Barely had the door closed behind her, however, than another opened across the room and Rashad entered.

His raw physical impact hit her like a tidal wave that swept away rational thought. His fabulously tailored black pinstripe suit oozed designer style, emphasising his wide, powerful shoulders, lean hips and long straight legs. Her heart felt as though it were pounding like mad somewhere in the region of her throat. Meeting eyes as amber gold as a hot sunset, she found it equally hard to catch her breath. For her it was like time rolling back and her response was immediate: her mouth ran dry, her slender length tensing with anticipation. It had been five long years since she had experienced that unsettling little clenching sensation way down low in her tummy and it seriously rattled her.

Surveying her only for the space of a heartbeat, Rashad came to a prowling halt by his desk. His lean strong face hardened on the unwelcome reflection that she bore more than a passing resemblance to some divine snow maiden. The high-necked long black coat provided a dramatic frame for the delicate perfection of her ivory skin and light blond hair. Scarcely divine, he adjusted with inner cynicism, regardless of the purity of her looks. Naturally she knew the effect of her startling beauty. Naturally that aura of artless innocence was a façade designed to ensnare foolish men. He knew that better than anyone.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’ Tilda shot that at him a little breathlessly, determined to show that she had better manners than he had demonstrated at the hotel.

‘Curiosity got to me,’ Rashad confided lazily, watching her long honey-brown lashes flutter down over the astonishing turquoise of her eyes, the slight downward pout of her curvaceous pink lower lip. In point of fact, she was still exquisite. A few inches taller and she would have rivalled any supermodel. Five years ago, he had had excellent taste in so far as appearance alone counted. He wondered if she would dare to say no to him now were he to reach for her and, that fast, the stinging heavy heat of arousal engulfed his groin. He gritted his even white teeth at the shock of that instantaneous sexual reaction and killed the frivolous thought that had preceded it. It had not occurred to him that he might still respond to her even when his strong self-discipline and intelligence were in direct opposition to that weakness.

By dint of not quite looking directly at Rashad, Tilda rescued what remained of her concentration and plunged straight to what she saw as the heart of the matter. ‘I had no idea that my mother had asked you to loan her money when we were seeing each other. If I had known at the time I would have stopped you getting involved in our family problems.’

Rashad was tempted to laugh out loud at such an implausible claim. As if! He strode over to the window, presenting her with his bold chiselled profile. He supposed her ludicrous assertion of ignorance was yet one more example of her old habit of always pleading innocence or having a viable explanation to cover her tracks. The leopard, it seemed, had not changed her spots. Nothing was ever Tilda’s fault or her responsibility.

Tilda moved closer in her eagerness to say all that she could in explanation before he could say anything. ‘Mum shouldn’t have asked you to help, but you shouldn’t have given it, either,’ she framed in an apologetic tone. ‘I mean, how on earth did you ever believe she could pay such a huge amount back? Why didn’t you at least tell me what you were thinking of doing before you did it?’

Rashad swung back to face her, for she was stretching credulity too far with that enquiry. A sardonic curve hardened his handsome mouth. ‘Surely that wasn’t part of your plan?’

Her delicate brows drew together in a slight frown of confusion. ‘Plan? What plan? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Rashad surveyed her with derisive cool and he had to admit that she put on a very convincing act. That expression of mystification in her wide turquoise eyes would have persuaded most men that she was speaking the truth. Unhappily for her, past experience had fully armoured Rashad against the lies she might well tell in an effort to awaken his compassion.

The silence felt claustrophobic to Tilda. She did not understand what was wrong or why he had made no response, but she did recognize the scorn gleaming in his narrowed dark gaze. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘It astonishes me that you should dare to come into my presence and criticise my generosity towards your relatives. That might be a wily move with some men, but I find your reproaches offensive.’

Something in that clipped, dark tone chilled her to the marrow and her tension climbed even higher. ‘I’m not denying your generosity and I have no wish to be offensive or ungrateful for the spirit that prompted you to give that money. But Mum had no reasonable prospect of ever repaying you and that should have made you think twice about what you were doing.’

His expressive mouth curled. ‘Your mother was offered the option of paying rent.’

Tilda recognised that the meeting was already going badly wrong and feared that she was letting her personal pride and animosity get in the way of making a proper clarification of the facts. ‘A lot has changed in our lives over the last five years, Rashad. My stepfather has gone. For a while, we lived in chaos. I’m afraid that my mother now suffers from—’

‘Stop right there,’ Rashad commanded with razor-sharp clarity. ‘I have no desire to listen to maudlin sob stories. We are not players in a soap opera, nor do we have a personal relationship. We are dealing with a business matter. Respect those boundaries.’

At that uncompromising rebuke, mortified colour mantled Tilda’s cheeks. Sob stories? Was that how her references to her family’s plight had struck him five years ago? When she had confided in him, had he viewed her trust in him as an inappropriate and unwelcome demand for sympathy? Yet not once had she told him about the serious shortage of money within her home! In the same way she had been too ashamed to admit that her stepfather was a good deal worse than just a work-shy bully and, indeed, had a criminal record.

‘Yes, I appreciate that, but—’

‘Do not interrupt me when I am speaking. It is very rude,’ Rashad sliced back without hesitation.

‘I was only trying to explain my mother’s position and why she has allowed this situation to get out of hand.’ Annoyed by that reprimand, Tilda had to make a real effort to remain focused and resist the urge to fight back in self-defence. But keeping her head was very difficult when Rashad was behaving like a stranger. It was a challenge to believe that he had ever been anything else. His English had become much more idiomatic and his manner towards her was brutally cold and distant. She had never been more conscious of his royal birth and background. Yet she still found it remarkably hard not to stare at him for his sheer strength of character had always drawn her even when she was struggling bone and sinew to resist him. Her painful awareness of just how much he had once hurt her was doing nothing to stabilise her emotions.

‘Mrs Morrison’s personal circumstances are irrelevant,’ Rashad declared. ‘Five years have passed. There has not been a single attempt to service the loan advanced for the settlement of her debts, nor has there been rent paid according to the tenancy agreement. Such an abysmal record speaks for itself.’

As Rashad reminded Tilda of those embarrassing realities an uncomfortable flush washed her fair complexion. ‘I recognise that Mum has dealt with all this very badly, but unfortunately I wasn’t aware until this week that you owned the house and had also loaned her money.’

At that declaration, his lean bronzed features took on a forbidding aspect. ‘Another unlikely excuse? It is hard to credit that you believe the same scam could work twice.’

‘Scam?’ Tilda echoed with an uncertain laugh. ‘What scam?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t appreciate five years ago that you were doing everything you could to profit from our relationship? It was a scam aimed at milking my interest in you for as much money as you could get. You softened me up with your tear-jerking tales and very prettily you did it. Then your mother begged me to help her to protect you and your siblings from your evil stepfather’s spendthrift ways!’

Tilda studied him in horror. ‘I just can’t believe that you can think that of me or Mum! I only ever told you the truth. I did not try to milk your interest in me—what a disgusting term!’

‘What else did you do? Nor are your sensibilities as refined as you like to pretend. Why don’t we look at the facts? When I first met you, you were working in a bar and dancing in a cage.’

Her turquoise eyes flashed with the blue-gold of a flame in the hottest part of the fire. Temper leapt up so high inside her that she was momentarily left breathless by the impact. Her slim white hands clenched into fists. ‘I wondered when you were going to get around to mentioning that again. Since when was bar work on a level with prostitution? I wasn’t a lap dancer or a stripper.

The one time in my life I danced in a cage for a couple of hours and you never let me live it down!’ she launched at him furiously. ‘I should never have got involved with you. You were prejudiced against me from the start!’

Brilliant dark eyes gleamed warning gold beneath the lush black fringe of his lashes. ‘The past is not up for discussion—’

‘Except when it’s you making a point?’ Tilda was seething at the humiliation of having that ghastly cage episode flung in her teeth five years after the event. So much for Rashad acting like a stranger! Rashad, she thought suddenly, hadn’t changed one little bit. He could always be depended on to remind her of the worst possible moments in her life. ‘I’m not an immoral or dishonest or greedy person and I never have been!’

Rashad was dimly surprised to register that he was enjoying himself. She was the only woman who had ever dared to raise her voice in his vicinity or tried to argue with him. Once that trait had thoroughly irritated him but now he recognised it for the novelty and the weakness it was. His self-discipline absolute, he elevated a winged ebony brow in mocking encouragement. ‘Is that so?’

‘Of course it is.’ Tilda pushed a trembling hand through the silky stray curls clinging to her warm forehead. ‘For some reason you’ve put together a whole nasty scenario that didn’t happen. There was never any plan to get money off you.’

‘So … why, in your considered opinion, am I half a million pounds poorer from having known you?’

When Rashad mentioned that particular sum, consternation knocked the breath and the temper out of Tilda. ‘Half … a million pounds?’ she whispered shakily.

‘The sale of the house will recoup some of that loss and the property has at least appreciated as an asset,’ Rashad drawled with a complete calm that she found extremely threatening. ‘But I assume the rent will never be paid and as for the loan—’

‘It can’t all come to half a million pounds!’ Tilda gasped strickenly.

‘Rather more. That is a conservative quote,’ Rashad delivered drily. ‘I’m surprised that you haven’t already worked out the exact amount. I seem to recall that you have a head for figures as good as any calculator.’

Her soft full mouth pursed for she could recognise an insult no matter how well veiled it was. ‘But I haven’t had access to all the documentation involved.’

‘In your role as innocent bystander, naturally not,’ Rashad slotted in with an unconcealed derision as frank as a shout of disbelief. ‘No matter, I intend to reclaim the debt in full.’

Realising that events were running on without her, Tilda was in a panic. ‘You mustn’t. If you were willing to give us more time—’

‘Until the next millennium?’

‘Why do you have such a low opinion of me?’ Frustration pounded through Tilda, her eyes bright with angry incomprehension again. ‘I understand that my family comes out of this looking like freeloaders, but when you won’t even let me explain why—’

Intent dark golden eyes, heavily enhanced by spiky black lashes, slammed coolly into hers. ‘Let’s stick to business.’

‘OK. In one more year I hope to be fully qualified as an accountant.’

Rashad raised a brow in surprise. ‘How novel … when you were with me, all you could talk about was being an artist.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that the need to earn a living and help her mother raise her siblings had soon put paid to that prospect. She had had to give up her place at art college and find a job instead. But that was not a sacrifice she had ever questioned or regretted.

‘I have the ability to earn a decent salary and start paying back what is owed,’ Tilda swore with an urgency that betrayed the depth of her concern.

‘You have an English saying. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Promises are not of interest to me. If you have nothing more concrete to offer, one might wonder why you went to so much trouble to bring about this meeting,’ Rashad drawled, soft and smooth as silk. ‘At least, if I didn’t know you I might wonder. Knowing you as I do, however, I suspect that you hoped to use your sex appeal as a bargaining chip.’

Tilda was so hugely taken aback by that unjust accusation that her soft mouth opened and shut again. Her coat and her boots covered her head to toe and she wasn’t even wearing make-up. There was nothing provocative about her outfit. How did he think she should have presented herself? With a paper bag over her head and her body wrapped in a sack? Pure outrage lit her luminous blue-green gaze. ‘How dare you suggest that?’

‘But that’s what you do. Five years ago you were very careful to withhold your body and play the virgin card to keep me interested.’

Absorbing those words, Tilda breathed in so deep she was vaguely surprised that she didn’t spontaneously combust in front of him. ‘So this is what you call sticking to business, is it?’

Grim dark golden eyes clashed with hers. ‘But I was a business proposition as far as you were concerned. You set out to rip me off.’

Tilda snatched in a jerky breath. ‘That’s outrageous!’

‘But true, nonetheless, and if you haven’t come here to settle the outstanding debt or at least tender a substantial part of it, why are you here?’ Rashad enquired very drily.

Her hands clenched into tight fists of restraint for she recognised how he had backed her into a corner and cut off every avenue of escape. If she told the truth and admitted that she had hoped to awaken his compassion by explaining her mother’s circumstances, she would vindicate his accusation about her telling sob stories for profit. Her even white teeth set together. ‘I hoped that you would give us more time to pay.’

Rashad strolled soundlessly towards her, his pronounced elegance of carriage contriving to hook her attention against her will. But then the very first thing that she had ever noticed about Rashad was the fluid, impossibly sexy grace of his every physical movement. At that memory a tiny betraying little quiver darted through her tummy, tensing her every muscle with defensiveness.

‘On what basis would I grant a request for more time?’ Rashad drawled lazily. ‘I’m a businessman. If you can’t raise the money now, there is little chance that you could produce it in the near future.’

‘You weren’t behaving like a businessman when you commented on the fact that I didn’t sleep with you five years ago!’ Tilda suddenly shot at him, fed up of playing the game solely by his rules. ‘You are totally biased against me!’

Rashad strolled closer. He was so much taller that Tilda felt overshadowed by his proximity. ‘Don’t waste my time trying to distract me from the issue. I will ask you again—why are you here?’

A faint aromatic hint of sandalwood caught at Tilda’s throat and her nostrils and threatened to send her spiralling down into a rich tide of recollection. She was trying to avoid meeting his dark golden gaze, but she could feel his scrutiny and it was as if heat pulsed wherever his brilliant eyes chose to rest. Her mouth tingled, her slender throat tightened. A languorous heaviness was seeping up through her lower limbs, coiling in her belly and sending fingers of awareness darting through her small full breasts.

‘For goodness’ sake, you know why I’m here,’ she argued half under her breath. Being that close to him made her feel dominated and she took a swift step back.

Every imperious line of his lithe hard body taut with command and impatience, Rashad was determined to strip her bare of her manipulative pretences. He closed the distance between them again. ‘From my point of view it would appear that you have approached me with nothing to offer but yourself.’

Hot pink flooded her cheeks and she was startled into a swift upward glance. She was so conscious of his potent authority and strength that she continued to back away from him without even being aware of what she was doing. ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ she queried half an octave higher.

‘I don’t think you’re that naïve.’

Taut with wrathful incredulity as he confirmed that he meant what she had assumed he could not possibly dare to suggest, Tilda stared up at him, turquoise eyes bright as jewels. ‘Are you suggesting that I would try to offer you sex?’ she gasped.

Cynical amusement filled Rashad, for she acted the affronted virgin with such perfection. ‘In the absence of any other option, what else is there?’

At that cruelly mocking confirmation, the anger inside Tilda just cut loose of her restraint and she tried to slap him. But unfortunately her victim had far faster responses and he caught her wrist in midair. ‘No … I don’t tolerate tantrums!’

‘Let go of me!’ Tilda gritted in a tempest of fury at having been both insulted and denied any right of reprisal.

‘Not until you calm down.’ Rashad retained a firm hold on her narrow wrist. He was angry with her but there was a dark, insidious excitement beginning to stir, as well. A desire for what he had once been denied, he told himself harshly. Yet why should he censure himself for what were only natural promptings? He had a powerful libido and she was a very beautiful woman. A mere seventy years earlier, his grandfather had enjoyed a harem of concubines. For a split second, Rashad allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have Tilda Crawford entirely at his disposal at any hour of the day. His alone. The images that assailed him were so compellingly evocative that they were dispelled only with the greatest difficulty.

‘I said—let go!’ Tilda was so mad at being held captive like a disobedient child that she attempted to kick him. As he evaded that new potential angle of assault she yanked herself free with a suddenness that sent her careening into the piece of furniture behind her. With a yelp of dismay she fell over the coffee-table and landed on her behind on the other side of it with a loud thump.

‘Is it not time that you learned how to control your temper?’ With smouldering dark golden eyes, Rashad surveyed her lying in tumbled disarray on his office carpet. He strode forward, reached down and pulled her upright again in one easy motion. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’ Stiff with shame and embarrassment at her loss of control in the presence of the enemy, Tilda shook her head. She tried to make herself apologise and, unfortunately, the words were strangled at the back of her throat. At that moment she hated him with a passion. Yet she had only to connect with his brilliant gaze for a heartbeat to feel the stark rise of yearning that slaughtered her pride.

Rashad studied her lush raspberry-pink mouth and remembered the soft sweet taste of it. He allowed his imagination full sway while he asked himself why he should not turn fantasy into fact. Tilda at his disposal. Unleashed from his habitual rigid self-discipline, fierce arousal licked like blazing flames of fire at his lithe, muscular frame. Almost as quickly he reached a decision.

He would indulge himself with her. He would indulge his every desire with her until he was sated of that pale blonde perfection.

Why should he not take her? Would it not be the natural justice that he was entitled to claim? Why should he consider the question of honour with a woman of her reputation? He knew what she was. Somewhere he still had the security file that had destroyed his youthful illusions. While he had been with her, she had lied to him, deceived him and slept with other men. Rashad had learnt to his cost that fine principles were a serious weakness and a handicap around Tilda Crawford.

Startlingly aware of the buzz in the tense atmosphere, Tilda was trembling. As she took a step back her hips hit the wall and she braced her slim shoulders against it, gathering up her courage. ‘I wasn’t offering you sex,’ she told him defensively.

Rashad surveyed her with glittering intensity. ‘It’s the only thing you have to give that I want.’

The silence pulsed and vibrated.

‘Are you mad?’ Barely able to credit that Rashad could admit that shocking truth to her without betraying even a glimmer of shame, Tilda sucked in a shuddering breath. ‘I refuse to believe that you’re serious! Sex in return for money? How can you insult me to that extent?’

‘Most women consider my attentions an honour. The choice is yours.’ His stunning golden gaze narrowed to a smouldering glitter, Rashad let a long brown forefinger push up her chin so that their eyes could meet. ‘Make the right choice and you will discover that I can make repayment the sweetest of pleasures.’

Tilda was even more taken aback when that low-pitched forecast made her mouth run dry and butterflies break loose in her tummy. She could not dredge her attention from his lean, strong face or the shimmering gold of his stare. He lowered his arrogant dark head and a pulse beat like a drum pounded through her, leaving every inch of her tense as a drawn bow with anticipation. A little voice told her to move away, raise a hand to keep him away from her, even angle her head back out of reach. She heard the voice but she stayed put, controlled by much more powerful influences. His mouth came down on hers in a slow, languorous tasting that unleashed a host of sensations that she had forced herself to forget. It was a ravishingly potent kiss. Her breasts felt full and constrained by her clothing. A shivery little frisson of wicked delight ran through her slender figure and stirred a deep ache of hunger between her thighs.

Reacting to that shattering response with horrorstricken recoil, Tilda pulled back and spluttered, ‘No, thank you very much! Once burnt, twice shy!’