Kitabı oku: «The Desert Prince's Mistress», sayfa 3

CHAPTER THREE

LARA put the phone down and stared at Jake. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said slowly.

Jake looked up from the script he was studying. ‘Got what?’

‘That job I went for. You know—I told you.’

Jake frowned. ‘Something about a mobile phone company? You turned up late, looking ghastly, and the owner was there and subjected you to a grilling?’

It was still taking a moment or two to sink in. ‘That’s right.’

Jake elevated one brow in a manner which would have caused almost any other woman in the country to swoon, but not Lara.

‘Does this guy have a death wish?’ he joked. ‘Or does he just like a challenge?’

Lara didn’t say anything. She suspected that Darian Wildman did like a challenge, and something about that worried her—though it now appeared that her gut reaction had been the correct one, after all. She had thought that he was going to offer her the job, but then he had just disappeared and left them all to be photographed. Still, when she mulled it over now, he couldn’t possibly have done otherwise, could he? Not employed her without testing her and, more importantly, without testing all the others—otherwise he would have had a small riot on his hands.

Yet she had sensed that he was about to do so. He looked like the kind of man who broke all the rules and made his own up. The word autocratic might have been invented with him in mind. It had probably been the other man with him, she reasoned, who had persuaded him to adopt the usual method of casting.

She should have been overjoyed. This was work, after all, and she needed to work—especially as the person she’d been covering for at the Embassy was now much better and ready to go back to her job. And she was supposed to be finding out more about Darian Wildman—so wasn’t this a heaven-sent opportunity to do just that? To work for his company and to become the face which sym-bolised that company.

Except it didn’t feel like that. It felt uncomfortable. Wrong. As if she was doing something that she shouldn’t be doing. And coupled with that was the burden of the knowledge she possessed.

Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that Darian had excited her in a way that no man had excited her for longer than she could remember. And that in itself was a bad sign. One which made her feel gloomy about him in general. If she was attracted to him then he was bound to be trouble, because Lara’s track record with men was nothing short of abysmal.

She didn’t fall for men very often, but when she did it was always for the kind of man your mother warned you to stay away from. Philanderers and cheats. Good-looking, weak, shallow men. The sort who promised you the earth and a little bit more besides, and then were busy glancing over your shoulder to see if someone more attractive had just walked in. In fact, she had sworn off men altogether—at least until she had worked out what was the basic flaw in her character which attracted her to the wrong type of man.

Her friend Rose had a few theories of her own. She said that it was because Lara yearned for excitement and was looking for it in the wrong places—but how on earth could you go looking for it in the right places if solid and decent men—the kind your mother would approve of—left you cold?

‘Oh, you need a sheikh, like Khalim,’ Rose had laughed on the eve of her wedding.

At the time Lara had been struggling into a dress which weighed almost as much as she did. ‘Don’t be so smug!’

‘But I’m not,’ Rose had protested, and had laid her hand on Lara’s shoulder, her voice gentling. ‘I’m serious. It’s just a pity that Khalim hasn’t got any brothers.’

Lara chewed on her lip. Oh, Lord—she had completely forgotten that conversation until now! But that was the cleverness of the mind, wasn’t it?—It dragged things up from the hidden corners of your subconscious when it thought they might come in useful. If only Rose had known how eerily prescient her words had been.

If it had been anyone other than Khalim then it might have been easy to pick up the phone and say, Hi, guess what? I’ve discovered you have a secret half-brother! But Khalim was no normal man. He was Sheikh of a vast kingdom, and if another man was related to him by blood, then couldn’t he lay claim to that kingdom and jeopardise the livelihood of all of them? His and Rose’s and their son’s, and the child soon to be born? How could she knowingly endanger all that until she knew something of the man himself?

‘Lara?’

She looked up to see Jake staring at her with concern. ‘What?’

‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

‘Have I?’ She touched her cheek and found that it was cold, and suddenly she began to shiver. ‘We shoot on Monday,’ she whispered.

On Monday she would see him again. Those strangely cold golden eyes would pierce right through her and see… Would they sense that she was not all she seemed? And how would he react if she told him that he was not all he seemed, either?

Jake frowned. ‘Lara, what is the matter? You’ve just won a fantastic contract—why aren’t you cracking open the champagne?’

She forced a smile. Why not, indeed? Perhaps she was simply guilty of inventing problems where there were none. ‘Coming right up,’ she said brightly, and headed for the fridge.

The winter sun streamed in through the glass, warming his skin as Darian slowly buttoned up his white linen shirt and watched an aeroplane creeping across the sky in the far distance. Outside, the clouds were tinged with pink and gold, contrasting with an ice-blue sky which made the world look as perfect as it was supposed to look. But then the views from his penthouse apartment were always matchless and magnificent and never the same. It was one of the reasons he had bought it—that and its inaccessibility to people in general and the world in particular.

The phone rang, but he let it ring. Most phone calls, in his experience, could be usefully avoided, and he hated having to make small-talk—especially in the mornings. Which was one of the reasons why it was a long time since he had stayed overnight with a woman.

He listened to the message on the answer-machine, to hear the voice of the travel agent telling him that his flight to New York was confirmed, and smiled. If he had picked it up then he would have had to endure all kinds of bright and unnecessary questions about the state of his health!

He picked up his coffee cup and sipped thoughtfully at the strong, inky brew, glancing over at the mirror as he did so. There was no sign of blood. Not now. He gave a tiny grimace. What was going on? He had cut himself shaving that morning—lightly nicked the skin around his jaw—something he could not remember doing since he was an adolescent boy, when he had first wielded the razor with uncertain fingers.

In his gleaming bathroom mirror he had stared at the bright spot of scarlet which had beaded on the strong line of his jaw, disrupting his normal, ordered routine, and it had taken him right back to a place he rarely visited.

The past. That strange place over which you had little control and yet whose influence shaped the person you would be for the rest of your life.

He had never been one of those boys who had shaved before there was any need to. It was simply that he had seemed to develop way ahead of anyone else, with a faint shadowing of the jaw when most of his peers were still covered in spots. He had shot up in height, too, and his shoulders had grown broad and his body hard and muscular.

Such early maturity had set him apart—especially with the girls—but then, in a way he had felt set apart ever since he could remember. He had never looked like anyone else, even though his clothes had been no different. His skin had always had a faintly tawny glow to it, and his golden eyes had marked him out as someone different.

The girls had loved it and the boys had tried teasing him because of it, but he had quickly learnt that his height and strength could intimidate them enough to stop the insults almost before they had started.

So his childhood had been lonely. The only child of a single mother, bringing him up in a seedy apartment in one of the wastelands of London where tourists never ventured. That in itself had not been unusual—poverty had brought with it all the casualties of human relationships, and Darian had known only a couple of sets of parents who had still been together—and they had fought enough to make him wonder why they bothered.

He guessed it was that at least other kids had known who their father was. Whether it was the father who had run off with a younger woman, or the father who would appear threateningly drunk on his former family’s doorstep, or the father who refused to pay money the courts had told him he must pay. These were fathers it was easy enough to hate, but Darian’s own paternity had been one big secret. He would rather have had someone to hate than no one at all.

He had tried asking his mother about it, but even broaching the subject had made her mouth tremble, as if she was about to cry—and she never cried. He had learnt only that some questions were better left unasked…

The doorbell jangled, disrupting his thoughts. His driver was here. Darian picked up his jacket, feeling an almost imperceptible glow of subdued excitement as he sat back in the soft leather luxury of the car. He told himself it was because they were shooting the photos today, and that something which no longer challenged him was coming to an end, but he knew that was not the whole story.

The truth was that he wanted to see the model again. What was her name? Lara. Yes, that was it. Pretty name and a pretty girl. Fearless and spiky. He rubbed his eyes and closed them as the car began to accelerate, stretching his long legs out in front of him and yawning lazily.

He was tired. He had sat up until the early hours, sorting through his accounts and feeling bored—with pretty much everything. Appetites which were fed with everything they needed tended to become jaded, he told himself ruefully.

He wondered when his life had become like a game of Monopoly—just a load of numbers that were so big they didn’t seem real. But that was the way of money—too much and it almost seemed to get in the way, not enough and it dominated your whole life and all your thoughts. Was there no simple in-between way?

He guessed there was—the way most men chose. Marriage and babies and a house in the suburbs. Daily train journeys and home for supper and a drink. Weekend barbecues and driving out to pretty country pubs.

But to Darian it sounded like a lifetime’s incarceration. A cell padded with sofas and chintz curtains. Maybe that was why he had never even come close to commitment, because commitment carried with it the price of settling down and raising a family. That was the way of things. In fact, no one had ever stirred his blood enough to make him even think of committing, or to make him feel a pang of regret that he was unable to.

You will be a lonely old man, taunted a little voice inside his head, but even that didn’t bother him. Lonely and alone were two entirely different concepts, weren’t they? He felt as if he had been alone for all his life, so why change now? Even if change was possible, and Darian didn’t think it was. That was the mistake that people always made—women especially. They thought that a person could change the habits of a lifetime and become the someone they wanted you to be.

The driver turned his head as Big Ben loomed up magnificently in front of them. ‘Do you want me to wait?’

Darian shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll ring when I need you. I may hang around for a while,’ he added casually.

He told himself that he liked to be in control—which was true—and that he liked to be hands-on—which was also true. If there was going to be an advertising campaign then he wanted to have some input into the final images which would represent his company.

But most of all he wanted to watch Lara at work, to see her thick dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze and see the sky reflected in eyes which echoed its hue.

Lara Black.

The English rose.

Lara noticed him before he saw her. The heavens themselves seemed to be conniving in his entrance, because just as his long legs began to emerge from a seriously luxurious car a shaft of pure golden sunlight chose that very moment to spear its way through the fluffy clouds. And he chose just that same instant to look up, his eyes vying with the sun for brilliance.

Lara shivered.

‘Keep still, Lara,’ said the make-up artist patiently as she dabbed on another stroke of pink iridescent lipgloss.

Lara couldn’t reply, not with her lips half open to deal with the lipgloss, but she was aware of him approaching, silent and stealthy—like a natural predator. The sharp colours of the autumn day seemed to emphasise his strong features—etching shadows which fell from beneath the high cheekbones and the firm, luscious mouth.

He wore linen, which managed to be both casual and smart at the same time. Yet somehow it looked all wrong on him, and she wondered what he would look like with the fluid, silken robes of the Maraban aristocracy clinging to his lean, hard frame.

She could hear the chatter lessening as the make-up artist turned her head to see what what was happening and whistled softly. She gave Lara’s lips a final blot with a piece of tissue.

‘Oh, wow,’ she whispered fervently. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him!’

Lara gave her chin a welcome stretch, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest. ‘You mean from a professional point of view, of course?’ she joked.

‘Yeah, sure.’ The make-up artist gave a rich and fruity laugh. ‘One look at him and all I think about is work, work, work!’

Lara watched him while the stylist fussed around with her dress. Little clusters of people had stopped to stare at the proceedings, alerted to the possibility of excitement by the photographer and his acolytes and the sight of a woman wearing a floaty, filmy dress on a blustery autumn day.

‘Are you making a film?’ she heard one middle-aged shopper ask.

‘A photo-shoot,’ drawled the photographer’s assistant, with a shake of his long hair.

But Lara felt as though they might have been aliens from another planet—she felt disconnected and oblivious to just about everything except for him, which was more than a little bit scary. She tried to tell herself that of course she was going to be interested in him—that was the whole point of her presence here. But surely that wouldn’t account for the pounding of her heart and the silken throb of her blood which seemed to strike soft hammerblows at all her pulse-points. Not by anyone’s standards could that be described as professional behaviour.

Maybe the make-up artist had put it in a nutshell. Think Darian Wildman and the last thing you felt was professional.

She turned away, breaking the spell with an effort. The last thing she needed was for him to look up and see her staring at him like some kind of starstruck adolescent. There were enough people already doing that.

‘We’re never going to keep your hair under control with this breeze!’ grumbled the stylist as she pushed a wayward strand off Lara’s face.

‘Looks perfect to me,’ came a slow, deep voice from behind her.

Lara tried to count to ten, but the numbers became jumbled in her mind as she turned round. At least the half-smile on her lips was appropriate, as was the polite, almost deferential raising of her eyebrows. After all, he was the boss and she the model.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi.’ He found himself mocking her, enjoying the brief moment of discomfiture which allowed itself to break through her cool little smile, but then his eyes narrowed. Maybe she was used to men coming onto her. With looks like that she was bound to be. He saw her shiver. ‘You’re cold,’ he said softly.

Lara looked down at the goose bumps on her arms, which was infinitely easier than meeting that clear golden stare, and composed herself enough to look up again, a rueful smile playing on her lips. ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Silk chiffon is a wonderful floaty fabric, but it wasn’t exactly designed with warmth in mind!’

‘No.’ He forced himself to be objective. He had sat in with the creative team while they thrashed around the kind of image they wanted to project. Delicate and ethereal had been the objective—an objective achieved perfectly on the mock-ups they had shown him.

But reality, in the flesh and blood form of Lara Black, had an impact he had not been expecting. A bone-melting, sensual impact. Maybe that had been the subtle difference which had marked her out from all the others, Darian thought—that understated but persuasive femininity which could overpower men by stealth.

‘Do you want a jacket or something?’ he asked suddenly.

The question took Lara off-guard, and for one mad moment she thought he was actually going to take off his own jacket and offer it to her! As if! Lara pointed to a soft pink wrap which lay draped over one of the canvas chairs.

‘I have a shawl. I’ll—’

‘Here—let me.’ He bent and scooped the garment up, and draped it around her shoulders, feeling her shiver as he did so. ‘You really are cold,’ he observed, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the fine cashmere.

‘Yes.’ But that was not the reason she had shivered. She knew that, and she suspected he knew that, too. It seemed like the most deliciously old-fashioned and chivalrous act—a disarming act—to put her shawl on for her like that. A man like Darian Wildman would be aware of that. Talk to him, she told herself. This is your opportunity!

‘Do you…do you often go on shoots like this?’ she ventured.

The lips curved into a cool smile. ‘Is that a take on the “do you come here often” line?’ he mocked.

At that moment Lara hated him for making her feel so unoriginal, but she didn’t show it, shrugging her shoulders instead. ‘Don’t answer if you don’t want to,’ she murmured. ‘I’d hate to think I was straying into unprotected waters!’

He laughed. This was better. He liked her spiky better than he liked her soft. Softness made women vulnerable, and vulnerable women weren’t equals. They got hurt, and then they made you feel bad because of it. ‘Was I being rude?’ he mused.

‘Yes.’

He raised his eyebrows fractionally, taken aback by her blunt reply. ‘The answer to your question is no—but then I rarely conduct advertising campaigns.’

‘So why this one?’

He wasn’t about to start telling her about his plan to float Wildman on the stockmarket—she, like the rest of the world, would find out about it soon enough. ‘Because I want the name Wildman to be synonymous with mobile phone technology.’

‘You mean it isn’t already?’ she teased. ‘Shame on you!’

He allowed his mouth to curve into a small smile. ‘I know. Shocking, isn’t it?’ he questioned gravely.

‘Utterly,’ she agreed, realising that he was flirting with her and that she was flirting right back.

Their eyes met and he regarded her thoughtfully. He wanted to take her out to dinner, he realised, not exchange snatches of conversation while the crew ran around, shout-ing and disrupting them. And just then, as if echoing his thoughts, someone shouted her name.

He frowned. ‘Sounds like you’re needed,’ he observed.

‘Sounds that way.’ She hugged the shawl tightly around her as the stylist beckoned, hoping that she didn’t sound reluctant to leave. ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured, glad to get away because nothing seemed to be going according to plan—although when she stopped to think about it what plan had she actually made, other than to somehow get to meet him? And now that she had managed to do that, all she could do was fantasise about his golden eyes and his lean, hard body. It just wasn’t good enough.

Darian watched while the stylist fussed around with Lara’s hair and then the photographer moved over, whipped the wrap away and began to coax her into position, prowling around in front of her, crooning directions.

‘That’s right, baby—smile! Not too much—just a kind of cool, thoughtful smile, as if you’re deciding whether to dump your lover or not!’

Lara smiled.

‘That’s good! Now half close your eyes—as if you’re trying to drive him wild with jealousy! You’re thinking of another man—and you want him more!’

Lara did as she was told, her eyelashes fluttering down, finding it remarkably easy, picturing golden eyes and tawny skin and a dark, burnished head of royal descent…

She snapped her eyes open, startled as the bright flash exploded, staring into the eyes of the man who was fantasy and yet real, and for a moment the rest of the world receded.

Darian stared back at her, and for the first time in his life he recognised the intrusiveness of the camera and despised the intimacy it created between photographer and subject. For a moment there she had looked so sexually excited that it might almost have been for real. His mouth tightened. What a way to earn a living, he thought in sudden disgust. Yet it was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

No. It was what his company wanted. And this was an assignment, he reminded himself. A professional assignment. He hadn’t been introduced to her at a party—maybe if he had it might be different. Instead, he had run across her in the course of work, and he kept the line between work and pleasure strictly delineated.

Lara saw his face harden and wondered what had happened to the courteous man who had wrapped the soft wool around her shoulders. The golden eyes had darkened, a flush of colour was running along the high, aristocratic cheekbones. For a moment she saw the glimmerings of a hard, almost cruel contempt, and his expression filled her with trepidation even while something feminine ached at the very core of her, revelling in that cold look of mastery.

With an effort she tore her gaze away from him, staring instead at the phtographer, giving the shot everything she had and suddenly wishing that she was a million miles away from that hard, glittering scrutiny.

She held her arms aloft and the silk chiffon twirled and clung to her thighs. Abruptly, he turned away, and she forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand, losing herself in it because that seemed infinitely easier than losing herself in the gaze of Darian Wildman.

But when the photographer had stopped shooting there was no sign of him.

‘Where’s Darian?’ she questioned casually as she pulled the wrap back round her shoulders.

‘Gone,’ said the assistant.

She hadn’t even noticed him leaving, and she was surprised by a great, swamping feeling of disappointment. Gone! There were five other London locations to get through and suddenly the day seemed to stretch away endlessly in front of her.

Had she thought that he would be accompanying them to Tower Bridge and the Mall and Leadenhall Market and the other places which had been carefully chosen each to reflect a different mood of London life?

But perhaps this was best—he was a distracting man in anyone’s book.

Lara channelled all her frustration into getting exactly the poses which the photographer demanded, and tried not to think about whether she would see him again, and where she went from here if she did not.

It was dark by the time she arrived back at the apartment and Jake was at home, all dandied up in a stunning black dinner jacket, swearing softly as he attempted to subdue his bow-tie.

‘Do this for me, would you, Lara?’

She put her bag down, knotted the black silk into a neat bow, and stood back. ‘How’s that?’

‘Perfect.’ He made another small, unnecessary adjustment. ‘Someone rang for you,’ he said casually as she flopped onto the sofa with a heavy sigh.

‘Oh?’

‘A man.’

‘Oh, again,’ said Lara uninterestedly. But something about the amused curiosity in his voice made her sit up. ‘Did he leave a message?’

‘He did.’

‘Jake—stop playing games! Who was it and what did he say?’

Jake enunciated his words carefully. ‘His name is Darian Wildman and he says he’ll call you tomorrow.’