Passion

‘Discipline,’ he told her quietly.

‘Well, it’s freaky and unnatural,’ Tilda told him feelingly. ‘We have to talk about this—’

‘Why? Nothing can be changed. We’re married. I am your husband. You are my wife. We must do what is expected of us.’

‘Sacrifice doesn’t come naturally to those of us who were not raised to be royal and perfect!’ Tilda declared.

His strong jaw line set. ‘I am not trying to be perfect.’

‘Your father and your sisters are lovely. What a welcome they’ve given me!’ Tilda shook her silvery fair head, struggling to find the right words with which to voice her deep unease at the role that had been forced on her. ‘Doesn’t deceiving them into believing that we’re a real couple bother you?’

‘Of course it does, but it is the lesser of two evils. I can only regret the actions that brought us to this point. But I also accept that the truth would shame and distress, not only my family, but also our people. A respectful pretence is the best option on offer to us.’

Tilda was very tempted to look for something large and heavy and throw it at him in the hope of extracting a less logical and dispassionate response. ‘But this is a total nightmare.’

Accustomed to her love of exaggeration, Rashad surveyed her with glinting golden eyes of appreciation. Even after a day that would have taxed most women to the edge of hysteria she still looked absolutely amazing: glorious hair, glorious skin, glorious eyes, glowing and full of life. Out of politeness, courtiers, government officials and staff had tried not to stare at her, but the pure impact of her beauty had proved too much for many. That she had not betrayed the smallest awareness of that attention had impressed him. He had felt proud of her.

‘Not a nightmare,’ Rashad chided gently.

‘Well, it is a nightmare for me!’ Tilda condemned, her temper finally letting rip in the face of such indifference to her feelings. ‘I don’t routinely lie to people. I can’t feel comfortable faking stuff. I don’t have the first idea about how to act like your wife—’

‘I can help you. You should have entered our apartments, met the servants and accepted their flowers and congratulations. You would then have ordered dinner.’

Her generous pink mouth fell wide. What servants? She had not seen any servants! And why was he talking about food again? After a day when she had reeled dizzily from one shock into the next, was that truly all he could think about?

‘Or, you could have gone straight upstairs with me to bed,’ Rashad framed, willing to exchange one hunger for another that became more pressing every time he looked at her. His intent gaze acquired a smouldering light as it roamed over her lovely face and slim, shapely figure. ‘I can tell you now that sex is a high priority on my list. Meet my expectations there and I will regard you as the perfect wife.’

Tilda was almost dumbfounded with rage. For once, she could see that he had had no thought of being facetious. He was set on being candid and helpful when he informed her that his priorities were as basic as Neanderthal man’s had no doubt been. Sex and food.

‘I do not aspire to be the perfect wife, and if that was the pep talk that was supposed to act as inspiration it was a killer!’ Tilda launched at him. ‘You asked for my co-operation. As I seemed to have very little choice, I went along with that, but I had no idea how big a charade you were expecting me to dish up!’

Lean, darkly handsome face taut, Rashad breathed, ‘Our marriage does not have to be a charade.’

‘And I don’t have to be a concubine within this stupid fake marriage if I don’t want to be!’ Tilda flung that declaration and folded her arms, pride and fortitude prompting her to take a stand. She was willing to co-operate when it came to the marriage ceremony, but that was enough. Anything more than co-operation would have to be earned. Rashad was at the very foot of that particular learning curve … and his hints about sex and food were unlikely to increase his chances of achievement.

‘Tilda.’

‘Just you dare say one more word about how best to meet your expectations and, I swear, I’ll scream until you gag me!’ Tilda threatened, her voice half an octave higher in tone. ‘You’re not persuading me. You are so spoilt, so used to women who fall over themselves to do whatever you want—’

‘Where am I going wrong with you? Perhaps I’m talking too much when action would be preferable.’ Strolling forward, Rashad treated her to a fierce look of masculine challenge and, without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms.

Tilda was so disconcerted by that move in the middle of their argument that she lost valuable seconds when she might have gone into retreat. In the interim, Rashad ravished her mouth with his and set off a shattering sexual chain reaction throughout her slender body. Even though she knew she should not, she kissed him back, bruising her lips with the wild hot urgency that had risen like a crazy fever inside her, her hands delving into his black hair like possessive claws. She wanted him, wanted him, wanted him … just like a concubine? A favourite concubine? Those mocking words and the memory of how he had threatened to teach her to beg for his sexual attention, returned to haunt her. In an abrupt movement she tore herself free of his lithe hard body and literally tottered away a few steps on legs that didn’t feel strong enough to keep her upright.

Rashad was trembling, his body screaming for release. You’re not persuading me, she had said. Outrage roared through him when he grasped the significance of those words. What was it that Tilda found persuasive? What did it take to make Tilda surrender? As the answer came his fists clenched and he hated her as much as he wanted her and the force of that internal turmoil threatened to rip him apart.

‘How much?’ he intoned in a wrathful undertone. ‘How much of a financial inducement do you want to share my bed?’

Shock at that question turned Tilda’s flushed face white. Did he still think so little of her? Of course he did. Had she not agreed to sleep with him in return for having a very large debt written off? Her fire of anger was doused, but she was appalled at being directly confronted with his belief that she would do anything for cash.

‘I don’t want your money,’ she whispered tightly, forcing out the denial between tremulous lips. ‘Please don’t make me an offer like that ever again.’

Rashad was eager to believe that he had misinterpreted her behaviour. ‘Then why do you deny us what we both desire?’

Sucking in a steadying breath, Tilda spun back to him, her bright eyes veiled to a wary glimmer. ‘Sex isn’t so simple for me as it is for you. I may have been willing to protect my family at the cost of my pride, but I’m not for sale any more. I’m sorry if you think that’s dishonest,’ she muttered defensively, ‘but I think that it’s a fair enough exchange if I agree to act like your wife and jump through all the right hoops to please everyone. I’ll keep up the performance for as long as you ask, as well. That will be enough of a challenge when I can’t possibly think of myself as your wife in any real way.’

Striving to control his hunger for her, Rashad regarded her with passionate force. ‘Did I misunderstand what you meant by persuasion?’

A strangulated laugh was wrenched from Tilda. ‘Oh, yes. But don’t worry about it. All I’m asking for is a separate bedroom.’

‘And that is what you want?’ Rashad was frowning. He could barely credit what she was saying. She was his wife. She already felt like his wife. Was that really how she felt?

‘All that I want from you, believe me.’ Tilda would not look at him again for she had little faith in what she was saying even though pride had demanded that she say it. She wanted him with every fibre of her being but she would not let herself sink to the level of sleeping with a man who assumed he might have to pay her for his pleasure. He was his own worst enemy, she thought painfully. A few pleasing words, even a fleeting reference to the beauty of the desert sunset, and he could have had her for nothing. But flattery and romantic allusions to sunsets had never been Rashad’s style.

‘It will be as you wish. I have work to do. Excuse me,’ Rashad responded with scrupulous politeness.

The door closed and the silence folded in. She expelled her breath in a long jagged surge. Her fingers lifted to the reddened and tingling contours of her lips and something like a sob tugged at her vocal cords, forcing her to grit her teeth and fight for self-control.

She dined solitarily later that evening in a state dining room with superb marble walls and floor. She ate everything that was put in front of her and tasted nothing. What had gone so badly wrong between herself and Rashad that he could think she was so cheap? Why was he so convinced that she had gone with other men behind his back? He was logical, intelligent. What was the proof of her infidelity that he evidently considered irrefutable? She knew that for the sake of her self-esteem she had to find out.

Sitting there alone, she remembered how madly in love with Rashad she had once been. She recalled cherished memories of fun, sweetness and passion. Once, a car had backfired in the street. Assuming that it was gunfire, Rashad had thrown her to the ground and protected her with his body. The sheepish expression on his face in the aftermath had been comic, but she had been touched to the heart to realise that, at a moment when he had honestly believed that he was in danger, he had instinctively put her safety before his own.

Nobody had ever really tried to look after Tilda before and, although she had scoffed at the idea, she had liked it because, for too long, she’d had to be the strong one in her family and look out for everyone else’s interests. She had leant on Rashad and found him wonderfully supportive, even while the power of her passion for him had terrified her as much as it excited her. Determined not to be hurt, she had believed that she was in full control of her emotions. Then, out of the blue, he had dumped her and all her proud illusions had crumbled faster than the speed of light.

One day everything had seemed fine, the next it had been over. Rashad had arranged to take out her for a meal. She had sat waiting for him to pick her up. Time had crept on and he hadn’t arrived, hadn’t phoned, either. She had tried to call him on his mobile and there had been no answer. The next day, frantic with worry that something had happened to him, she had called round at the house he had rented and his staff had refused her entry. No explanation, no apology, nothing. Believing that in some way she must have offended him, she had gotten angry then and had decided to sit him out. For several days she had lived in denial of her growing misery until, one evening, when she just hadn’t been able to bear being without him any longer, she had found out from a friend where he was and had gone in search of him.

The party had been at Leonidas Pallis’s apartment. Through the crush, she had seen Rashad on a sofa with a sinuous redhead wrapped round him. Rashad, who supposedly didn’t like such public displays of intimacy, had been kissing the girl. Something had died inside Tilda and all her proud pretences had fallen apart as she had fought her passage back to the exit. She had been convinced that he had ditched her and replaced her with a more sexually available girlfriend. There had been a desperate irony to the fact that it had been only then that she had fully appreciated how much she loved him.

As Tilda let herself recall the terrible hurt of Rashad’s betrayal five years earlier, her chin came up. No way was she going to give Rashad the chance to put her through those agonies again! She might still be drawn to him like a stupid moth to a candle flame, but that didn’t mean she had to surrender to her weakness or let him suspect that it existed. Events had made them more equal, she told herself bracingly. She was trading cooperation rather than sex in return for the debts he had written off. At least being partners in a pretend marriage left her with some dignity and he was already discovering that he could not treat a wife like a concubine.

Tilda straightened her slight shoulders, turquoise eyes luminous with purpose. She might not feel as though they were married but, goodness, she intended to be the perfect wife in public. By the time she left Bakhar, Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar and his family would feel that he was losing a woman who had been an absolute solid gold asset to him. And not if he offered her a million pounds, not even if he begged on his knees, would she stay with him!

CHAPTER EIGHT

IN THE privacy of his office, Rashad watched the film footage for the third time. The camera, obviously wielded by a man hopelessly enthralled with Tilda’s exquisite face, followed her every move at a children’s concert. In front of a camera she was a natural and highly photogenic, and the Bakhari media industry had succumbed to their first bout of celebrity fever. When his sisters had taken Tilda shopping in Jumiah, the traffic had been brought to a standstill because interest in Tilda had been so great that drivers had abandoned their cars to try and catch a glimpse of her in the flesh.

Alarmed by the size of the crowds that had swiftly formed that morning, Rashad had wasted no time in tripling the size of Tilda’s protection team. He had also put a more experienced man in charge of her security. She was incredibly popular. He ran the footage of the concert again and absorbed the lingering shots of his wife’s radiant smile, her relaxed warmth with the children and the interest she showed in everyone she spoke to. Her intelligence and charisma attracted much admiring comment. Tilda might now look like a beautiful fashion queen, but when a toddler left a sandy handprint on her dress she just laughed and brushed herself down. In less than a month she had become the best-known face in Bakhar, next to his father’s and his own.

So, who was it who had said that the camera never lied? Was this the same woman who had once deceived him, extracted money from him and slept with other men? Was the fact that she still hadn’t slept with him ongoing evidence of the existence of that other unscrupulous persona? Was she simply a fantastic actress? Was she giving the people what they wanted, just as she had once played the innocent for his benefit? After all, he was willing to concede her innocence was what he had wanted most when he’d first met her. Then, he had been too idealistic to desire a succession of different women in his bed. What he had wanted most was a wife. Tilda had struck him as a pearl beyond price and he had put her on a pedestal.

Lean, powerful face grim, Rashad froze Tilda’s image on screen. The woman in the film was a more adult version of the girl he remembered and he was deeply disturbed by the fact. Second time round, armed with the knowledge of her greed and promiscuity, he had expected to easily detect her insincerity and her other flaws. But Tilda was contriving to keep her dark side remarkably well hidden from him and from the whole of Bakhar. Few people were all bad or all good, he reminded himself impatiently. Wasn’t it possible that she had seen the error of her ways and changed them? How could he doubt her guilt even for a moment? For wasn’t that what was really bothering him? He had so far failed to match the woman enchanting everyone with her charm with the greedy, scheming wanton she was supposed to be at heart.

In a sudden movement Rashad straightened to his full height and unlocked the safe. He had to go right to the back of it to find the slim security file he sought. Put together by a British private detective, it was written in English. Rashad remembered what a battle he had had to understand that language on the day he’d read it and shock had made his brain freeze. He still felt queasy just looking at the cover of the file with her name on it. He reminded himself that it had come to him direct from an impeccable source. He felt that he needed to read it again, but he believed it would be unduly disrespectful to Tilda to even open that unsavoury file now, two days before their wedding.

His tension eased, his brilliant gaze simmered gold. The day after tomorrow, Tilda would be one hundred per cent his. She would have no grounds to complain of medieval laws and customs. There could be no suggestion that their union was anything other than legal and above-board. A wolfish smile of satisfaction slashed his wide, sensual mouth. Aware that he needed her cooperation before their state wedding made them the most married couple in Bakhar, he had played a waiting game of restraint. But restraint had its limits: his bride would lie in his bed on their wedding night.

The phone rang to inform him that Tilda’s family were about to arrive. Rashad glanced at the file still in his hand and thrust it into his briefcase. Determined to award her mother and siblings every courtesy and frankly curious to meet them all again, Rashad left his office to be at Tilda’s side. He had not actually been invited to be so, but he was prepared to rise above that small slight.

Tilda wrapped her arms exuberantly round Katie and Megan and had she had a third arm she would have hugged her brother James, as well, who gave her hair an affectionate tug and stepped back out of reach with a laughing complaint when she tried to hug him. Aubrey was shaking his head over the astonishing splendour and size of the palace.