Passion

The older man gave her a wry smile. ‘If I have to drop you home again, it’ll give me another excuse to see your mother. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that her spirits are very low just now.’

Clambering out of the car, Tilda almost winced at his insight, grateful that her siblings were less perceptive. She mounted the steps to the imposing front door, nerves leaping through her like jumping beans that couldn’t settle.

‘Tilda!’ Evan called after her. ‘You forgot your bag.’

Tilda hurried back down the steps to take it from him, apologising and thanking him in one urgent breath. Admitted to the town house by a manservant, she was shown to a seat in the large stylish hall. She wondered if Rashad’s household staff still routinely greeted his every appearance on bended knee, touching their very brows to the floor in the need to demonstrate respect to the heir to the throne. A couple of minutes later, a bearded older man with greying hair appeared and came to a sudden halt at the sight of her, an expression of surprise skimming his thin intelligent face. With a scrupulously polite dipping of his head in acknowledgement of her presence, he walked past her and went out.

Tilda was ushered upstairs into a very grand drawing room. She was pleased to note that the manservant bowed rather than knelt. ‘Miss Crawford, Your Royal Highness.’

Rashad surveyed her with dark eyes as cold as Arctic ice. Clad in a casual grey hooded jacket and black trousers, she should have looked ordinary. But the unassuming clothes simply accentuated her beauty and the slender grace of her figure. Several irrepressible curls were already springing loose above her brow with a silvery fair abundance that hinted at the full glory of her hair when it was worn loose. Memories stirred and, with the image, a surge of arousal, which he rigorously sought to control.

‘Take a seat,’ Rashad told her huskily.

Eyes bright as slivers of pure turquoise above cheekbones stung pink by the spring breeze, Tilda shot him an edgy glance. Once again he was formally dressed in a superb charcoal-grey business suit teamed with a white shirt and a cobalt-blue silk tie. He looked amazingly handsome. And grim. Well, that was at least familiar, she told herself in an effort to gain control of herself. Rashad in censorious mode was nothing new to Tilda. When she had been dating him, she had sometimes felt as if he was putting her through a meticulous self-improvement programme. Feeling uncomfortably warm, she unbuttoned her jacket, removed it and sat down stiffly in an armchair.

‘It was tasteless to allow your current lover to bring you here,’ Rashad said with derision, ‘but very much in line with the kind of childish defiance I expect from you.’

Tilda drew in some oxygen to steady herself and focused on his hand-stitched shoes. Childish? She reminded herself of the eviction order and of the vast amount of money outstanding and told herself that a few insults wouldn’t hurt her. On the other hand, wrong assumptions had to be righted. ‘Evan is old enough to be my father. I once worked for him. That’s all.’

Rashad dealt her an unimpressed appraisal. ‘You attended an academic dinner with him and he’s a wealthy man.’

‘How did you know about that dinner? He’s a family friend and he needed a partner for the event. His bank balance doesn’t come into it.’ Her eyes were bright with the anger and resentment firing through her tense body.

‘I appreciate that you really don’t like me and have a very low opinion of me. So please explain—what am I doing here?’

‘Look in the mirror,’ Rashad advised without hesitation.

Tilda had somehow expected him to contradict her when she had accused him of not liking her. His failure to do so shook her and she could not silence the words that sprang to her lips. ‘What sort of a guy wants to have a relationship with a woman he dislikes?’

‘Define relationship.’

Discovering that she was suddenly super-sensitive to his every word and potential putdown, Tilda coloured to the roots of her pale hair. She got the message: his sole interest in her was physical. ‘You mentioned rules,’ she framed curtly, studying her tightly linked hands, telling herself that she needed to grow a thicker skin.

‘No other men. I expect total fidelity.’

Tilda was so outraged by his self-assurance as it came at her like a bolt from the blue that she leapt to her feet. ‘What the heck do you think I am? I’ve never been unfaithful to anybody!’

Rashad vented a harsh laugh of disagreement. ‘I know you slept with other men while you were with me five years ago!’

Tilda blinked and then focused unbelieving turquoise eyes on his lean, vibrant face. Hauteur and fierce reserve were etched in every angular line of his startlingly handsome features. She registered in dismay that there could be no doubt that he actually believed what he was saying. ‘I can hardly credit that you’re accusing me of something so despicable! Why would you choose to believe something like that about me? I mean, for goodness’ sake, why would I be seeing you and carrying on with other guys at the same time?’

‘I was purely a business proposition.’

Her hands knotted into fists of frustration. ‘So why didn’t I grab you the first chance I got?’

‘Playing hard to get made me keener.’

Tilda appreciated that he had long since explained any inconsistencies in her behaviour to his own satisfaction. He had made the cap fit even if it didn’t belong to her. ‘I did not sleep with anyone else while I was with you … what is your problem, Rashad? I was in love with you!’ she launched back at him, angry with him and angry with herself for feeling cut to the bone by his demeaning misconceptions. She had found it hard enough to deal with the idea that he thought her avaricious, but to learn that he also thought she was a slut had to be the ultimate slap in the face.

‘So you wanted me to believe.’

‘Who are these men I’m supposed to have slept with?’ she demanded furiously.

‘I see no point in rehashing your past misdemeanours.’ The twist of his wide, sensual mouth had more than a hint of disdain.

Undaunted, Tilda lifted her chin to a pugnacious angle. ‘Whereas I’m happy to rehash them, because the allegations you have made are completely untrue!’

‘I’m bored with this discussion. It’s ancient history.’ Rashad rested forbidding dark eyes on the animated oval of her face, wondering what she hoped to achieve with her futile protestations of innocence. ‘Naturally I have seen the proof of those allegations.’

‘Well, I want to see that proof!’

‘That is not possible. Nor am I prepared to argue with you on this issue.’

Tilda was trembling with vexation. ‘You can’t confront me with accusations of that nature and then deny me the right to respond.’

His dark gaze narrowed and flashed a hard golden challenge. ‘It is my belief that I can do whatever I want. If you don’t like it that way, you are of course free to leave.’

Tilda was so wound up that she was on the brink of tears of fury. The dark, intimidating power of him faced her like a solid stone wall as implacable as his expression. He would not back down or compromise. His potent strength had been honed by experiences that were tougher than any she would ever know. Pinning her taut lips together, Tilda made her stiff knees bend and she lowered herself slowly back into the armchair. It was an acknowledgement of defeat that savaged her pride, but she knew that if she staged a pitched battle with him she would lose. And so, unhappily, would her family. Rashad was convinced she was a gold-digging trollop and he had evidently thought that way about her for a long time. No longer did she need to marvel at the brutality with which she had been dumped, she reflected bitterly. Whether she liked it or not, she would have to save her defence for a more promising moment. Pale as milk, and with the effort that self-discipline demanded, she folded her hands together.

‘Rules,’ she prompted woodenly.

‘You make an effort to please me.’

Tilda dared to lift her head. ‘Would you care to elaborate on that?’ she pressed shakily.

‘No half measures. I tell you what I want and you strive to deliver,’ Rashad specified silkily. ‘In where you live, in what you wear, in how you behave, in everything that you do.’

A Stepford wife without the wedding ring, Tilda thought in horror. A living, breathing puppet with a puppeteer pulling her strings at every turn. She was aghast at the prospect of Rashad taking control of her life to that extent, but not at all surprised by his expectations, for telling people what to do and how to do it came very naturally to the future King of Bakhar. Unfortunately doing as she was told when it was Rashad doing the telling did not come naturally to Tilda. While she had no problem accepting authority in other areas of her life, a rebellious demon of resentment had ignited inside her five years ago whenever Rashad had laid down the law.

‘I … I thought you just wanted to sleep with me,’ Tilda muttered in a small tight voice. ‘Why do you have to make such a production out of it?’

‘Pleasure deferred has a keener edge.’ Rashad noted the fact that her thin fingers were digging convulsively into the fabric of the garment folded across her lap. She was all worked up and could not hide the fact. It did not fit his image of her and it troubled him.

Why do you have to make such a production out of it? He marvelled at that gauche comment and the implication that sex on her terms was nothing worth getting excited about. But how likely was it that so experienced a woman could also be that naïve? Most probably she was trying to manipulate him again and win his sympathy. Was anything about her real? Was her every expression and word part of an act designed to deceive? Once, she had played the innocent so well, pulling back from his passion to ensure that he lived in a torment of unslaked desire for her. That recollection roused the blazing anger and bitterness that he had kept taped down for five long years. He had wanted her as he had never wanted any woman—before or since.

‘Whatever,’ Tilda mumbled, loathing the level coolness of Rashad’s intonation, wondering what had happened to the markedly conservative streak that had once set him apart from his much more liberal companions. No doubt, such sensitive and civilised niceties had long since bitten the dust beneath the tidal wave of uninhibited sexual licence he had been enjoying ever since he had left her. How dared he accuse her of infidelity when he had betrayed her? She hated him for dragging her pride in the dust. She hated him for judging her unfairly, for his determination to have the last word. She really, really hated him.

‘On the other hand, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t give me a preview of what I can expect from you,’ Rashad declared, the rich, dark timbre of his accented drawl smoother and softer than the most exclusive silk.

Her silvery fair head raised, jewelled eyes locking to his with instant consternation. ‘A … a preview?’ she parroted unevenly.

‘I think you understand perfectly.’

And Tilda froze. It was a test, she was sure of it! She could not credit that he could expect her to go to bed with him there and then. Suddenly she was all for him making as much of a production of that event as he pleased. Indeed, anything that might keep that act of intimacy in the future rather than the present got her vote. Her shaken blue-green eyes tangled reluctantly with his.

His smouldering dark golden gaze was hot as a flame on her oval face. Her heart started a slow, thudding pound behind her breastbone. She was in a state of alert that left her too tense to breathe and with her tongue glued to the roof of her dry mouth. She was maddeningly aware of the heaviness of her breasts and the tingling tenderness of her nipples. Liquid heat was pooling like a rich swirl of honey in her pelvis. She shifted in her seat, suddenly unable to sit still, feeling the familiar hunger build like a dam about to break its banks and wash away her barriers.

‘Come here …’ Rashad urged thickly, swooping down to grasp her hand and tug her upright, impelling her straight into the proximity she would have done almost anything to avoid.