The Desert Prince's Mistress

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.’