Читать книгу Desert Sheikhs Collection: Part 1 - Люси Монро, Jane Porter, Люси Монро - Страница 15

THERE was a click on the line and Lara waited, as she had been waiting on and off for the past two days—but of course it was never going to be an easy matter to get through to Prince Khalim of Maraban. Despite the fact that phone lines to the mountain kingdom were notoriously unreliable, and the fact that she counted herself as his friend, Lara was pragmatic enough to realise that no one ever really became close to such a powerful and enigmatic figure. Certainly not close enough to just pick the phone up, get connected immediately and say Hi!

And she still hadn’t worked out exactly what she was going to say to him when he finally answered anyway.

‘Hello?’

It was unmistakably Khalim’s voice—deep, with the slightest accent. And—Lara didn’t know whether she was being simply fanciful—didn’t its deepness and richness remind her of Darian’s voice?

‘Khalim?’

‘Hello, Lara.’

He sounded wary, and Lara couldn’t blame him. He was married to her best friend Rose, and loved her with a fierce and unremitting passion, but he had spent his life being propositioned and pursued by countless other women. Why wouldn’t he be suspicious that Lara had decided to contact him in a way which had been specifically meant to exclude Rose?

‘I know you’re probably wondering why on earth I’m ringing you, and I hardly know how to begin.’

He made no helpful sound. There was merely silence from the other end of the phone. It would have been better to tell him this face to face—but he was hardly going to jump on a plane to England on her say-so, just as she was hardly likely to fly to Maraban at a moment’s notice.

‘Khalim, you know I was working at the Embassy while someone was off sick?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Well…well, one morning this…this letter arrived.’ Lara began to speak, scarcely knowing what it was that she said, because the words seemed to come tumbling out of their own accord and she realised just how much she must have bottled it all up. It was incredible, but as the story unfolded it began to sound more real. She told him that she had found Darian, and that she had met him, deliberately and blushingly skating over the graphic details of their meeting.

‘And that’s it, really,’ she finished, and the sense of a burden shared gave her a brief feeling of lightness. ‘I’m sure that this man Darian Wildman is your half-brother.’

There was a short silence. She could imagine Khalim turning the incredible words over and over in his mind, choosing his own answering words carefully, as he always did—because men like Khalim could not risk misinterpretation, not even by friends.

When he spoke there was no emotion in his voice. ‘You cannot be certain of this, Lara.’

‘I know. I only know what I’ve found.’ She paused. ‘He…he looks like you.’

This time there was a reaction.

‘But he is half-English, you say?’

‘Yes, he is.’ Lara closed her eyes as she remembered the golden eyes and the dark and tawny body, that autocratic air and undeniable sense of solitude which Khalim always carried about him, which Darian shared. ‘But he is unmistakably related to you,’ she finished softly. ‘I am convinced of that.’

Khalim said something rapid in Marabanese.

‘He could be a clever fraud,’ he bit out. ‘An impostor.’

‘How can he be? He knows nothing of the claim,’ argued Lara. ‘Nor anything of the letter.’

‘You hinted at nothing?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Why, Lara?’ asked Khalim softly. ‘Why did you say nothing to this man of such a momentous discovery?’

‘Because…because…’ Her words trailed off as she recognised that a kind of betrayal had occurred—but surely an inevitable one? ‘Because my first loyalty is to you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘The question is what we do about it now.’

‘Some people might ignore it. Throw the letter away and pretend it never happened. Carry on just as before.’

‘Could you ignore it, Lara?’

Doubt and uncertainty prevailed. Her body still ached from Darian’s lovemaking, her senses were still full of him, her mind unable to banish the image of his hard, mocking mouth softened by her kisses.

‘If you asked me to, then I suppose—’

‘No!’ He cut into her troubled words. ‘Your hesitation does you credit. I would not ask you to ignore it, nor could I ignore it myself—for the hand of fate is at work here. Predestination,’ he mused. ‘Sometimes friend and sometimes foe, but unable to be ignored or avoided. We cannot pretend something has not happened because something has—and because of it—things are for ever changed.’

‘Y-yes,’ said Lara falteringly, and she felt the strangest feeling of foreboding tiptoeing its way up her spine as she repeated his words. ‘For ever changed.’

There was a short silence, and then, unexpectedly, he asked, ‘Do you like him, Lara?’

Lara stared straight ahead. ‘Like’ him? Like did not seem to be a verb that one would apply naturally to a man like Darian Wildman. It seemed much too bland an assessment. And how could she possibly be objective about a man who had been the most wonderful lover she had ever encountered and yet also the most unsatisfactory? But it had only been unsatisfactory from an emotional point of view, and she had only herself to blame. You should not fall headlong into the arms of a man if you could not cope with the fact that he might reject you.

For there had been no word from Darian—not since he had dropped her off at her apartment two nights ago and dropped a perfunctory kiss on her lips that had felt as cold as ice, as different from his hot-blooded kisses when he was making love to her as it was possible to imagine.

But he wasn’t making love to you, said that same, cruel voice which had been tormenting her non-stop. He was simply having sex with you.

‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he had said, but it had sounded casual, and she suspected that he had intended it to do so. He had waited until she was safely inside her front door and then driven off, his powerful car sounding like a fighter jet as it had roared away.

Lara had hoped—like a foolish holder-on to romantic dreams—that perhaps he might have rung her first thing the next morning, told her that it had been beautiful and that he wished he was waking up next to her. Except she suspected that both those things would have been a lie, and something deep down told her that Darian Wildman might be all kinds of things a woman should steer clear of, but dishonest was not one of them. He would speak the truth, she recognised painfully, no matter how much that truth might hurt.

‘I hardly know him,’ she answered now, and her own honesty had the power to hurt, too.

She still didn’t quite believe that she had let him make love to her so quickly. Lara was no prude, but she worked in an industry which was notorious for its fickle sexual values, and up until now she had always fiercely guarded her reputation. Her lovers had been few, and not one of them had lived up to her unrealistically high expectations—until now. But there again never before had she allowed herself to be seduced with such ease, and then to experience such intense and unforgettable pleasure in the arms of a man she barely knew.

So what did that say about her? Maybe she was one of those people who could only be physically fulfilled if there was no true and lasting intimacy. Just like Darian, she recognised, with a sudden sinking sense of insight.

‘Lara,’ said Khalim urgently, ‘I will have to meet him.’

‘But how? And, more importantly, where?’

‘Rose is pregnant,’ Khalim said thoughtfully. ‘And must not be worried. If Darian were brought out to Maraban—’

‘Khalim,’ Lara interrupted, completely forgetting that he was not used to being interrupted, ‘I don’t think you quite understand—he isn’t the sort of man who could be brought anywhere, not unless he was in full agreement.’ A bit like you, she wanted to add, except that it was glaringly obvious. ‘And what are you going to do? Ring him up and mention that you might be related and would he please fly out to Maraban so that you can check him out?’

‘Then I will have to come to London,’ said Khalim slowly. ‘And you must arrange for me to meet him, Lara.’

But how? thought Lara as she slowly put the receiver down.

Especially if she didn’t hear from him.

Which was kind of defining her as a self-made victim, surely? She had been intimate with the man—didn’t that give her the right to telephone him?

She knew that in situations like this there were subtle games played between the sexes, and that the man always liked to feel as though he was the one doing the hunting, but wasn’t she in danger of forgetting the bigger picture?

This wasn’t about her and Darian and a relationship which seemed to have started and ended on his leather sofa—it was about his ancestry, and Khalim’s. She had been the one to let her emotions get in the way, to fall for him, but none of that was relevant.

That was when she realised that she didn’t have his home telephone number, nor even his mobile—which left his business. She was going to have to ring him up at work.

And what if…what if he didn’t want to speak to her?

You cross that bridge when you come to it, she told herself, though her heart was beating frantically as she dialled the number and asked his assistant if he was free.

Another click.

‘Darian Wildman.’

Her heart began to pound. ‘Darian? It’s Lara. Lara Black.’

Darian raised his eyebrows fractionally when he heard her voice. He had been thinking about her and deciding when to call her again. In fact, he had been thinking about her a lot. It had been a pretty amazing evening all round, but something about it had made him wary. And so had she.

It had all been too…too easy, in a way. That wasn’t unusual, but it had not been what he had instinctively expected from Lara. Something about it had not seemed all it should be, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. But it seemed that Lara Black was liberated and bold enough to ring him.

He gave a faint smile. ‘Hello, Lara,’ he said smoothly. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m…’ I’m almost spitting with rage at such cavalier treatment after such an intimate evening, if you must know—but you won’t know, because I would never give you the pleasure of telling you, and if it weren’t for this whole Maraban business I wouldn’t ever see or speak to you again, that’s how I am.

That was what she felt like saying.

‘I’m fine,’ she murmured instead. She paused, hating the words she knew she must say next and giving him the opportunity to say them first. But he didn’t. ‘I was wondering whether I could see you.’

Frankly, he was surprised. She was far too lovely to be chasing after men. Yet he could hear some suppressed emotion in her voice and knew he wasn’t being fair to her. Nor, he thought, with a sudden aching memory, to himself. ‘That would be lovely.’ He paused and his voice softened just as his body began to grow hard. ‘I enjoyed our evening together very much.’

Lara felt indignant, filled with a sudden sense of impotence that she was having to put herself in the humiliating position of ringing him, seeming as if she was desperate to see him. And aren’t you? mocked a voice inside her head. Aren’t you?

She set her mouth into a determined line. No, she wasn’t. She rated pride far more highly than desire, and this incident with Darian had taught her a salutary lesson. Never again would she allow herself to be carried away by the needs of her body, allow herself to believe that they were the clamourings of the heart.

But she had to see him. This wasn’t just a boy-meets-girl scenario; it was a whole lot more. She had set into motion a chain of events, and now it had gathered momentum and taken on a life of its own. She had no part in all this now other than to set up a meeting between Darian and Khalim.

‘Yes,’ she said softly, closing her eyes and imagining that she was playing the part of a sophisticated woman of the world, used to dealing with the fallout from such casual, passionate dalliances. ‘I enjoyed it, too.’

He pictured the soft rose-white skin and the sparkling blue eyes, the gentle swell of her breasts, and all his vague misgivings fell by the wayside as he experienced an overpowering urge to see her again. He felt the hot, hard physical jerk of desire.

‘So when?’ he asked huskily.

She opened her eyes and glanced down at what she had scribbled on a piece of paper. The times and the dates when Khalim could practically and realistically be in London in person. ‘Next week?’ she questioned. ‘Say, Friday?’

Darian’s eyes narrowed at her unexpected response. Friday? He hadn’t imagined that she would be so upfront as to say tonight, or even tomorrow night—but next week?

The instincts of the hunter in him were aroused. ‘You can’t make it any sooner than that?’

She knew that she was playing this game well—too well, she thought bitterly—and that if she had suggested sooner then a bored note would have entered his arrogant voice.

‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said regretfully.

‘So where shall we meet?’ he demanded.

‘Would you like to come to the flat? Say, lunchtime?’

Lunchtime? Maybe she would be alone in the flat, with Jake Haddon away somewhere. A small smile of anticipation curved his lips as he flicked a glance at his diary and saw that he was busy. He scored through the appointments with a single stroke of his pen and added the words ‘cancel them’ for his secretary. ‘Sure,’ he said smoothly. ‘That sounds okay. About noon?’

‘Noon is fine.’ Lara swallowed, suddenly feeling assailed by nerves. ‘I’ll see you then.’

The week passed by in a curious state where time seemed either to be suspended in a state of utter unreality or to pass in a flurry of high-level communication with Maraban. Lara had the letter itself flown out to Khalim, and he acknowledged it in a telephone call, his voice sounding cool and thoughtful.

She half imagined that a small contingent of his armed guard might accompany him, but when the Prince arrived on Friday, just before midday, he was alone. Lara opened the door to him and blinked in surprise.

‘No guards?’ she questioned softly, once he had greeted her and she had closed the front door.

Khalim gave a brief smile. ‘My emissary and two others are waiting outside. They have orders not to disturb us.’

‘Would you like tea?’ Lara questioned shyly. ‘Mint tea?’

Khalim smiled. ‘You remembered!’

‘How is Rose?’ she demanded eagerly.

‘Rose is complaining that she is the size of an elephant! And I have photos to show you of my son.’ A frown crossed his dark face. ‘She does not know that I am seeing you. For if she did she would ask questions for which I do not yet have any answers.’

‘Oh,’ said Lara.

It seemed all so incongruously suburban. Khalim sitting on her sofa, drinking tea and proudly showing her photos of his wife and son. He was wearing Western regalia—a beautifully cut Italian suit in charcoal-grey, snowy shirt and a silk tie the colour of an emerald—and he looked just as much as ease in it as he did in his flowing garments of soft gleaming gold.

Outwardly, he seemed relaxed, but Lara could see the faint lines which fanned out from the jet-dark eyes. She wondered if he was worried about problems at home or simply about meeting Darian—but it seemed impertinent to ask.

She found herself comparing him to the man she was certain was his half-brother. Darian was taller and broader, his skin not so dark as Khalim’s, and his eyes were golden, not black, and yet there was an unmistakable similarity between the two men. You could see it in the firm and unblinking gaze, and in the almost tangible strength of character which emanated from them. What would happen when they met?

She shivered, and Khalim looked at her.

‘You are nervous, Lara?’

‘A little. Aren’t you?’

He shook his head. ‘In Maraban we have a saying: Life is like a narrow bridge—the most important thing is not to be afraid.’

‘He’s…he’s the same age as you, you know.’

‘And?’

‘What if he’s older? Won’t that make him the legitimate heir?’

‘But he is illegitimate, Lara,’ Khalim reminded her gently. ‘If indeed he is my brother.’

So he wasn’t taking her word for it, realised Lara—but who could blame him when something so important was at stake?

The doorbell rang, and her eyes opened very wide. ‘He’s here! What shall I do? What shall I say?’

‘Bring him to me,’ commanded Khalim sternly. ‘And do not worry, little one,’ he said, his voice gentling a little.

Lara’s heart was beating so fast that she could barely breathe as she walked to the front door. And when she opened it her feelings of apprehension only increased.

For Darian was standing there, looking impossibly gorgeous and so tantalisingly touchable. The breeze had ruffled his hair, so that all its gleaming darkness was emphasised, and the soft, dark cashmere sweater provided a perfect foil for the living gold of his eyes and the tawny glow of his skin. His lips were soft, and so were his eyes.

Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and stared down at her. Did he have some crazy, masochistic instinct which might have denied him such exquisite pleasures when they were here for the taking? She was beautiful. The other night had been beautiful. He wanted her again and he wanted her right now.

‘Lara,’ he murmured.

She knew what he was about to do, and knew that she ought to stop him, but she was powerless to resist.

He drove his mouth down on hers, like a hungry man who had just seen food. The touch of her lips brought memories of her body crashing back into sweet, sharp focus and he gave a little moan of pleasure.

Instantly Lara felt herself responding to his kiss, her body beginning to ache and to dissolve into a hot, moist heat, and as he tightened his arms around her she could feel his taut, shivering tension which matched her own.

She splayed her fingers over his back, feeling the hard muscle contrasting with the softness of his sweater, and made a little sound of pleasure as his thigh nudged its way between hers. She felt her own thighs part instinctively, a hot flame of desire shooting up her as he ran his fingertips possessively down over her hips.

And Khalim was waiting next door!

She tore her lips away and opened her eyes to him, startled by the look of naked need on his face. ‘Darian, we mustn’t!’

He gave a low laugh of pleasure. ‘Afraid that I’m going to take you here, standing up in your hallway?’ He stroked her trembling mouth. ‘You’d probably like it if I did. Come to think of it, so would I.’ And then he frowned. ‘What’s the matter, darling—is Jake around?’

His words brought her quickly to her senses, for they were nothing more than an arrogant sexual boast. An acknowledgment of how easily and how quickly he could make her melt in his arms. And, dear Lord—he was right! If Khalim hadn’t been here then she probably wouldn’t have stopped him at all!

She reminded herself that if Khalim were not here, then he wouldn’t be here, either.

She shook her head. ‘No. Not Jake.’

How did she say it? She didn’t want to anger him, because what was about to happen was going to affect him pretty deeply on some fundamental level, and she didn’t know how he was going to react.

‘I’ve got someone I want you to meet,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, Lara, no,’ he groaned. ‘Not now! What did you do that for?’

‘Come with me.’

Aching, Darian had no choice but to follow her, but he was irritated. He didn’t want to meet her friends—not at this stage, and certainly not now!

Lara threw the door open and Darian froze, his instincts immediately alerted to the fact that the man who stood beside the huge marble fireplace, his dark face so cool and expressionless, was no ordinary man. And it had nothing to do with the costly clothes he wore—for many men wore those.

No, it was something in his eyes and in his posture, something which transcended the mundane and the everyday—he wore an air of comfortable superiority, which silently sizzled out across the room and struck an answering chord in Darian himself.

Darian narrowed his eyes, knowing somehow that conventional conversation was both irrelevant and inappropriate. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded softly.

There was a silence which seemed to go on and on. Lara looked at Khalim and saw him give an odd, brittle kind of smile which was tinged with a sadness.

‘I am Prince Khalim of Maraban,’ he said slowly. ‘And I believe that you are my brother.’