The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

CHAPTER FOUR

EVAN JERROLD brought his elegant Jaguar car to a halt in the exclusive London residential square. ‘Good luck,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Thank you.’ Tilda opened the passenger door of the luxury vehicle with a sense of relief, since telling lies made her uncomfortable. Evan had offered her a lift when her mother had mentioned that Tilda was heading to London that afternoon. Asked why she was taking time out of work, Tilda had told the first fib that had occurred to her-that she was attending a job interview. It had then occurred to her that the excuse of a new job could well be the perfect cover, if Rashad stuck to his insistence that she travel abroad.

‘Now remember I’ll give you an excellent reference. I’ll call back in an hour because you may be finished by then,’ Evan told her.

Tilda was embarrassed. ‘There’s no need.’

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.

Before Tilda could even attempt to suppress her response to him, he claimed her soft, full lips with a hungry growl of resolve. The hot, hard insistence of his mouth on hers was shockingly demanding. He gave her no opportunity to deny him and the erotic plunge of his tongue into the tender interior of her mouth made her shiver violently in reaction against his big, powerful frame. Her heartbeat was racing. Every sense she possessed was reeling from the impact. The taste of him was addictive. Her hands rose to his broad shoulders initially to steady herself and then to feverishly close there. Her fingers dug into the expensive cloth of his jacket as though she needed that support to stay upright in the dizzy world of seductive sensation that enthralled her. Every kiss made her long with frantic impatience for the next. He pushed up her sweater and closed a hand on one lush full breast in a bold caress. He thrust her light cotton bra from his path and chafed a straining pink nipple. She whimpered in shock and excitement. Her knees threatened to fold under her. There was a tight band of tension across her belly, a tormenting feeling of need that made her push against him in blind demand for assuagement.

Rashad clamped his hands to her hips to urge her closer to the raging heat of his desire. He was as hard as iron. She wasn’t resisting a single move he made. Raw triumph flooded him with all-male energy. Too well did he recall how she had once become as unresponsive as a marble statue in his arms. He bent down and scooped her off her feet at decisive speed. The sooner he satisfied his desire for that slim, perfect body of hers, the better. She had the morals of an alley cat. As she had said herself, making a production out of the event was most inappropriate. For what reason would he wait?

Tilda gasped for air to ease her oxygen-starved lungs. Trembling like a leaf in a high wind, she opened anxious eyes to focus on Rashad’s lean darkly handsome face above hers. He had snatched her up into his powerful arms as though she weighed no more than a doll. ‘Where are we g-going?’ she stammered.

Rashad kicked open a door with controlled force. He had appointments to keep, not to mention a flight to New York scheduled. He didn’t care. Just for once in his life he was going to do what he wanted to do, not what he should do! He wanted her now; he did not want to wait one hour longer. Had he not waited five years already? He settled her down on his bed and immediately undid the clip that confined her hair. He sank caressing hands into the tumbling mass and drew it across her slight shoulders so that it fell almost to her waist in a glorious snaking tangle of platinum-blond ringlets.

Aghast to find herself on a bed when mere minutes earlier she had been safe in a drawing room, Tilda stared up at him wide-eyed. The Rashad she remembered would never have kissed her like that and swept her off into a bedroom without hesitation. He had treated her with respect and restraint. She was stunned by the change in him. Even briefly deprived of his caresses her body leapt and tingled with a sensual aftershock so powerful that it almost hurt not to drag him down to her again. ‘Rashad…’

Rashad unbuttoned his jacket with a masculine air of purpose. Scorching golden eyes assailed hers with fierce intensity. ‘Here in my bed we will seal our new understanding.’

‘Now?’ Tilda was appalled by that declaration of intent. She would not let herself think about how her enthusiastic response to his passion could only have encouraged him to believe that it was fine to regard her as a midmorning sexual snack. ‘I mean, right here and now?’

Rashad surveyed her with compelling force. ‘It is my wish.’

He was dangerously accustomed to instant acquiescence with his expressed wishes and immediate gratification, Tilda acknowledged in a daze. She was already battling to come to terms with the idea of willingly becoming Rashad’s plaything, his possession, his little toy. Suddenly the sheer weight of such expectations was too much for her to handle at that moment.

‘I can’t!’ she gasped. ‘Not right now anyhow.’

Rashad had not considered that possibility. A lean brown hand clenched in frustration and then loosened again for the depth of his reserve had made the concealment of his every private reaction instinctive. The ache of sexual arousal was so sharp and frustrating that it felt like a physical pain. ‘Then we must wait until you reach Bakhar.’

Tilda flushed to her hairline when she realised the meaning he had mistakenly taken from her outburst. She lowered her head, knowing she was not about to correct him and wondering if that made her a terrible cheat. Like one of those women who famously feigned continual headaches? But before she could let her thoughts stray in that direction, all of what he had just said finally sank in and she raised shaken turquoise eyes. ‘You’re planning to take me back to Bakhar with you?’

‘I have a palace in the desert. The harem is tailor-made for a woman like you.’ Rashad was thinking with savage satisfaction of Tilda in the Palace of the Lions, isolated by the remote location from the temptations of the rest of the world and forced to depend only on him for company and amusement. That would soon sort her out. She would be his very personal project. There would be no more lies, no more deceits and no more pretence.

Outraged and convinced he was joking in a very unfunny way, Tilda slid off the bed and hurriedly sidestepped him while trying not to look as if she was running away. She paused by the door. ‘I know you’ve got to be teasing me. You once told me that there was no such thing as a harem anywhere in Bakhar.’

Rashad gave her a sardonic appraisal, enjoying her disbelief and the hint of panic she couldn’t hide. It was but a small repayment for the sexual disappointment she had just dealt him. Again. She had had no business giving him such encouragement when she could not offer him release. But hadn’t that been typical of her? To yield just a provocative taste of her exquisite body to tantalise and tease him?

‘I mean, I know you’re too civilised to try and treat me like a concubine…or something,’ Tilda proffered in a small, tight voice of deep audible suspicion.

‘My grandfather had hundreds of concubines. We don’t talk about it. It’s not politically correct these days. But the royal household always had concubines. Most of them were gifts from their families. It was considered an honour to enter the royal harem and a good way of gaining the favour of the ruling family,’ Rashad confided lazily, watching her gorgeous eyes widen and her ripe lower lip part from the upper in disquiet. ‘Alas, I will have to satisfy myself with only you, but think of all the attention you’ll get. At least you won’t have to compete with other women or share me.’

‘I’m not going to be anybody’s concubine, especially not yours!’ Tilda shot at him vehemently, yanking open the door and hastening out into the corridor.

Rashad, who had never thought of himself as an imaginative man, pictured Tilda reclining in something very flimsy on a bed in the Palace of the Lions, counting the days and the hours until he would visit her there. He found that vivid mental image so deeply attractive that it was an effort to move on from it to consider more practical aspects. When had anyone last lived at the old palace? He would have to throw an army of servants into the ancient building and refurbish it from roof to basement for occupation. It would be a huge task. His staff would be kept extremely busy.

‘How long are you expecting me to stay in Bakhar for?’

‘For as long as I want you in my bed.’ Rashad thrust open the drawing-room door.

Tilda swallowed painfully. ‘If I agree-’

‘You’ve already agreed.’

‘You have to write off the loan and sign the house back to Mum.’

His colourful reverie most effectively dispersed by that evidence of her financial acuteness, Rashad surveyed her with hard dark eyes. ‘You think you’ll be worth that much money?’

Tilda promised herself that somehow, some day, some way, she would get revenge for what he was doing to her. Pale as death, she knotted her restive hands together and veiled her angry, mortified gaze. ‘It’s what you think that matters,’ she pointed out flatly. ‘But if you want me to hand myself over body and soul and put my whole life on hold for goodness knows how long, I need to know that my family’s going to be all right while I’m away.’

‘There speaks the martyr,’ Rashad murmured with scorn.

Tilda would not allow herself to react to that inflammatory comment. ‘When will you stop the eviction proceedings?’

‘The day you fly into Bakhar. That will give you ten days at most to get organised.’

Tilda dealt him a stricken look of condemnation. ‘You can’t do it that way!’

‘I don’t trust you, so the pressure stays on. There will be no room for renegotiating in the hope of more favourable and lucrative terms and no opportunity for you to renege on the deal.’ Having glanced out the window and noted the expensive Jaguar awaiting her return, Rashad turned his arrogant dark head to study her with chilling intensity. ‘In the meantime, you should be careful to be on your very best behaviour.’

‘Best behaviour?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your lover has come back to pick you up. But you can’t get into his car again, or be alone with him or any other man now. I’m a very suspicious guy and I will have you watched from the moment you leave this house until you reach Bakhar. If there is so much as a hint of flirtation or questionable behaviour, the deal is off and the eviction proceedings will go ahead.’

Tilda stared back at him in mute incredulity and horror. ‘You’re threatening me.’

‘I am warning you that if you disappoint me you will suffer punitive consequences. Get rid of your elderly chauffeur now. The clock is already ticking,’ Rashad murmured with lethal cool.

Tilda dug into her bag for her mobile phone and rang Evan in haste. She told him that it would be quite some time until she was free to leave and that there was absolutely no point in him waiting for her.

‘Excellent. I was always convinced that with the correct approach you would find it very easy to follow instructions,’ Rashad drawled lazily.

Tilda quivered with rage and frustration. She felt as if a tornado were locked inside her and fighting for exit. But she dared not explode; she dared not offend or antagonise him because he had the power to rip her family apart. She wanted to tell him how much she hated him. Instead, loathing seethed inside her and she had to hold it in.

Someone knocked on the door and entered to address Rashad in his own language.

‘I have to leave for the airport,’ Rashad imparted. ‘I will have you conveyed home. I’ll be in touch with further directions.’

Her silvery fair head lifted, turquoise eyes burning brilliant blue. ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. Anything else?’

‘I’ll be sure to let you know.’ Emanating a positive force field of masculine power and authority and untouched by her silent hostility, Rashad sent her a shuttered glance of cool, calm satisfaction.

From the drawing-room window above, Tilda watched him climb into his big black limo. Ten minutes later she got into the Mercedes that had been ordered to take her home. All she would let herself think about was the story she would tell her family. She practised a breezy smile and a cheerful voice. Her surrender on Rashad’s terms would be totally wasted if her mother suspected even a hint of the unlovely truth.

‘I’ve got fantastic news. Rashad has just offered me a terrific job,’ she told Beth Morrison when she got home again. ‘It will pay well enough to eventually clear all the money that we owe.’

The older woman was initially astonished, but her palpable relief soon silenced her surprised questions. ‘Of course! You came first on your accountancy course, so Rashad will be getting a top-notch employee. I’m so glad I wasn’t wrong about him. I always thought Rashad was a decent and trustworthy young man,’ Beth contended happily. ‘Where will you be working?’

‘Bakhar.’

‘Oh, my goodness, this new job will be abroad! I should’ve thought of that possibility,’ her mother exclaimed. ‘We’ll all miss you so much. Are you sure this is the right thing for you?’

‘Oh, totally.’ Tilda kept right on smiling although her jaw was beginning to ache.

Her supposed new career move was the sole topic of discussion amongst her siblings that evening. As none of them was aware of the severity of the family financial problems, the assumption was that Tilda had won her dream job. ‘I suppose working abroad will be a nice change for you,’ Aubrey, her brother, commented vaguely before he went back upstairs to swot. A year her junior, he was exceptionally clever and, like many intellectual people, quite removed from the practicalities of life.

Her teenaged brother, James, gave her an impressed look. ‘You can earn a fortune tax-free in the Middle East!’

‘Will you go to work on a camel every morning?’ her little sister, Megan, asked hopefully.

Her other sister, Katie, was more thoughtful and less easily convinced by the surface show of normality. As the sisters got ready for bed in the room they shared, the teenager’s blue eyes were troubled. ‘What was it like for you seeing Rashad again? Didn’t you just hate him?’

‘No, I got over all that a long time ago,’ Tilda whispered, not wanting to waken Megan.

‘But you’ve never really gone out with anyone since him.’

Turning her head to the wall, Tilda shut her eyes tight. ‘That’s nothing to do with Rashad. I mean, relationships aren’t for everyone,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve had a few dates-they just haven’t led anywhere.’

‘Because you’re not interested…the guys always are-’

‘I haven’t got time for a man.’

‘You had time for Rashad when he was around.’

Stinging tears foamed up behind Tilda’s lowered lids. She swallowed back the ache in her throat and told herself not to be so foolish. She then lay awake for half of the night fretting about how her family would manage a hundred and one different tasks without her help. She was also aware that she had to sort out Scott. Those twin concerns screened out the even bigger worry about how she would handle Rashad. The next morning she handed in her notice at work and when she had finished for the day she caught the bus to her stepfather’s house.

‘What do you want?’ Scott demanded menacingly on the doorstep.

‘If you ever try to take money from my mother again, I’ll report you to the police,’ Tilda told him. ‘If you threaten or hurt any member of my family, I’ll also go straight to the police, so leave us alone!’

The furious resentment with which the older man hurled a tide of abuse at her convinced her that her warning would scare him off. Like most bullies, Scott usually avoided people who fought back and concentrated his aggression on milder personalities.

She was waiting for another bus when her mobile phone went off.

‘I thought your stepfather was history,’ Rashad’s voice remarked with crystal clarity in her ear.

Surprise almost made Tilda jump a foot in the air. ‘I thought you were in New York!’

‘I am.’

‘So how do you know I’d been at my stepfather’s house?’

‘My security staff are superb at surveillance. I told you I would watch over you,’ Rashad drawled lazily. ‘Why were you visiting Morrison?’

Tilda cast a harried and cross glance up and down the street, which was as busy as most residential areas were at that time of the evening. But there was no sign of anyone paying her particular attention; if there had been she was in the right mood to give them a piece of her mind. ‘None of your business. I can’t imagine why you’re taking the trouble to put Nosy Parkers on my trail!’

‘Nothing is too much trouble when it comes to my favourite concubine.’ An unholy grin of amusement slowly curving his handsome mouth and putting his formidable cool reserve to flight, Rashad relaxed his lean, powerful body back into his office chair and listened to the line being cut with a furious click. There was a powerful buzz to his every exchange or encounter with Tilda. That truth disturbed him…