Desert Sheikhs Collection: Part 1. Jane Porter

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      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?’

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