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The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife
LYNNE GRAHAM


Blackmailed by the sheikh!Tilda Crawford can’t regret the short-lived romance she once had with Rashad, the Crown Prince of Bakhar. But now, having gained possession of her impoverished family’s home, Rashad is blackmailing her over the huge debt her family owes him and insisting she pay his price – returning to his bed…as his concubine!Tilda is appalled – but in no position to refuse. Soon she’s the arrogant Sheikh’s captive, ready to be ravished in his far-away desert kingdom. And when Rashad publicly names Tilda as his woman…under the law of Bakhar they’re now bound together for ever… as husband and wife!












is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular and bestselling novelists. Her writing was an instant success with readers worldwide. Since her first book, Bittersweet Passion, was published in 1987, she has gone from strength to strength and now has over ninety titles, which have sold more than thirty-five million copies, to her name.

In this special collection, we offer readers a chance to revisit favourite books or enjoy that rare treasure—a book by a favourite writer—they may have missed. In every case, seduction and passion with a gorgeous, irresistible man are guaranteed!







LYNNE GRAHAM was born in Northern Ireland and has been a keen Mills & Boon


reader since her teens. She is very happily married, with an understanding husband who has learned to cook since she started to write! Her five children keep her on her toes. She has a very large dog, which knocks everything over, a very small terrier, which barks a lot, and two cats. When time allows, Lynne is a keen gardener.




The Desert Sheikh’s Captive Wife

Lynne Graham










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


‘HAVE I met anyone whom I would like to marry?’ Rashad, Crown Prince of Bakhar almost laughed out loud as he considered his father’s gently voiced question. Engrained good manners, however, restrained such a blunt response. ‘No, I fear not.’

King Hazar surveyed his son and heir with concealed disquiet. His guilty conscience was pricked by the truth that he had been blessed by Rashad’s birth, for his son was everything a future monarch should be. His sterling qualities had shone like a beacon during those dark days when Bakhar had suffered under the despotic rule of Sadiq, Hazar’s uncle. In the eyes of the people, Rashad could do no wrong; he had endured many cruelties, but had still emerged a hero from the war that had restored the legitimate line to the throne. Even the rumours that the Crown Prince was regarded as a notorious womaniser abroad barely raised a brow, since it was accepted that he had earned the right to enjoy his liberty.

‘There comes a time when a man must settle down,’ King Hazar remarked with all the awkwardness of one who had never been anything other than settled in his habits. ‘And put aside more worldly pursuits.’

His lean and darkly handsome features grim, Rashad stared stonily out at the exquisite gardens that were his father’s pride and joy. Maybe when he was older he too would get a thrill out of pruning topiary, he reflected wryly. Although he had a great affection for the older man, father and son were not close. How could they have been? Rashad had been only four years old when he’d been torn from his mother’s arms and denied all further contact with his parents. In the following two decades, he had learned to trust nobody and keep his own counsel. By the time he had been reunited with his family, he had been an adult, a survivor and a battle-hardened soldier, trained to put duty and discipline above all other virtues. But on this particular issue he was not prepared to meet his father’s expectations.

‘I don’t want to get married,’ Rashad declared levelly.

King Hazar was unprepared for that bold response, which offered neither apology nor the possibility of compromise. Assuming that he had broached the subject clumsily, he said earnestly, ‘I believe that marriage will greatly add to your happiness.’

Rashad almost winced at that simplistic assurance. He had no such expectation. Only once had a woman made Rashad happy, but almost as quickly he had discovered that he was living in a fool’s paradise. He had never forgotten the lesson. He liked his freedom and he liked sex. In short he enjoyed women, but there was only one space for a woman to fill in his private life and that was in his bed. And just as, when it came to food, he preferred a varied diet, he had no desire to have any woman foisted on him on a permanent basis. ‘I’m afraid I cannot agree with you on that issue.’

The older man ignored the decided chill that laced the atmosphere and suppressed a sigh. He wished that he’d had the opportunity to acquire just a smidgeon of his son’s superior education and sophistication so that they might talk on more equal terms. Most of all he longed for the ability to deal with the son he loved with a wholly clear conscience, but unhappily that was not possible. ‘I have never known us to be at odds. I must have expressed my hopes badly. Or perhaps I took you too much by surprise.’

Rashad folded his wide sensual mouth. ‘Nothing you could say will change my mind. I have no desire for a wife.’

‘Rashad…’ His royal father was aghast at the stubborn inflexibility of that refusal, for his son was not known for his changeability. ‘You are so popular with our people that I believe you could marry any woman you chose. Perhaps you are concerned about the type of woman you might be expected to marry. It is my belief that even a foreigner would be acceptable.’

Brilliant dark eyes veiled and grim, Rashad had fallen very still at that reference to the possibility of a foreign bride. He wondered if the older man was recalling his son’s disastrous infatuation with an Englishwoman five years ago. The very suspicion of that stung Rashad’s ferocious pride. He and his father had buried the ill-fated episode without ever discussing it.

‘We live in a modern world. Yet you believe that I must behave exactly as you and my forefathers behaved and marry young to produce a son and heir,’ Rashad delivered with cool, crisp diction. ‘I do not believe that such sacrifice is necessary. I have three older sisters with a string of healthy sons between them. In the future, one of those boys might stand as my heir.’

‘But none of them have a royal father. One day, you will be king. Will you disappoint our people? What have you got against marriage?’ the older man demanded in bewilderment. ‘You have so much to offer.’

Everything but a heart and faith in womankind, Rashad affixed with inward impatience. ‘I have nothing against the institution of marriage. It was right for you but it would not be right for me.’

‘At least reflect on what I have said,’ King Hazar urged. ‘We will talk about this again.’

Having defended his right to freedom as resolutely as he had once fought for the freedom of the Bakhari people from a repressive regime, Rashad strode out through the vast ante-room beyond his father’s private quarters. It was thronged with senior ministers and courtiers, who bowed very low as he passed. One after another, guards presented arms and saluted as Rashad progressed through the ancient courtyards and corridors to his suite of offices.

‘Oh…I meant to surprise you, Your Royal Highness.’ A very attractive brunette with almond-shaped brown eyes and creamy skin, set off by a sleek coil of dark brown hair, straightened from the refreshments she had been setting out in the spacious outer office. In acknowledgement of his arrival, she bent low as did the staff, who had been engaged in answering the phones. ‘We all know that you often work so hard that you forget to eat.’

Although Rashad would have preferred privacy at that moment, the courteous formalities expected of a prince were second nature to him. Farah was a distant relation. With modest smiles and light conversation, Rashad was served with mint tea and tiny cakes. Evidently word of his father’s hope of marrying him off was out in the élite court circle of Bakhar, so Rashad did not make the mistake of sitting down and prolonging the exchange of pleasantries. He knew that the whole exercise was designed to impress him as to Farah’s suitability as a royal bride and hostess.

‘I couldn’t help noticing your alumni magazine, Your Royal Highness,’ Farah remarked. ‘You must be proud of having attained a first from Oxford University.’

His level dark deep set eyes shadowed. ‘Indeed,’ he said flatly, and dismissed her with a polite nod. ‘You must excuse me. I have an appointment.’

Having swept up the magazine she had drawn to his attention, Rashad entered his palatial office. He wondered how many previous issues he had ignored and left unread over the years. He had few fond memories of his time as a student in England. In defiance of that thought he leafed through the publication, only to fall still when the fleeting glimpse of a woman’s face suddenly focused his attention on one page and a photograph in particular. It was Matilda Crawford arriving at an academic function, her hand resting on the arm of a distinguished older man in a dinner jacket.

Rashad spread the magazine open on his desk with lean brown hands that were not quite steady. It was pure primitive rage, not nerves, that powered him. Matilda’s pale blond hair was pulled back from her face, and she was wearing a rather prim high-necked brown dress. But then, her natural beauty required no adornment: she had the fair hair, ivory skin and turquoise-blue eyes of a true English rose. His perfect white teeth gritted as he studied the caption below the photo. She was not named but her partner was: Professor Evan Jerrold, the philanthropist. A rich man—of course a rich man! No doubt another gullible sucker ripe for the plucking, Rashad thought with fierce bitterness and distaste.

He was exasperated that he was still sensitive to the sight of Tilda and the regrettable memories she roused. It had been, however, an unsavoury incident in his life and a reminder that he had human flaws. Five years earlier, Rashad might have been seasoned on the battlefield and idolised by his countrymen as a saviour, but his great-uncle Sadiq had succeeded in keeping him a virtual prisoner in Bakhar. Rashad had lived under constant threat and surveillance. He had been twenty-five years old by the time his father had been restored to the throne and he himself had been eager to take advantage of the freedom that had been denied him.

It had been King Hazar who suggested that Rashad complete his academic studies in England. Rashad might have inherited his mother’s intellectual brilliance and his father’s shrewdness but, in those days, he had had little experience of the ways of Western females. Within days of his arrival in Oxford, he had become infatuated with an outrageously unsuitable young woman.

Tilda Crawford had been a bar-girl, a one-time exotic dancer and a deceitful gold-digging slut. But she had told Rashad poignant stories about her bullying stepfather and her family’s sufferings at his hands. She had judged her audience well, Rashad acknowledged with derision. Brought up to believe that it was his duty to help those weaker than himself, he had flipped straight into gallant rescue mode. Duped by her beauty and her lies, he had come dangerously close to asking her to marry him. What a future queen that lowborn Jezebel would have made! The acid bite of the humiliation that had been inflicted on him still had the power to sting Rashad’s ego afresh.

He squared his broad shoulders and lifted his proud dark head high. It really was time to draw a line beneath the sleazy episode and consign his regrets to the past. Only now could he see that this feat could scarcely be achieved while the wrongdoers went unpunished. Without a doubt, the requirements of truth and decency had not been served by the dignified silence he had maintained. Indeed, had he not inadvertently made it easier for Tilda Crawford to go on to defraud other wealthy men? He might well save her elderly admirer from a similar trial, he thought with bleak satisfaction. Offenders should be called to account for their sins, not permitted to continue enjoying the fruits of their dishonesty.

Rashad studied the photo of Tilda again and marvelled at how much better he felt now that he had recognised where his ultimate duty lay. Action was required, not strategic withdrawal. He contacted his chief accountant to confirm that not a single payment had yet been received on the interest-free loan he had advanced to the Crawford family. He was not surprised to have his worst expectations fulfilled. He gave the order that the matter should be pursued with diligence. Powered by a strong sense of justice, he tossed the magazine aside.



Pushing the mass of her long blond hair back behind her ear, Tilda studied her mother, Beth, in total consternation and asked for a second time, ‘How much do you owe?’

The tear-stained older woman gazed back at her daughter with wretched eyes and repeated the figure shakily. ‘I’m sorry; I’m so sorry about this. I should’ve told you months ago but I couldn’t face it. I’ve been hiding my head in the sand and hoping all the trouble would go away.’

Tilda was in serious shock at the amount of money her mother confessed to owing. It was simply huge. Surely there was some mistake or misunderstanding? She could not imagine how Beth could possibly have got into that much debt. Who would have loaned her perennially cash-strapped parent so much money? How on earth could anyone ever have believed that Beth might repay such a vast sum? She reminded herself that interest charges could be very steep and began to ask more pertinent questions in an effort to establish how and when such a debt had originated.

‘When did you take out the loan?’

Beth wiped at her reddened eyes, but did not look directly at her daughter. ‘Five years ago…but I’m not sure you could describe it as a loan.’

Tilda was astonished that her mother could have kept it a secret for so long. But she could remember very well how much of a struggle it had been back then just to put food on the table. She was simply bewildered by Beth’s uncertainty about whether or not she had taken out a loan. ‘Can I see the paperwork?’

The older woman scrambled up and went into the very depths of a cupboard from which she withdrew a plastic container. She shot her daughter a sheepish glance. ‘I’ve had to hide the letters so that you and your brothers and sisters didn’t see them and ask me what they were about.’

As a sizeable pile of letters was tipped out onto the table Tilda swallowed back a groan of disbelief. ‘How long is it since you were last able to make a payment?’

Pushing her short fair hair off her brow in a nervous gesture, Beth sent Tilda an uneasy look. ‘I’ve never made a payment—’

‘Never?’ Tilda interrupted in dismay.

‘There wasn’t the money at first and I thought that I would start making payments when things improved,’ the small blonde woman confided, shredding a tissue between her trembling hands. ‘But things never did improve enough. There was always a bill or someone needing new shoes or bus fares…or Christmas would come along and I hated disappointing the children. They would go without so much for the rest of the year.’

‘I know.’ Leafing through the heap of unopened letters, Tilda breathed out and in again very slowly and carefully. She knew she dared not show how appalled she was by what she was finding out. Her mother was a vulnerable woman, prone to panic attacks. She needed her daughter to be calm and supportive. It was, after all, over four years since Beth had last left the house to face an outside world that had become so threatening to her. Agoraphobia, a fear of open spaces, had made Beth’s home her prison. But it had not stopped the older woman from working for her living. A whizz with a sewing machine, Beth had a regular clientele for whom she tailored clothes and made soft furnishings. Unfortunately, however, she did not earn very much.

‘Exactly how did you get the loan?’ Tilda prompted in confusion. ‘Surely nobody came to the house to offer you that much money?’

Across the table Beth worried at her lower lip with her teeth and shifted uncomfortably. There was a shamefaced look on her face. ‘This is the bit I really didn’t want to tell you. In fact, it’s why I felt I had to keep it all a secret. It made me feel so guilty and I didn’t want to upset you. You see, I asked Rashad for the money and he gave it to me.’

Every scrap of colour ebbed from Tilda’s oval face. With her flawless features stretched taut over her delicate bone structure, her turquoise-blue eyes seemed brighter than ever against her pallor. ‘Rashad…’ she repeated weakly, her heart sinking like a stone and shame grabbing her by the throat. ‘You actually asked him to help us out?’

‘Don’t look at me like that!’ Beth gasped strickenly, her unhappiness overflowing into tears. ‘Rashad once said that we all felt like part of his family, and that that’s how families always work in Bakhar—everyone looking out for everybody else. I was convinced he was going to marry you. I thought it was all right to accept his financial help.’

Tilda was aghast at an explanation that rang all too true from a woman as naïve as her mother was. When Rashad had visited her home he had appeared to like her large and boisterous family. In fact, it was only during those occasions that she had ever seen Rashad fully relax his guard. He had played rough-and-tumble games with her brothers, taught one of her sisters mathematical long division and read stories to the youngest. Unsurprisingly, her mother had become a huge admirer of his. Tilda had never had the heart to tell the older woman why and how she and Rashad had broken up. Pushing herself clumsily upright, Tilda walked over to the living room window. A busy road lay beyond the front garden of the semi-detached house, but Tilda was so lost in a tide of angry, painful thoughts that she was not aware of the traffic.

While she was very loyal to her mother she was cringing at what she had just learned. She was shattered to learn a full five years after the event that her relationship with Rashad had begat a financial angle that she had known nothing about! Surely that must have had a negative effect on Rashad’s view of her? She would have died a thousand deaths of shame had she known about that money at the time.

Rashad was fabulously wealthy and very generous. Had he simply taken pity on Beth? Or had he cherished a darker motive? Had he believed that money might make Tilda less nervous of surrendering her body to him? Had he intended it as the purchase price of her virginity? Her pride writhed at that sordid suspicion. Was she being hugely unfair to him? She thought that actions sometimes spoke louder than words. She had not slept with Rashad and he had ditched her without an ounce of compassion or decency.

‘I was desperate,’ Beth admitted in a stricken undertone. ‘I knew it wasn’t right but your stepfather had got us into such a mess with the mortgage payments. I was terrified that we were going to end up homeless.’

It took enormous effort but Tilda managed to close a mental door on the potent image of Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar, with whom she’d had the poor taste to fall madly in love at the age of eighteen. That reference to her mother’s ghastly second husband helped to distract her. Scott Morrison had married Beth when she was a widow with two young children. On the surface a glib and handsome charmer, he had been a terrible bully, who had systematically robbed his stepfamily of their financial security. The birth of three more children and the stress of dealing with an unfaithful and dishonest husband had led to Beth’s panic attacks and her eventual diagnosis of agoraphobia.

‘When I asked Rashad for help, he said that he would buy the house and keep it in his name so that Scott couldn’t get his hands on it…’

Tilda whirled round, depth-charged by that information out of her recollections and back into the all-too-threatening present. On every front that admission came as a shock to Tilda. ‘Are you telling me that Rashad also owns this house?’ she gasped in horror.

‘Yes. At first that made me feel that we were all safe and secure!’ the older woman suddenly sobbed.

‘Why don’t you make a cup of tea while I take a look at some of these letters?’ Tilda suggested, hoping that that routine task would help her mother to calm down. Yet her own self-discipline was being equally challenged by what she had discovered. Although she was determined not to give way to a growing sense of panic, she could not stop Rashad’s name from rhyming and purring like a derisive echo at the back of her mind.

Eager to hide the fact that she was frantic with worry, Tilda sorted the mostly unopened letters into rough piles according to date. But flashes of memory kept on attacking her from all sides: Rashad, so breathtakingly handsome she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him the first time she saw him; Rashad, the last time she had seen him, kissing another woman. Having dumped her, he had moved on with breathtaking speed. Her mind was quick to back away from that final recollection and she began reading the letters. Silence fell while she speedily absorbed their contents. Unhappily what she learned from the exercise was not good news.

To begin with, Rashad, or more probably his representatives in the matter, had engaged a London legal firm while ensuring that Beth received advice from another solicitor. The purchase price of the house had been fair. A further substantial amount of money had been advanced to settle several outstanding debts. Wincing as she totted up figures in her head, Tilda became more and more tense. If anything, her mother had underestimated the size of her debt. A contract that allowed for every eventuality had been signed. Her mother had been given a whole year to get her affairs in order before she was asked whether she wished to take out a mortgage to buy the house back or instead opt to pay rent as a tenant. Tilda came on a copy of the tenancy agreement that her mother had signed.

‘What made you decide to sign a tenancy agreement?’ Tilda queried dry-mouthed.

‘The solicitor came to see me here and I had to make a choice about what I was going to do.’

‘But you haven’t paid any rent, have you?’ her daughter prompted, having already seen a worrying missive that referred to rent arrears.

‘No. I couldn’t afford to.’ Beth eyed the younger woman fearfully.

‘Not even one payment?’ Tilda thought that there should have been enough income to at least pay the rent but, as quickly, blamed herself for not having taken more of an interest in the family finances.

‘No, not one.’ Beth would not meet her daughter’s troubled gaze, and Tilda wondered uneasily if there was something that she wasn’t being told.

‘Mum…are there any other problems?’ Tilda pressed.

Beth gave her a frightened look and shook her head. ‘Now that you’ve seen the letters, what do you think?’

Shelving the ESP that was giving her the suspicion there was something else amiss, Tilda knew she could not say what she thought about the letters. Her mother was a loving and caring parent, adored by every one of her five children. She was also extremely kind and hard-working, but when it came to dealing with money or problem husbands Beth was pretty much useless. By ignoring the letters, the older woman had acted as her own worst enemy. More recent missives had taken on the cold, clipped edge of threat. They were facing eviction from their home. Tilda felt as if spooky fingers were tightening round her lungs, for the challenge of delivering such terrifying news to her mother was at that moment beyond her. Beth was too frightened even to walk down the drive to the front gate, so how could she possibly cope with the awful upheaval and disgrace of being literally cast out on the street? And if she could not cope, how would it affect Tilda’s four younger siblings?

‘Tilda…’ Beth surveyed her daughter with a heavy heart ‘…I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you about this months ago, but I felt so guilty about having married Scott. Everything that’s gone wrong for us since then is my fault.’

‘You can’t blame yourself for marrying him. He didn’t show his true colours until after the wedding and now he’s out of our lives, so let’s not go back there,’ Tilda urged in a deliberately upbeat tone. ‘Stop worrying about this. I’ll look into it and see what I can sort out.’

The buzz of the doorbell sounded extraordinarily loudly in the strained silence.

Dismay tightening her features as she checked her watch, Beth flew upright. ‘That’ll be a customer. I’d better splash my face with some cold water!’

‘Go ahead. I’ll answer the door.’ Tilda was grateful for that timely interruption, for she did not want to be tempted into soothing her mother by offering empty assurances that everything would come all right. Even in the grip of shock as Tilda still was, she could see little prospect of a happy ending to her family’s predicament. After all, only repayment of the debt could settle it and they were all as poor as church mice.

Frustration hurtled through Tilda, who felt as if her brain was suffering from a stress overload. Why, oh, why, had she given up a steady job to pursue an academic qualification for three years? But the decision had made sense at the time, offering as it did the prospect of a career with eventual excellent earning potential. Unfortunately it meant that now she had no savings and had a large student loan to pay back. Even though she was currently working full time again in a position with good prospects, she was a junior member of staff and her salary was not generous.

Tilda found her former employer, Evan Jerrold, on the doorstep. Once again Evan had his arms wrapped round a fat roll of curtain fabric. The sight would have provoked a smile from Tilda on a normal day, because in old-fashioned parlance—and he was an old-fashioned man—Evan was sweet on her mother. After a chance meeting with Beth one day when he had given Tilda a lift into work, the older man had gradually become a regular visitor. For months now he had been dreaming up new furnishing projects that gave him ample opportunity to ask Beth to advise him on colour, fabric and style.

Tilda showed Evan through to her mother’s workroom at the back of the house. The kindly older man had originally encouraged Tilda to give up her office job and go to university. An academic, who had inherited a thriving family firm, Evan had ensured that Tilda always had a job there during her college vacations. Tilda went into the kitchen to gather up the letters and take them upstairs. She was thinking sadly that Evan, the survivor of a bitter and costly divorce battle, would run a mile once he heard about her mother’s financial embarrassments. But, in all probability, nothing more than friendship would have developed between Beth and Evan, anyway, Tilda told herself in exasperation. Since when had she believed in fairy tales?

Her own workaholic father, whom she barely remembered, had been knocked down and killed by a drunk driver when she was five years old. Her mother’s subsequent second marriage had been a disaster. Bullied and cowed by Scott, Beth had been in no fit state to protect her children. In Tilda’s last year at school, her stepfather had made her work at night in a sleazy club run by one of his cronies.

Tilda forced her straying thoughts back to the present and scolded herself for that momentary slide back into the past. What was needed was action, not time-wasting regret for facts that could not be changed! She reached for the phone and rang the number of the legal firm on the letterhead to ask for an appointment. Humble pleading on the score of extreme urgency won her a late-morning slot the next day. Having arranged several days’ leave from her current employment as an accounts assistant, she called her bank and asked how much money she would be allowed to borrow. Her worst fears were fulfilled when the loan officer pointed out that she had no assets and was still on probation in her current job. As she had never been a quitter she contacted three other financial institutions in the hope of receiving a more promising response before she accepted defeat on that issue.

The following day she put on a black trouser suit and caught a train to London. She made a punctual appearance at the imposing legal offices of Ratburn, Ratburn and Mildrop in the City. Ushered into the presence of an urbane, well-turned-out lawyer, she was tense and within minutes it seemed that every word she uttered was worthy only of a stony rebuttal.

‘I’m unable to discuss your mother’s confidential affairs with you, Miss Crawford.’ An explanation of Beth’s agoraphobia merely led to a further question. ‘Unless, of course, you have acquired power of attorney to speak and act on Mrs Morrison’s behalf?’

‘No…but I was once quite friendly with Prince Rashad,’ Tilda heard herself say, desperate to prove her credentials in some way and win a serious hearing.

The middle-aged lawyer dealt her a cool appraisal. ‘I am not aware that His Royal Highness is involved in this matter.’

Tilda became even tenser. ‘I appreciate that the loan was ostensibly advanced by a business called Metropolis—’

‘I cannot discuss confidential matters with a third party.’

Her full soft mouth compressed. ‘Then let me talk it over with Rashad direct. Please tell me how I can get in touch with him quickly.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’ Before she could pursue the point, the older man stood up to signify that the meeting was at an end.

Less than two minutes later, Tilda was back out on the street again. She was mortified by the reception she had received. She caught the bus to the opulent Embassy of Bakhar, where her request for a phone number or meeting with the Crown Prince was treated with a smiling but dismissive courtesy that gained her not a millimetre of access. The level of security and discretion that appeared to surround Rashad’s movements was daunting. Direct contact with him was clearly not to be had for the asking. Her only option was to leave her phone number, which would be passed on to his staff. Throughout her unsatisfactory visit, she was quite unaware of a bearded older man with silvering hair, who had left his office the moment he had seen her name pop up on his computer screen. A troubled frown on his stolid features, he watched her depart from his vantage point on the landing above.

Determined not to be beaten in her quest, Tilda went straight to the nearest library and used the Internet. She was initially infuriated by the discovery that Rashad was currently in London and yet nobody had been prepared to admit that. But when she noticed the date of the charity benefit he was to attend and realised that it was being staged that very day, it lent wings to her thoughts and her feet.

At the reception desk of the exclusive hotel where the benefit was being held, Tilda learned that admission was by invitation only. She paid for an eye-wateringly expensive soft drink so that she could sit in the hotel foyer. Sophisticated women in fashionable cocktail frocks walked in and out of the crowded ballroom. A door was propped wide to facilitate the exit of a man in a wheelchair, and Tilda caught a glimpse of a very tall, powerful male standing about thirty feet inside the room.

Her heart lurched as if she had suddenly been thrown high in the air without warning. It was Rashad, and there was something so achingly familiar in the proud angle of his dark head that she rose to her feet without being aware of it. Her attention roved from the crisp luxuriance of his cropped black hair to the bold lineaments of his strong profile. Below the bright ballroom lights, his skin had the rich sheen of gold, showcasing his well-defined black brows, a thin aristocratic blade of a nose and a fierce sensual mouth set above a hard, masculine jaw line. He was incredibly good-looking in a very exotic, un-English way. Back in the days when she had innocently dreamt of a future as an artist, she had drawn his face over and over again, obsessively attached to every detail of his hawkish features that might have been lifted from an ancient Berber hanging.

He was surrounded by a circle of people. She was willing him to turn his handsome head and notice her at the same moment that she registered that candy-pink female fingernails rested on his arm. For a split second she could not credit that she had not immediately seen the gorgeous brunette in her flimsy short dress flashing an intimate smile up at him. It was as though Tilda’s mind had censored that part of her view, only letting her see what she could handle. The last time she had seen Rashad in the flesh five years earlier he had also been with another woman, a sight that had ensured that an extra large dollop of humiliation had been added to her agonised sense of rejection.

Now, as then, pride and anger came to Tilda’s rescue. Just as her eyes swerved back onto him, Rashad finally looked in her direction. His keen, dark-as-ebony gaze was trained on her. Not a muscle moved on his lean, strong face. He blanked her as if she didn’t exist and her view was cut off as the door swung shut again. In shock at that lack of reaction, Tilda turned pale as death. She went back to Reception and asked to leave a message for Prince Rashad. She hovered while it was being delivered but the minutes ticked slowly past and no answer came back. She sat down again, hollow with physical hunger, for she had not eaten since early morning. But she had no option other than to wait. She dared not leave while there was still an ounce of hope that he might respond to her request for a meeting.

It was almost three hours before Rashad chose to make his departure. Several powerfully built Arab men emerged from the function room and fanned out in an advance guard before Rashad strode into view. He had fantastic carriage, moving with the grace of a prowling panther. His sinuous female companion had to almost run to keep up in her high heels. Tilda could not have broken through the tight cordon of security that kept lesser mortals at bay in the royal presence. She watched as the paparazzi outside flashed cameras and shouted questions. Rashad ignored them and moved down the steps.

‘Miss Crawford?’

A dark-skinned older man extended a card to her with a quiet nod and walked on out the door.

Blinking in surprise, Tilda studied the card, which contained an address and a time late the following afternoon. She sucked in a tremulous breath. Rashad was giving her the chance to plead her family’s case. But if she had not dutifully waited all those hours like a lowly supplicant for His Royal Highness’s attention, she would not have got the concession. Anger stirring afresh, she recognised how Rashad made her suffer: first the whip, then the reward—but only if appropriate humility was displayed.

Reclining back into the comfort of his limousine, Rashad thought about Tilda Crawford, defiantly clad in the sort of masculine clothes he had never liked. Why did she only dress up like that for his benefit? Nothing could detract from such striking natural beauty. Even with her mermaid’s mass of curling pale blond hair tied back, her turquoise eyes and the heart-shaped pout of her full pink mouth bare of cosmetic enhancement, she had held every male eye in her vicinity.

Rashad had enjoyed keeping her waiting. He knew what kind of woman she was and he would give no quarter when he dealt with her. In truth, being very tough came naturally to Rashad, who had found restraint and tenderness a much greater challenge. While engaged in picturing Tilda he discovered that a sense of unlimited power could also act as an aphrodisiac. The eager brunette by his side rested a slim, caressing hand on his lean, powerful thigh. With a languid forefinger Rashad depressed the button to screen the windows….




CHAPTER TWO


TILDA sat rigid-backed on the crowded bus that carried her the last mile to her destination. Garbed in what her mother persisted in calling her ‘Sunday best’—a long black coat that she wore every winter to go to church—she was striving not to let nerves get the better of her temper.

Unfortunately every time she recalled how Rashad had just ignored her at the hotel, a sense of grievance grew inside her. What had she ever done to deserve such discourteous treatment? After all, it was not as though she had even had the slightest suspicion that her mother had asked him for financial help. She pressed cold hands to her hot cheeks as though she could cool the mortified heat that that fact still awakened in her. The whole ghastly business was threatening to tear her apart.

Metropolis Enterprises was housed in a massive contemporary office block. The company comprised a long list of different businesses, which were displayed on the inaugural plaque in the foyer. The building had been officially opened by Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar. She travelled up to the top floor in a glass lift. In the waiting area she sucked in a long desperate breath. For just a moment she thought she couldn’t do it, couldn’t face asking for time and understanding from a guy who had once torn her heart and her self-esteem to pieces.

‘Miss Crawford—come this way.’

Tilda straightened her stiff shoulders and followed the male PA. She was shown into a very large but empty office. Barely had the door closed behind her, however, than another opened across the room and Rashad entered.

His raw physical impact hit her like a tidal wave that swept away rational thought. His fabulously tailored black pinstripe suit oozed designer style, emphasising his wide, powerful shoulders, lean hips and long straight legs. Her heart felt as though it were pounding like mad somewhere in the region of her throat. Meeting eyes as amber gold as a hot sunset, she found it equally hard to catch her breath. For her it was like time rolling back and her response was immediate: her mouth ran dry, her slender length tensing with anticipation. It had been five long years since she had experienced that unsettling little clenching sensation way down low in her tummy and it seriously rattled her.

Surveying her only for the space of a heartbeat, Rashad came to a prowling halt by his desk. His lean strong face hardened on the unwelcome reflection that she bore more than a passing resemblance to some divine snow maiden. The high-necked long black coat provided a dramatic frame for the delicate perfection of her ivory skin and light blond hair. Scarcely divine, he adjusted with inner cynicism, regardless of the purity of her looks. Naturally she knew the effect of her startling beauty. Naturally that aura of artless innocence was a façade designed to ensnare foolish men. He knew that better than anyone.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’ Tilda shot that at him a little breathlessly, determined to show that she had better manners than he had demonstrated at the hotel.

‘Curiosity got to me,’ Rashad confided lazily, watching her long honey-brown lashes flutter down over the astonishing turquoise of her eyes, the slight downward pout of her curvaceous pink lower lip. In point of fact, she was still exquisite. A few inches taller and she would have rivalled any supermodel. Five years ago, he had had excellent taste in so far as appearance alone counted. He wondered if she would dare to say no to him now were he to reach for her and, that fast, the stinging heavy heat of arousal engulfed his groin. He gritted his even white teeth at the shock of that instantaneous sexual reaction and killed the frivolous thought that had preceded it. It had not occurred to him that he might still respond to her even when his strong self-discipline and intelligence were in direct opposition to that weakness.

By dint of not quite looking directly at Rashad, Tilda rescued what remained of her concentration and plunged straight to what she saw as the heart of the matter. ‘I had no idea that my mother had asked you to loan her money when we were seeing each other. If I had known at the time I would have stopped you getting involved in our family problems.’

Rashad was tempted to laugh out loud at such an implausible claim. As if! He strode over to the window, presenting her with his bold chiselled profile. He supposed her ludicrous assertion of ignorance was yet one more example of her old habit of always pleading innocence or having a viable explanation to cover her tracks. The leopard, it seemed, had not changed her spots. Nothing was ever Tilda’s fault or her responsibility.

Tilda moved closer in her eagerness to say all that she could in explanation before he could say anything. ‘Mum shouldn’t have asked you to help, but you shouldn’t have given it, either,’ she framed in an apologetic tone. ‘I mean, how on earth did you ever believe she could pay such a huge amount back? Why didn’t you at least tell me what you were thinking of doing before you did it?’

Rashad swung back to face her, for she was stretching credulity too far with that enquiry. A sardonic curve hardened his handsome mouth. ‘Surely that wasn’t part of your plan?’

Her delicate brows drew together in a slight frown of confusion. ‘Plan? What plan? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Rashad surveyed her with derisive cool and he had to admit that she put on a very convincing act. That expression of mystification in her wide turquoise eyes would have persuaded most men that she was speaking the truth. Unhappily for her, past experience had fully armoured Rashad against the lies she might well tell in an effort to awaken his compassion.

The silence felt claustrophobic to Tilda. She did not understand what was wrong or why he had made no response, but she did recognize the scorn gleaming in his narrowed dark gaze. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘It astonishes me that you should dare to come into my presence and criticise my generosity towards your relatives. That might be a wily move with some men, but I find your reproaches offensive.’

Something in that clipped, dark tone chilled her to the marrow and her tension climbed even higher. ‘I’m not denying your generosity and I have no wish to be offensive or ungrateful for the spirit that prompted you to give that money. But Mum had no reasonable prospect of ever repaying you and that should have made you think twice about what you were doing.’

His expressive mouth curled. ‘Your mother was offered the option of paying rent.’

Tilda recognised that the meeting was already going badly wrong and feared that she was letting her personal pride and animosity get in the way of making a proper clarification of the facts. ‘A lot has changed in our lives over the last five years, Rashad. My stepfather has gone. For a while, we lived in chaos. I’m afraid that my mother now suffers from—’

‘Stop right there,’ Rashad commanded with razor-sharp clarity. ‘I have no desire to listen to maudlin sob stories. We are not players in a soap opera, nor do we have a personal relationship. We are dealing with a business matter. Respect those boundaries.’

At that uncompromising rebuke, mortified colour mantled Tilda’s cheeks. Sob stories? Was that how her references to her family’s plight had struck him five years ago? When she had confided in him, had he viewed her trust in him as an inappropriate and unwelcome demand for sympathy? Yet not once had she told him about the serious shortage of money within her home! In the same way she had been too ashamed to admit that her stepfather was a good deal worse than just a work-shy bully and, indeed, had a criminal record.

‘Yes, I appreciate that, but—’

‘Do not interrupt me when I am speaking. It is very rude,’ Rashad sliced back without hesitation.

‘I was only trying to explain my mother’s position and why she has allowed this situation to get out of hand.’ Annoyed by that reprimand, Tilda had to make a real effort to remain focused and resist the urge to fight back in self-defence. But keeping her head was very difficult when Rashad was behaving like a stranger. It was a challenge to believe that he had ever been anything else. His English had become much more idiomatic and his manner towards her was brutally cold and distant. She had never been more conscious of his royal birth and background. Yet she still found it remarkably hard not to stare at him for his sheer strength of character had always drawn her even when she was struggling bone and sinew to resist him. Her painful awareness of just how much he had once hurt her was doing nothing to stabilise her emotions.

‘Mrs Morrison’s personal circumstances are irrelevant,’ Rashad declared. ‘Five years have passed. There has not been a single attempt to service the loan advanced for the settlement of her debts, nor has there been rent paid according to the tenancy agreement. Such an abysmal record speaks for itself.’

As Rashad reminded Tilda of those embarrassing realities an uncomfortable flush washed her fair complexion. ‘I recognise that Mum has dealt with all this very badly, but unfortunately I wasn’t aware until this week that you owned the house and had also loaned her money.’

At that declaration, his lean bronzed features took on a forbidding aspect. ‘Another unlikely excuse? It is hard to credit that you believe the same scam could work twice.’

‘Scam?’ Tilda echoed with an uncertain laugh. ‘What scam?’

‘Did you think I wouldn’t appreciate five years ago that you were doing everything you could to profit from our relationship? It was a scam aimed at milking my interest in you for as much money as you could get. You softened me up with your tear-jerking tales and very prettily you did it. Then your mother begged me to help her to protect you and your siblings from your evil stepfather’s spendthrift ways!’

Tilda studied him in horror. ‘I just can’t believe that you can think that of me or Mum! I only ever told you the truth. I did not try to milk your interest in me—what a disgusting term!’

‘What else did you do? Nor are your sensibilities as refined as you like to pretend. Why don’t we look at the facts? When I first met you, you were working in a bar and dancing in a cage.’

Her turquoise eyes flashed with the blue-gold of a flame in the hottest part of the fire. Temper leapt up so high inside her that she was momentarily left breathless by the impact. Her slim white hands clenched into fists. ‘I wondered when you were going to get around to mentioning that again. Since when was bar work on a level with prostitution? I wasn’t a lap dancer or a stripper. The one time in my life I danced in a cage for a couple of hours and you never let me live it down!’ she launched at him furiously. ‘I should never have got involved with you. You were prejudiced against me from the start!’

Brilliant dark eyes gleamed warning gold beneath the lush black fringe of his lashes. ‘The past is not up for discussion—’

‘Except when it’s you making a point?’ Tilda was seething at the humiliation of having that ghastly cage episode flung in her teeth five years after the event. So much for Rashad acting like a stranger! Rashad, she thought suddenly, hadn’t changed one little bit. He could always be depended on to remind her of the worst possible moments in her life. ‘I’m not an immoral or dishonest or greedy person and I never have been!’

Rashad was dimly surprised to register that he was enjoying himself. She was the only woman who had ever dared to raise her voice in his vicinity or tried to argue with him. Once that trait had thoroughly irritated him but now he recognised it for the novelty and the weakness it was. His self-discipline absolute, he elevated a winged ebony brow in mocking encouragement. ‘Is that so?’

‘Of course it is…’ Tilda pushed a trembling hand through the silky stray curls clinging to her warm forehead. ‘For some reason you’ve put together a whole nasty scenario that didn’t happen. There was never any plan to get money off you.’

‘So…why, in your considered opinion, am I half a million pounds poorer from having known you?’

When Rashad mentioned that particular sum, consternation knocked the breath and the temper out of Tilda. ‘Half…a million pounds?’ she whispered shakily.

‘The sale of the house will recoup some of that loss and the property has at least appreciated as an asset,’ Rashad drawled with a complete calm that she found extremely threatening. ‘But I assume the rent will never be paid and as for the loan—’

‘It can’t all come to half a million pounds!’ Tilda gasped strickenly.

‘Rather more. That is a conservative quote,’ Rashad delivered drily. ‘I’m surprised that you haven’t already worked out the exact amount. I seem to recall that you have a head for figures as good as any calculator.’

Her soft full mouth pursed for she could recognise an insult no matter how well veiled it was. ‘But I haven’t had access to all the documentation involved.’

‘In your role as innocent bystander, naturally not,’ Rashad slotted in with an unconcealed derision as frank as a shout of disbelief. ‘No matter, I intend to reclaim the debt in full.’

Realising that events were running on without her, Tilda was in a panic. ‘You mustn’t. If you were willing to give us more time—’

‘Until the next millennium?’

‘Why do you have such a low opinion of me?’ Frustration pounded through Tilda, her eyes bright with angry incomprehension again. ‘I understand that my family comes out of this looking like freeloaders, but when you won’t even let me explain why—’

Intent dark golden eyes, heavily enhanced by spiky black lashes, slammed coolly into hers. ‘Let’s stick to business.’

‘OK. In one more year I hope to be fully qualified as an accountant.’

Rashad raised a brow in surprise. ‘How novel…when you were with me, all you could talk about was being an artist.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that the need to earn a living and help her mother raise her siblings had soon put paid to that prospect. She had had to give up her place at art college and find a job instead. But that was not a sacrifice she had ever questioned or regretted.

‘I have the ability to earn a decent salary and start paying back what is owed,’ Tilda swore with an urgency that betrayed the depth of her concern.

‘You have an English saying. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Promises are not of interest to me. If you have nothing more concrete to offer, one might wonder why you went to so much trouble to bring about this meeting,’ Rashad drawled, soft and smooth as silk. ‘At least, if I didn’t know you I might wonder. Knowing you as I do, however, I suspect that you hoped to use your sex appeal as a bargaining chip.’

Tilda was so hugely taken aback by that unjust accusation that her soft mouth opened and shut again. Her coat and her boots covered her head to toe and she wasn’t even wearing make-up. There was nothing provocative about her outfit. How did he think she should have presented herself? With a paper bag over her head and her body wrapped in a sack? Pure outrage lit her luminous blue-green gaze. ‘How dare you suggest that?’

‘But that’s what you do. Five years ago you were very careful to withhold your body and play the virgin card to keep me interested.’

Absorbing those words, Tilda breathed in so deep she was vaguely surprised that she didn’t spontaneously combust in front of him. ‘So this is what you call sticking to business, is it?’

Grim dark golden eyes clashed with hers. ‘But I was a business proposition as far as you were concerned. You set out to rip me off.’

Tilda snatched in a jerky breath. ‘That’s outrageous!’

‘But true, nonetheless, and if you haven’t come here to settle the outstanding debt or at least tender a substantial part of it, why are you here?’ Rashad enquired very drily.

Her hands clenched into tight fists of restraint for she recognised how he had backed her into a corner and cut off every avenue of escape. If she told the truth and admitted that she had hoped to awaken his compassion by explaining her mother’s circumstances, she would vindicate his accusation about her telling sob stories for profit. Her even white teeth set together. ‘I hoped that you would give us more time to pay.’

Rashad strolled soundlessly towards her, his pronounced elegance of carriage contriving to hook her attention against her will. But then the very first thing that she had ever noticed about Rashad was the fluid, impossibly sexy grace of his every physical movement. At that memory a tiny betraying little quiver darted through her tummy, tensing her every muscle with defensiveness.

‘On what basis would I grant a request for more time?’ Rashad drawled lazily. ‘I’m a businessman. If you can’t raise the money now, there is little chance that you could produce it in the near future.’

‘You weren’t behaving like a businessman when you commented on the fact that I didn’t sleep with you five years ago!’ Tilda suddenly shot at him, fed up of playing the game solely by his rules. ‘You are totally biased against me!’

Rashad strolled closer. He was so much taller that Tilda felt overshadowed by his proximity. ‘Don’t waste my time trying to distract me from the issue. I will ask you again—why are you here?’

A faint aromatic hint of sandalwood caught at Tilda’s throat and her nostrils and threatened to send her spiralling down into a rich tide of recollection. She was trying to avoid meeting his dark golden gaze, but she could feel his scrutiny and it was as if heat pulsed wherever his brilliant eyes chose to rest. Her mouth tingled, her slender throat tightened. A languorous heaviness was seeping up through her lower limbs, coiling in her belly and sending fingers of awareness darting through her small full breasts.

‘For goodness’ sake, you know why I’m here,’ she argued half under her breath. Being that close to him made her feel dominated and she took a swift step back.

Every imperious line of his lithe hard body taut with command and impatience, Rashad was determined to strip her bare of her manipulative pretences. He closed the distance between them again. ‘From my point of view it would appear that you have approached me with nothing to offer but yourself.’

Hot pink flooded her cheeks and she was startled into a swift upward glance. She was so conscious of his potent authority and strength that she continued to back away from him without even being aware of what she was doing. ‘What on earth is that supposed to mean?’ she queried half an octave higher.

‘I don’t think you’re that naïve.’

Taut with wrathful incredulity as he confirmed that he meant what she had assumed he could not possibly dare to suggest, Tilda stared up at him, turquoise eyes bright as jewels. ‘Are you suggesting that I would try to offer you sex?’ she gasped.

Cynical amusement filled Rashad, for she acted the affronted virgin with such perfection. ‘In the absence of any other option, what else is there?’

At that cruelly mocking confirmation, the anger inside Tilda just cut loose of her restraint and she tried to slap him. But unfortunately her victim had far faster responses and he caught her wrist in midair. ‘No…I don’t tolerate tantrums!’

‘Let go of me!’ Tilda gritted in a tempest of fury at having been both insulted and denied any right of reprisal.

‘Not until you calm down.’ Rashad retained a firm hold on her narrow wrist. He was angry with her but there was a dark, insidious excitement beginning to stir, as well. A desire for what he had once been denied, he told himself harshly. Yet why should he censure himself for what were only natural promptings? He had a powerful libido and she was a very beautiful woman. A mere seventy years earlier, his grandfather had enjoyed a harem of concubines. For a split second, Rashad allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to have Tilda Crawford entirely at his disposal at any hour of the day. His alone. The images that assailed him were so compellingly evocative that they were dispelled only with the greatest difficulty.

‘I said—let go!’ Tilda was so mad at being held captive like a disobedient child that she attempted to kick him. As he evaded that new potential angle of assault she yanked herself free with a suddenness that sent her careening into the piece of furniture behind her. With a yelp of dismay she fell over the coffee-table and landed on her behind on the other side of it with a loud thump.

‘Is it not time that you learned how to control your temper?’ With smouldering dark golden eyes, Rashad surveyed her lying in tumbled disarray on his office carpet. He strode forward, reached down and pulled her upright again in one easy motion. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’ Stiff with shame and embarrassment at her loss of control in the presence of the enemy, Tilda shook her head. She tried to make herself apologise and, unfortunately, the words were strangled at the back of her throat. At that moment she hated him with a passion. Yet she had only to connect with his brilliant gaze for a heartbeat to feel the stark rise of yearning that slaughtered her pride.

Rashad studied her lush raspberry-pink mouth and remembered the soft sweet taste of it. He allowed his imagination full sway while he asked himself why he should not turn fantasy into fact. Tilda at his disposal. Unleashed from his habitual rigid self-discipline, fierce arousal licked like blazing flames of fire at his lithe, muscular frame. Almost as quickly he reached a decision. He would indulge himself with her. He would indulge his every desire with her until he was sated of that pale blonde perfection.

Why should he not take her? Would it not be the natural justice that he was entitled to claim? Why should he consider the question of honour with a woman of her reputation? He knew what she was. Somewhere he still had the security file that had destroyed his youthful illusions. While he had been with her, she had lied to him, deceived him and slept with other men. Rashad had learnt to his cost that fine principles were a serious weakness and a handicap around Tilda Crawford.

Startlingly aware of the buzz in the tense atmosphere, Tilda was trembling. As she took a step back her hips hit the wall and she braced her slim shoulders against it, gathering up her courage. ‘I wasn’t offering you sex,’ she told him defensively.

Rashad surveyed her with glittering intensity. ‘It’s the only thing you have to give that I want.’

The silence pulsed and vibrated.

‘Are you mad?’ Barely able to credit that Rashad could admit that shocking truth to her without betraying even a glimmer of shame, Tilda sucked in a shuddering breath. ‘I refuse to believe that you’re serious! Sex in return for money? How can you insult me to that extent?’

‘Most women consider my attentions an honour. The choice is yours.’ His stunning golden gaze narrowed to a smouldering glitter, Rashad let a long brown forefinger push up her chin so that their eyes could meet. ‘Make the right choice and you will discover that I can make repayment the sweetest of pleasures.’

Tilda was even more taken aback when that low-pitched forecast made her mouth run dry and butterflies break loose in her tummy. She could not dredge her attention from his lean, strong face or the shimmering gold of his stare. He lowered his arrogant dark head and a pulse beat like a drum pounded through her, leaving every inch of her tense as a drawn bow with anticipation. A little voice told her to move away, raise a hand to keep him away from her, even angle her head back out of reach. She heard the voice but she stayed put, controlled by much more powerful influences. His mouth came down on hers in a slow, languorous tasting that unleashed a host of sensations that she had forced herself to forget. It was a ravishingly potent kiss. Her breasts felt full and constrained by her clothing. A shivery little frisson of wicked delight ran through her slender figure and stirred a deep ache of hunger between her thighs.

Reacting to that shattering response with horror-stricken recoil, Tilda pulled back and spluttered, ‘No, thank you very much! Once burnt, twice shy!’

Stunning eyes veiled, Rashad surveyed her with satisfaction.

‘So you can still kiss up a storm!’ Tilda launched at him furiously. ‘But you should be ashamed of yourself for treating me like this!’

Rashad consulted the rapier thin designer watch on his wrist and murmured with smooth regret, ‘I have another appointment now. Your time is up.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry—I’m going all right!’ Tilda spun on her heel and hauled open the door with a perspiring palm.

Rashad sent her a sardonic smile. ‘You really couldn’t expect me to fall for the same fairy stories this time around.’

Her oval face red as fire, Tilda stalked out.




CHAPTER THREE


TILDA got on the train back to Oxford. She was in shock. Everything about her meeting with Rashad had shaken her up. Not least the manner in which she had reacted to that kiss! Her passionate physical response to him had coursed through her like a river in flood and she was furious with herself. Evidently loathing Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar was no defence whatsoever against his persuasive sensuality. What did that say about her intelligence or her self-control?

In that field, Tilda conceded angrily, absolutely nothing had changed in five wretched years. Rashad had still only to touch her to set her on fire with longing. But nobody knew better than Tilda that it was a kind of weakness that could lead to disaster. Her family history bore that out. Her mother, Beth, had only been nineteen when she had fallen pregnant with Tilda and had had to get married in a hurry. Beth’s woes had not ended there for her husband had resented his new family obligations. An ambitious young lawyer, he had been a neglectful husband and an uninterested parent. Five years later, Beth had become a widow and an easy mark for Scott Morrison’s promises of undying devotion. Madly in love, Beth had conceived her third child just a few months into the relationship and had rushed back into marriage with seriously unhappy results.

Tilda suppressed a sigh. Although she felt guilty acknowledging it, she had tried to learn by her mother’s mistakes and had resolved that no man would ever be allowed to come between her and her wits, or her education, for that matter. In the early teenage years she had had little interest in boys. Scott’s bullying, drinking and womanising had put her off the entire male sex, while she had done what she could to support her mother and help out with the younger children.

At eighteen years old, she had been in her last year of school. When Scott had told her that he had fixed her up with part-time work as a waitress in a nightclub managed by one of his seedy friends she had been incensed, for she had already had a weekend job in a supermarket. Unfortunately whenever Tilda had dared to defy Scott, he had taken his temper out on the rest of her family, who had been much less able to stand up to him. Within a week the continual arguments and her mother’s distress had vanquished Tilda’s resistance. While dutifully agreeing with Beth that, yes, she would earn more money, she had known that the extra hours and late nights would scarcely be conducive to the intensive studying she had been doing for her final exams.

From the outset Tilda had hated the attention that her looks had drawn from the customers. The club had attracted slick, high-earning professionals and wealthy students and spoilt young men who had drunk too much and thought the female staff were fair game. Tilda had soon realised why the manager only seemed to hire waitresses who were more than ordinarily attractive. Some of them had regularly slept with the clientele in return for gifts or cash and their liberal ways had encouraged custom.

Tilda had worked there only a fortnight before she had first seen Rashad. His supple, sexy aura as he had descended the stairs had caught her eye first. When he had turned his head and locked dark golden eyes with hers, she had literally stopped breathing. Mentally it had been like running into a solid brick wall and seeing stars. She had found it impossible not to keep gazing around to see where he was, or to steal another transfixed glance at him. Every time she had looked, she had found that he was looking, too, and, even though that had embarrassed her, she had been helpless to resist temptation.

A big dark-haired guy had approached her towards the end of that evening. ‘Fancy coming to a party tonight?’ he asked, his foreign accent roughening his pronunciation.

‘No, thanks,’ she said flatly, turning away.

‘I’m Leonidas Pallis and I have a friend who wants to meet you.’ He dropped a card and a hundred pound note down on the tray she was holding. ‘Party kicks off around midnight. That should cover your cab fare.’

‘I said, no, thanks.’ Her cheeks scarlet, Tilda thrust the banknote back at him and walked away.

Soon afterwards, a waitress called Chantal came over to speak to her. ‘You really riled Leonidas. Don’t you know who he is? He’s the grandson of a Greek tycoon and he’s absolutely loaded. He gives incredible tips and throws amazing parties. What’s your problem?’

‘I’m just not interested in mixing with the customers outside working hours.’ Tilda could also have mentioned that she had school the next day, but the manager had banned her from admitting that she was still a schoolgirl as he had said it might give the club a bad name.




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