The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife

Tilda swallowed the lump in her throat and hated herself for being tempted. But he was only interested in getting her into bed. That was all he had ever been interested in, she told herself wretchedly. Yet her body still tingled with the sexual responsiveness that only he could awaken. It incensed her that she knew exactly what he was talking about. Every day, every hour, her every thought was centred on him, to the point of obsession. But that was a truth she despised and would never admit to him.

In any case, she had much more important things to worry about. Within the space of an hour every seeming certainty had vanished. It seemed shameful to her that she should long to walk into his arms and forget everything both past and present because of passion. What would sharing a bed with Rashad fix or clarify? Where were her pride and her common sense? First and foremost, she was in Bakhar for the sake of her family. She reminded herself that she had yet to see evidence that the threat against their security had been lifted.

‘What I need right now is the assurance that that eviction order has been cancelled,’ she murmured tautly.

A faint rise of dark blood marking the angular line of his classic cheekbones, Rashad fell still. ‘It has been.’

As the tense pool of silence gathered Tilda worried uncomfortably at her full lower lip. ‘And the house-has it been signed back to my mother?’

‘Of course.’

‘The outstanding loan has been settled?’

Rashad inclined his proud dark head in immediate acknowledgement.

‘I would like to see all that in writing.’ Tilda closed her restive hands together in front of her. In an effort to conceal her discomfiture, she was struggling to be as businesslike as he had once urged her to be.

‘If that is your wish. I will ensure that you see the documentation.’ Affronted though he was by that lack of trust in his word, Rashad made no further comment. He told himself that he should not be surprised that financial matters were her first consideration. Had he not always known that money meant more to her than anything else? He could not quell the rise of his distaste.

Tilda’s fingers curled in on themselves too tightly for comfort. ‘And I would also like to see the proof you said you had of my affairs with other men.’

Rashad veiled his icy gaze, determined not to surrender to that particular demand. Confronting her with unassailable evidence of her youthful promiscuity would only antagonise her at a time when he needed her co-operation. If she refused to conduct herself as his wife, his father and the rest of his family would be, at the very least, severely embarrassed. Indeed, all too many innocent people were at risk of suffering the consequences of his bad judgement and lack of foresight.

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

He looked apologetic and he sounded apologetic, but Tilda was not convinced. She was parting her lips to tell him so when he voiced an apology at the interruption and answered his mobile phone.

His lean bronzed profile taut, he compressed his wide, sensual mouth. ‘My sisters, Durra and Tibah, have arrived.’

In a large reception room downstairs she was immediately approached by two fashionably dressed women, who looked to be in their forties and, as such, a good deal older than Tilda had expected. Both spoke excellent English and greeted their brother with an affection laced with deferential restraint.

‘The king has asked that you bring Tilda to him today so that he can meet her.’ A small plump brunette with a bustling air, Durra greeted Tilda with warm words of welcome.

‘There are a great many preparations to be made,’ Tibah added with enthusiasm. ‘The next few weeks will be very exciting! I do hope you can come now. We try not to keep our father waiting.’

Tilda noticed that Rashad looked very much as though he had been carved out of solid granite. Her heart and self-image slowly sank to her toes while she kept a resolute smile pinned to her taut mouth. She was painfully aware of Rashad’s low opinion of her and felt that he could only loathe the prospect of introducing her as his bride to the father he esteemed. His siblings regarded him with barely concealed tension until he inclined his sleek dark head in agreement. He clapped his hands and a servant appeared from beyond the door. He issued instructions.

‘We will leave immediately,’ he murmured without expression.

His sisters flew back to Jumiah with them. The Great Palace where the royal family lived was situated several miles outside the flourishing capital city. As soon as the helicopter landed, Durra and Tibah parted from Rashad and Tilda to return to their apartments within the palace complex. A vast carved stone building enhanced by formal gardens and fountains, it was a much newer property than Tilda had expected to see and she made a surprised comment.

‘The old palace was badly damaged during the war. It had also taken on unfortunate associations after two decades of my great-uncle’s misrule,’ Rashad explained. ‘This new palace was built as a symbol of hope for the future.’

‘It’s colossal but very impressive.’ Tilda shot him a strained glance and suddenly abandoned the stilted conversation in favour of honesty. ‘Is there no way I can avoid having to meet your father?’

His stubborn jaw line clenched hard. ‘In wishing to admit you so immediately to his presence, the king seeks to honour you.’

Tilda went pink with discomfiture. ‘You misunderstood my meaning. Oh, never mind.’

‘My father is a kind man. Not unreasonably, he has assumed that there is honest affection between us.’

The backs of Tilda’s eyes stung in receipt of that sardonic reminder but she lifted her chin. To add insult to injury, Rashad proceeded to give her several tips on how to be polite and respectful in the presence of Bakhari royalty. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my manners,’ she told him tightly. ‘I’m not going to be rude.’

‘I did not intend to cause offence.’ Rashad was merely annoyed that she should have to enter such a crucial meeting without any preparation whatsoever.

Feeling wretchedly unsuitable for the honour being extended to her, Tilda was ushered into the audience room. King Hazar was a tall, spare man in his sixties, garbed in traditional robes that added to his quiet aura of dignity. The kindliness of his unexpectedly friendly smile took her aback and instantly released the worst of her tension. He welcomed her to Bakhar in slow, careful English, embraced his son with enthusiasm and informed Tilda that he would be happy to regard her as another daughter. Very polite conversation ensued about the sights of Oxford, as well as the vagaries of the English climate. It dawned on Tilda that, far from being aghast at or even worried by his son’s sudden marriage to an Englishwoman, the older man seemed genuinely delighted.

Under cover of this gentle dialogue, she studied Rashad from below her lashes. His lean bronzed profile was lit by the sunshine piercing the window behind him. As if aware of her attention, he turned his arrogant dark head. His tawny gaze met hers and her tummy performed an instant somersault of response. Colouring, she dragged her attention from him again. Goodness, he was gorgeous, she thought helplessly, and she was married to him. Really and truly married. The shock of that was still sinking in. With difficulty she returned her concentration to the conversation.