Passion. LYNNE GRAHAM

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.