Passion. LYNNE GRAHAM

was relieved to find out who had been responsible, but disturbed by the fact that her younger brother had been in contact with his father. She took a deep breath and told her sister that Scott had been taking money from their mother. Katie scolded Tilda for not telling her sooner and promised to warn James.

      Tilda found her attention roaming back continually to Rashad. His arrival had bowled her over. It was a challenge to take her eyes off his lean, darkly beautiful features. But then, she had seen precious little of him over the past month. Her days had been filled with history, language and etiquette lessons, not to mention dress fittings, shopping trips, innumerable social meetings with Rashad’s extended family and several informal public appearances.

      Every night she had fallen into bed exhausted and lain awake listening in vain for Rashad coming home, because his bedroom was so far from hers that she had no hope of hearing his return. Slowly but surely, his cool detachment had begun to infuriate her. A member of his staff had brought her a sealed envelope containing all the documents pertaining to the transfer of the family home back into her mother’s name and the writing off of the loan. She had sent him a very polite note of thanks.

      But it had not achieved the desired response, for he had not come looking for her. She had more or less told him to leave her alone and Rashad, who had never, ever done what she told him to do before, was leaving her alone. Initially she had told herself that this proved that there had been no real substance to his assurance that their marriage did not have to be a charade. But it had soon dawned on her that demanding a separate bedroom had been a sure-fire way of ensuring that their relationship remained a sham. Though it galled her to admit it, she wanted much more from him.

      Rashad’s working day began very early. A lie-in had become an unknown treat for Tilda because the minute Rashad left the building she raced down the corridor and across a courtyard to his room to check that his bed had actually been occupied the night before. Well aware that he had a very racy reputation as a womaniser, Tilda had developed a need to continually check that he wasn’t doing anything suspicious. She was now as well acquainted with Rashad’s daily schedule as any seasoned member of his staff.

      He rose at five in the morning to go riding across the desert sands. He showered at six. He often breakfasted and dined with his father, or had a working meal with staff. He rarely ate lunch. He worked extremely hard. He had gone abroad on business twice and she hadn’t slept a wink while he was away for worrying that he might be making up for those weeks of celibacy. Every day he sent her flowers or, if he had seen little of her, he phoned her. If she was silent or sulky, he did the talking. His manners were outrageously good, his reserve impenetrable. She was convinced that he could hold a pleasant conversation with a brick wall. He remained breathtakingly impervious to her most tart remarks. At times, she had wanted to screech down the phone like a shrew to get a reaction from him but if that had happened she’d have felt horribly childish.

      Now she watched him speaking to each of her siblings and receiving an overwhelmingly positive response from each of them. He was good with people, quick to set them at their ease, she acknowledged grudgingly. Even Aubrey was smiling and James, often silenced by teenaged awkwardness, was talking away happily.

      ‘Where is your mother?’ Rashad asked Tilda in a quiet aside a few minutes later. ‘Did the journey overtire her? Has she gone upstairs to lie down?’

      Tilda went instantly into defensive mode. ‘She’s not here. She couldn’t come.’

      Rashad shot her a perturbed glance. ‘Why not?’

      Her turquoise eyes sparked. ‘I’m not going to tell you and risk being accused of telling sob stories.’

      ‘Tilda,’ Rashad chided, gleaming dark as midnight eyes resting on her in level enquiry.

      Her face went pink, her mouth running dry. When he looked directly at her a thousand butterflies were set loose in her tummy and it seriously embarrassed her. ‘OK. Mum suffers from agoraphobia. It’s more than four years since she even went out of the front door of her home. She never goes out. She can’t. ‘

      His ebony brows pleated in consternation. ‘Agoraphobia? You should have told me about this.’

      ‘Why? You were in the process of having my mother evicted. You didn’t want the human-interest tales then. It’s too late to talk like Mr Compassionate now,’ Tilda told him accusingly.

      ‘I was hard on you, but I would never be unjust,’ Rashad countered evenly. ‘Someone should have given me the true facts of the matter.’

      Tilda was determined not to let him off the hook. ‘You wouldn’t have been interested.’

      ‘I had good reason for mistrust. Five years of inaction followed by a last-minute plea from you? But you must draw a line under that period because your family is now my family. I will do whatever is within my power to ensure that your mother receives the very best treatment available.’ Rashad gazed down at Tilda’s mutinous oval face. ‘The day after tomorrow is our wedding day.’

      Tilda released a theatrical long-suffering sigh. ‘Like I could forget that!’

      Rashad flung back his imperious dark head and laughed with genuine appreciation. The day could not come soon enough for him.

      ‘All I can say is … you look amazing,’ Katie said dreamily.

      Tilda did a little twirl in front of the cheval-mirror. Her wedding gown was glorious: pristine white and cut to enhance her graceful figure, it had the deceptively simple designer elegance that came from style and sumptuous fabric. Her two sisters looked delightful in matching dresses the colour of burnished copper, which had been fitted in London. Rashad’s eldest sister, Durra, was acting as a matron of honour for the first ceremony which would be followed by the Bakhari ceremony, a few hours later.

      The phone was brought to Tilda. It was her mother, Beth. The older woman’s happiness was patent in spite of the thousands of miles that separated mother and daughter. Beth explained that Rashad had arranged for a video link to be set up in her home so that Beth could watch the ceremonies. A lump formed in Tilda’s throat. His consideration where her family was concerned was surprising her yet again. Once he had realised that her siblings would be leaving directly after the wedding ceremony because both Aubrey and Katie had exams coming up, he had organised a fun sightseeing tour for them to enjoy the day before.

      She rang Rashad to thank him for the video link. ‘It was nothing,’ he protested.

      ‘It means everything to Mum.’ Tilda went into the en suite bathroom for privacy and added, ‘She thinks this wedding is real, so it’s a really big deal for her.’

      ‘For me, as well, and for Bakhar,’ Rashad murmured coolly.

      ‘I didn’t mean it that way … oh, for goodness’ sake, just because you never say anything without thinking!’ Tilda groaned.

      ‘Tilda?’ Katie knocked on the door. ‘What are you doing?’

      Tilda emerged with sparkling eyes, still talking on the phone. ‘Oh, I’m just arguing with Rashad, Katie. Nothing new there—’

      ‘Tilda,’ Rashad drawled huskily. ‘Make no mistake. This is a real wedding …’

      Rashad, devastatingly handsome in a superb grey morning suit, worn with a silk waistcoat and striped trousers, awaited her in a beautifully decorated room filled with all his closest relatives. The Christian marriage service, conducted by a chaplain attached to the British embassy, was short and sweet, but the simple words of the ceremony had a familiarity that had a lingering resonance for Tilda. Rashad slid a platinum ring on her finger and she returned the favour with a matching band on his. For the first time she felt married, for the first time he felt like her husband and she felt like a wife.