The Desert Prince's Mistress. Sharon Kendrick

sorting through his accounts and feeling bored—with pretty much everything. Appetites which were fed with everything they needed tended to become jaded, he told himself ruefully.

      He wondered when his life had become like a game of Monopoly—just a load of numbers that were so big they didn’t seem real. But that was the way of money—too much and it almost seemed to get in the way, not enough and it dominated your whole life and all your thoughts. Was there no simple in-between way?

      He guessed there was—the way most men chose. Marriage and babies and a house in the suburbs. Daily train journeys and home for supper and a drink. Weekend barbecues and driving out to pretty country pubs.

      But to Darian it sounded like a lifetime’s incarceration. A cell padded with sofas and chintz curtains. Maybe that was why he had never even come close to commitment, because commitment carried with it the price of settling down and raising a family. That was the way of things. In fact, no one had ever stirred his blood enough to make him even think of committing, or to make him feel a pang of regret that he was unable to.

      You will be a lonely old man, taunted a little voice inside his head, but even that didn’t bother him. Lonely and alone were two entirely different concepts, weren’t they? He felt as if he had been alone for all his life, so why change now? Even if change was possible, and Darian didn’t think it was. That was the mistake that people always made—women especially. They thought that a person could change the habits of a lifetime and become the someone they wanted you to be.

      The driver turned his head as Big Ben loomed up magnificently in front of them. ‘Do you want me to wait?’

      Darian shook his head. ‘No, thanks. I’ll ring when I need you. I may hang around for a while,’ he added casually.

      He told himself that he liked to be in control—which was true—and that he liked to be hands-on—which was also true. If there was going to be an advertising campaign then he wanted to have some input into the final images which would represent his company.

      But most of all he wanted to watch Lara at work, to see her thick dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze and see the sky reflected in eyes which echoed its hue.

      Lara Black.

      The English rose.

      Lara noticed him before he saw her. The heavens themselves seemed to be conniving in his entrance, because just as his long legs began to emerge from a seriously luxurious car a shaft of pure golden sunlight chose that very moment to spear its way through the fluffy clouds. And he chose just that same instant to look up, his eyes vying with the sun for brilliance.

      Lara shivered.

      ‘Keep still, Lara,’ said the make-up artist patiently as she dabbed on another stroke of pink iridescent lipgloss.

      Lara couldn’t reply, not with her lips half open to deal with the lipgloss, but she was aware of him approaching, silent and stealthy—like a natural predator. The sharp colours of the autumn day seemed to emphasise his strong features—etching shadows which fell from beneath the high cheekbones and the firm, luscious mouth.

      He wore linen, which managed to be both casual and smart at the same time. Yet somehow it looked all wrong on him, and she wondered what he would look like with the fluid, silken robes of the Maraban aristocracy clinging to his lean, hard frame.

      She could hear the chatter lessening as the make-up artist turned her head to see what what was happening and whistled softly. She gave Lara’s lips a final blot with a piece of tissue.

      ‘Oh, wow,’ she whispered fervently. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on him!’

      Lara gave her chin a welcome stretch, but her heart thudded painfully in her chest. ‘You mean from a professional point of view, of course?’ she joked.

      ‘Yeah, sure.’ The make-up artist gave a rich and fruity laugh. ‘One look at him and all I think about is work, work, work!’

      Lara watched him while the stylist fussed around with her dress. Little clusters of people had stopped to stare at the proceedings, alerted to the possibility of excitement by the photographer and his acolytes and the sight of a woman wearing a floaty, filmy dress on a blustery autumn day.

      ‘Are you making a film?’ she heard one middle-aged shopper ask.

      ‘A photo-shoot,’ drawled the photographer’s assistant, with a shake of his long hair.

      But Lara felt as though they might have been aliens from another planet—she felt disconnected and oblivious to just about everything except for him, which was more than a little bit scary. She tried to tell herself that of course she was going to be interested in him—that was the whole point of her presence here. But surely that wouldn’t account for the pounding of her heart and the silken throb of her blood which seemed to strike soft hammerblows at all her pulse-points. Not by anyone’s standards could that be described as professional behaviour.

      Maybe the make-up artist had put it in a nutshell. Think Darian Wildman and the last thing you felt was professional.

      She turned away, breaking the spell with an effort. The last thing she needed was for him to look up and see her staring at him like some kind of starstruck adolescent. There were enough people already doing that.

      ‘We’re never going to keep your hair under control with this breeze!’ grumbled the stylist as she pushed a wayward strand off Lara’s face.

      ‘Looks perfect to me,’ came a slow, deep voice from behind her.

      Lara tried to count to ten, but the numbers became jumbled in her mind as she turned round. At least the half-smile on her lips was appropriate, as was the polite, almost deferential raising of her eyebrows. After all, he was the boss and she the model.

      ‘Hi,’ she said.

      ‘Hi.’ He found himself mocking her, enjoying the brief moment of discomfiture which allowed itself to break through her cool little smile, but then his eyes narrowed. Maybe she was used to men coming onto her. With looks like that she was bound to be. He saw her shiver. ‘You’re cold,’ he said softly.

      Lara looked down at the goose bumps on her arms, which was infinitely easier than meeting that clear golden stare, and composed herself enough to look up again, a rueful smile playing on her lips. ‘Well, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Silk chiffon is a wonderful floaty fabric, but it wasn’t exactly designed with warmth in mind!’

      ‘No.’ He forced himself to be objective. He had sat in with the creative team while they thrashed around the kind of image they wanted to project. Delicate and ethereal had been the objective—an objective achieved perfectly on the mock-ups they had shown him.

      But reality, in the flesh and blood form of Lara Black, had an impact he had not been expecting. A bone-melting, sensual impact. Maybe that had been the subtle difference which had marked her out from all the others, Darian thought—that understated but persuasive femininity which could overpower men by stealth.

      ‘Do you want a jacket or something?’ he asked suddenly.

      The question took Lara off-guard, and for one mad moment she thought he was actually going to take off his own jacket and offer it to her! As if! Lara pointed to a soft pink wrap which lay draped over one of the canvas chairs.

      ‘I have a shawl. I’ll—’

      ‘Here—let me.’ He bent and scooped the garment up, and draped it around her shoulders, feeling her shiver as he did so. ‘You really are cold,’ he observed, feeling the smoothness of her skin through the fine cashmere.

      ‘Yes.’ But that was not the reason she had shivered. She knew that, and she suspected he knew that, too. It seemed like the most deliciously old-fashioned and chivalrous act—a disarming act—to put her shawl on for her like that. A man like Darian Wildman would be aware of that. Talk to him, she told herself. This is your opportunity!

      ‘Do you…do you often go on shoots like this?’ she ventured.

      The