a slow ache of awareness as he sat down on the sofa—just far enough away not to threaten her, but close enough to smell the soft scent of lilac which drifted from her pale skin. Close enough to touch…
Lara sipped her drink, but her throat felt tight and she had to force down a mouthful of the smooth, rich wine. ‘Lovely,’ she remarked politely.
‘So where were we?’ He put his glass down on the coffee table and half turned to look at her, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. ‘Ah, yes, your tender heart was melting at the thought of my underprivileged upbringing.’
With a shaky hand she put her glass down next to his. ‘Don’t make fun of me.’
‘Is that what I was doing?’ he murmured.
‘That or patronising me,’ she answered quietly. ‘You don’t have to talk about your childhood if you don’t want to.’
Liar! Liar! But her words had exactly the desired effect. By telling him he didn’t have to talk, he immediately began to relax—although had she known that on some deep, gut-level? That here was a man who would not be forced into telling anything about himself—and the only way to get information about him was to appear not to care?
‘And poor doesn’t mean unhappy,’ she continued coaxingly.
He gave a low, mocking laugh. ‘That’s the fairytale version, spoken with the voice of someone who has absolutely no idea what material deprivation is like.’
‘You can’t know that!’ she protested.
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But I’m right, aren’t I?’ The golden eyes flickered over her lazily. ‘Let me guess—you grew up in the country? A stable family life with brothers and sisters? Fresh air and exercise and three meals a day? A pony in the stable and dogs barking when you came home from school?’
Lara froze, then swallowed, and the tiptoeing of fear began to shiver its way down her spine. ‘That’s…that’s bizarre. Well, except for the brothers bit—I have two sisters and they are much older. And my father was away a lot. But the rest is correct.’ Her blue eyes were as big as saucers as she looked at him. ‘How could you possibly have known?’
‘About the country?’ Some things you didn’t need to be told. He reached his hand out and lightly touched her cheek. ‘It’s written all over you. Skin like this wasn’t made in a city.’
Was that a trace of wistfulness in his voice, or was she imagining it? ‘W-wasn’t it?’
‘No.’ He let one of his fingers drift over skin that felt like satin. ‘You’re a real milk and honey girl!’
Lara found the compliment shockingly satisfying—almost as gratifying as the all too brief contact when he had touched her, making her want him to touch her again. She shook her head slightly, trying to remember why she was here.
‘Very good. Ten out of ten,’ she said lightly. ‘Your turn now.’
‘Isn’t this supposed to be a guessing game?’ he mocked.
‘Well, I know you grew up in the city.’ Lara drew a deep breath and decided to go for broke. ‘I’d say that you are an only child and that your parents were…separated.’
There was an odd pause. ‘Is it really that obvious?’ he questioned, and a slightly bitter note came into his voice. ‘Do I have one-parent family written all over me?’
Lara felt guilty, but she managed not to show it. ‘Not at all,’ she said hastily. ‘It’s more a case of working things out from the information available. Putting bits in, like a jigsaw. The area you mentioned doesn’t really conjure up a cosy family scene, with roses round the door.’
‘As opposed to the image of a mother who was hard-pressed to put food into her hungry child’s mouth?’
‘Is that what it was like?’ she whispered, horrified.
‘Not quite,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘But I should hate to puncture the little bubble-picture you’ve invented in your head!’
‘Now you are making fun of me.’
‘I thought that all women liked to be teased?’
He was making her feel gauche and unsophisticated. And she didn’t like his constant references to what ‘women’ liked—it made her feel one in an endless line of them—which, when she stopped to think about it, she probably was. But this isn’t about you, Lara, she reminded herself—it’s about him. And Maraban. ‘But you were poor?’ she questioned bluntly.
His eyes grew flinty. ‘Do you want me to give you a breakdown of our weekly finances?’
She heard the distaste in his voice, and she didn’t blame him—her questions were crossing over the line between good taste and bad, and unless she gave him some kind of explanation she couldn’t possibly keep on asking them. What on earth was she going to do? Tell him, or tell Khalim first?
‘You’re right. I’m sorry—I was just being nosy. Don’t worry, I won’t ask any more.’
Darian studied her, noting the way her blue eyes were suddenly looking haunted. The vulnerable little tremor of her lips made him want to kiss them. ‘You know, you really are very sweet, Lara,’ he said softly.
A pain stabbed at her heart. What would he say if he knew? And how could she suddenly just blurt it out— Darian, I am almost certain that you are the illegitimate brother of the Sheikh of Maraban?
‘I am not sweet,’ she contradicted, and bit her lip.
‘And so modest, too,’ he teased. ‘Now, don’t frown. Relax.’ Casually, he reached out to capture a handful of her hair, and began to trickle his fingers through the silky curls so that they touched and tickled the back of her neck. ‘Relax,’ he whispered softly.
‘Darian, don’t,’ she said weakly.
A woman didn’t cross and uncross her legs in quick succession and then wriggle her head back into your hand if she meant don’t.
‘Don’t what?’ He moved closer, moved his hands from her neck to her shoulderblades. ‘You’re tense,’ he exclaimed softly, and began to gently massage the tight flesh. ‘Very, very tense.’
If only he knew why! ‘This…this isn’t such a good idea—’
‘What isn’t? A simple massage? I’m very good at it, you know.’ His fingers continued to knead away, lulling her into a dreamy and hypnotic state. ‘Relax, Lara—if you don’t like it, then I’ll stop.’
Which made it even worse. He was giving her a let-out. The decision was completely in her hands. She could stop him whenever she wanted to, and she should stop him now. Except that she did like it; that was the trouble. She liked it a lot. It’s only a massage, she told herself dreamily.
‘Is that good?’ he whispered.
Helplessly, she closed her eyes. ‘I, oh…yes.’ The decision wasn’t in her hands at all, she realised—he had all the power.
‘Why not lie down?’ he suggested. ‘You’ll be more comfortable that way.’
It was, after all, only a massage. She tried to tell herself that as he was gently pushing her back against the sofa. But the word ‘push’ implied force, and there was no force involved—merely a delicious compliance as she sank down onto the leather, her cheek resting on its soft surface, her eyelids fluttering to a close.
Darian worked on her neck and her shoulders, gradually feeling some of the tension released by the rhythmical movement of his fingertips. ‘Is that better?’
‘It’s…heaven,’ she mumbled.
It felt pretty good from where he was sitting, too. A little too good. Darian shifted his body slightly as the tight-ness easing away from her body was replaced by a growing tension in