as you, you know.’
‘And?’
‘What if he’s older? Won’t that make him the legitimate heir?’
‘But he is illegitimate, Lara,’ Khalim reminded her gently. ‘If indeed he is my brother.’
So he wasn’t taking her word for it, realised Lara—but who could blame him when something so important was at stake?
The doorbell rang, and her eyes opened very wide. ‘He’s here! What shall I do? What shall I say?’
‘Bring him to me,’ commanded Khalim sternly. ‘And do not worry, little one,’ he said, his voice gentling a little.
Lara’s heart was beating so fast that she could barely breathe as she walked to the front door. And when she opened it her feelings of apprehension only increased.
For Darian was standing there, looking impossibly gorgeous and so tantalisingly touchable. The breeze had ruffled his hair, so that all its gleaming darkness was emphasised, and the soft, dark cashmere sweater provided a perfect foil for the living gold of his eyes and the tawny glow of his skin. His lips were soft, and so were his eyes.
Without a word, he pulled her into his arms and stared down at her. Did he have some crazy, masochistic instinct which might have denied him such exquisite pleasures when they were here for the taking? She was beautiful. The other night had been beautiful. He wanted her again and he wanted her right now.
‘Lara,’ he murmured.
She knew what he was about to do, and knew that she ought to stop him, but she was powerless to resist.
He drove his mouth down on hers, like a hungry man who had just seen food. The touch of her lips brought memories of her body crashing back into sweet, sharp focus and he gave a little moan of pleasure.
Instantly Lara felt herself responding to his kiss, her body beginning to ache and to dissolve into a hot, moist heat, and as he tightened his arms around her she could feel his taut, shivering tension which matched her own.
She splayed her fingers over his back, feeling the hard muscle contrasting with the softness of his sweater, and made a little sound of pleasure as his thigh nudged its way between hers. She felt her own thighs part instinctively, a hot flame of desire shooting up her as he ran his fingertips possessively down over her hips.
And Khalim was waiting next door!
She tore her lips away and opened her eyes to him, startled by the look of naked need on his face. ‘Darian, we mustn’t!’
He gave a low laugh of pleasure. ‘Afraid that I’m going to take you here, standing up in your hallway?’ He stroked her trembling mouth. ‘You’d probably like it if I did. Come to think of it, so would I.’ And then he frowned. ‘What’s the matter, darling—is Jake around?’
His words brought her quickly to her senses, for they were nothing more than an arrogant sexual boast. An acknowledgment of how easily and how quickly he could make her melt in his arms. And, dear Lord—he was right! If Khalim hadn’t been here then she probably wouldn’t have stopped him at all!
She reminded herself that if Khalim were not here, then he wouldn’t be here, either.
She shook her head. ‘No. Not Jake.’
How did she say it? She didn’t want to anger him, because what was about to happen was going to affect him pretty deeply on some fundamental level, and she didn’t know how he was going to react.
‘I’ve got someone I want you to meet,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, Lara, no,’ he groaned. ‘Not now! What did you do that for?’
‘Come with me.’
Aching, Darian had no choice but to follow her, but he was irritated. He didn’t want to meet her friends—not at this stage, and certainly not now!
Lara threw the door open and Darian froze, his instincts immediately alerted to the fact that the man who stood beside the huge marble fireplace, his dark face so cool and expressionless, was no ordinary man. And it had nothing to do with the costly clothes he wore—for many men wore those.
No, it was something in his eyes and in his posture, something which transcended the mundane and the everyday—he wore an air of comfortable superiority, which silently sizzled out across the room and struck an answering chord in Darian himself.
Darian narrowed his eyes, knowing somehow that conventional conversation was both irrelevant and inappropriate. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded softly.
There was a silence which seemed to go on and on. Lara looked at Khalim and saw him give an odd, brittle kind of smile which was tinged with a sadness.
‘I am Prince Khalim of Maraban,’ he said slowly. ‘And I believe that you are my brother.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
DARIAN kept his face poker-straight, not a flicker of emotion crossing his features. He had always been a past-master at keeping his feelings hidden. As a child he had learnt not to react, and it had stood him in good stead through his life.
He let his mind assimiliate the incredible words that the man had just spoken, then gave a brief, dismissive smile.
‘You are mistaken,’ he said flatly. ‘I have no brother. I have no living relatives at all. Explain yourself.’
Lara gasped, shocked—and so, judging by the look on Khalim’s face, was he. She doubted whether he had ever been spoken to like that in his life—except perhaps by his wife, but that was different.
Khalim gave a small nod, as though an unasked question had just been answered, and gestured towards a chair. ‘Should we perhaps sit down?’
Darian shook his head, and then slowly turned his head and looked at Lara. For the first time it dawned on him that this man was in her apartment. He glanced at the way she stood there, so wide-eyed and expectant and…yes, there was definitely an air of apprehension about her. What the hell was going on?
But Lara was a distraction. He concentrated instead on one overriding fact, and that was the claim which had just been made.
‘I think I would prefer to stand.’ He looked at this man Khalim, and a vague memory of something he had once heard on the news came drifting into his memory.
A country. Where had he said? Maraban? Yes. Maraban.
‘You are the Sheikh of Maraban?’ he questioned.
Khalim nodded. ‘I am.’
‘And why are you here?’ asked Darian quietly.
‘Because a letter arrived recently at my Embassy in London—a letter from a woman purporting to be your mother—’
‘The woman’s name?’ snapped Darian.
‘Joanna Wildman.’
Darian’s eyes narrowed and he felt the sudden acceleration of his heart. ‘That was my mother’s name.’ His voice sounded like grit being poured onto melting snow. ‘Let me see the letter.’
It was a definite command, thought Lara, wondering how Khalim would react. But he simply nodded as he withdrew the letter from the breast pocket of his suit, almost as though he had been anticipating this request.
Darian’s eyes scoured over it disbelievingly, but there was no doubt that the words were written in his mother’s hand. ‘She died two years ago,’ he said slowly.
‘Yes. As you will read, the letter was not intended to be opened during her lifetime.’ Khalim’s black eyes glittered. ‘And, as you will also read, she claims that my late father, Makim, was indeed your father, too.’
His eyebrows were elevated in question, and the statement he had made was so utterly bizarre that Darian wondered if perhaps he was in the middle of one of those dreams