to take me back to Bakhar with you?’
‘I have a palace in the desert. The harem is tailor-made for a woman like you.’ Rashad was thinking with savage satisfaction of Tilda in the Palace of the Lions, isolated by the remote location from the temptations of the rest of the world and forced to depend only on him for company and amusement. That would soon sort her out. She would be his very personal project. There would be no more lies, no more deceits and no more pretence.
Outraged and convinced he was joking in a very unfunny way, Tilda slid off the bed and hurriedly sidestepped him while trying not to look as if she was running away. She paused by the door. ‘I know you’ve got to be teasing me. You once told me that there was no such thing as a harem anywhere in Bakhar.’
Rashad gave her a sardonic appraisal, enjoying her disbelief and the hint of panic she couldn’t hide. It was but a small repayment for the sexual disappointment she had just dealt him. Again. She had had no business giving him such encouragement when she could not offer him release. But hadn’t that been typical of her? To yield just a provocative taste of her exquisite body to tantalise and tease him?
‘I mean, I know you’re too civilised to try and treat me like a concubine … or something,’ Tilda proffered in a small, tight voice of deep audible suspicion.
‘My grandfather had hundreds of concubines. We don’t talk about it. It’s not politically correct these days. But the royal household always had concubines. Most of them were gifts from their families. It was considered an honour to enter the royal harem and a good way of gaining the favour of the ruling family,’ Rashad confided lazily, watching her gorgeous eyes widen and her ripe lower lip part from the upper in disquiet. ‘Alas, I will have to satisfy myself with only you, but think of all the attention you’ll get. At least you won’t have to compete with other women or share me.’
‘I’m not going to be anybody’s concubine, especially not yours!’ Tilda shot at him vehemently, yanking open the door and hastening out into the corridor.
Rashad, who had never thought of himself as an imaginative man, pictured Tilda reclining in something very flimsy on a bed in the Palace of the Lions, counting the days and the hours until he would visit her there. He found that vivid mental image so deeply attractive that it was an effort to move on from it to consider more practical aspects. When had anyone last lived at the old palace? He would have to throw an army of servants into the ancient building and refurbish it from roof to basement for occupation. It would be a huge task. His staff would be kept extremely busy.
‘How long are you expecting me to stay in Bakhar for?’
‘For as long as I want you in my bed.’ Rashad thrust open the drawing-room door.
Tilda swallowed painfully. ‘If I agree—’
‘You’ve already agreed.’
‘You have to write off the loan and sign the house back to Mum.’
His colourful reverie most effectively dispersed by that evidence of her financial acuteness, Rashad surveyed her with hard dark eyes. ‘You think you’ll be worth that much money?’
Tilda promised herself that somehow, some day, some way, she would get revenge for what he was doing to her. Pale as death, she knotted her restive hands together and veiled her angry, mortified gaze. ‘It’s what you think that matters,’ she pointed out flatly. ‘But if you want me to hand myself over body and soul and put my whole life on hold for goodness knows how long, I need to know that my family’s going to be all right while I’m away.’
‘There speaks the martyr,’ Rashad murmured with scorn.
Tilda would not allow herself to react to that inflammatory comment. ‘When will you stop the eviction proceedings?’
‘The day you fly into Bakhar. That will give you ten days at most to get organised.’
Tilda dealt him a stricken look of condemnation. ‘You can’t do it that way!’
‘I don’t trust you, so the pressure stays on. There will be no room for renegotiating in the hope of more favourable and lucrative terms and no opportunity for you to renege on the deal.’ Having glanced out the window and noted the expensive Jaguar awaiting her return, Rashad turned his arrogant dark head to study her with chilling intensity. ‘In the meantime, you should be careful to be on your very best behaviour.’
‘Best behaviour?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Your lover has come back to pick you up. But you can’t get into his car again, or be alone with him or any other man now. I’m a very suspicious guy and I will have you watched from the moment you leave this house until you reach Bakhar. If there is so much as a hint of flirtation or questionable behaviour, the deal is off and the eviction proceedings will go ahead.’
Tilda stared back at him in mute incredulity and horror. ‘You’re threatening me.’
‘I am warning you that if you disappoint me you will suffer punitive consequences. Get rid of your elderly chauffeur now. The clock is already ticking,’ Rashad murmured with lethal cool.
Tilda dug into her bag for her mobile phone and rang Evan in haste. She told him that it would be quite some time until she was free to leave and that there was absolutely no point in him waiting for her.
‘Excellent. I was always convinced that with the correct approach you would find it very easy to follow instructions,’ Rashad drawled lazily.
Tilda quivered with rage and frustration. She felt as if a tornado were locked inside her and fighting for exit. But she dared not explode; she dared not offend or antagonise him because he had the power to rip her family apart. She wanted to tell him how much she hated him. Instead, loathing seethed inside her and she had to hold it in.
Someone knocked on the door and entered to address Rashad in his own language.
‘I have to leave for the airport,’ Rashad imparted. ‘I will have you conveyed home. I’ll be in touch with further directions.’
Her silvery fair head lifted, turquoise eyes burning brilliant blue. ‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. Anything else?’
‘I’ll be sure to let you know.’ Emanating a positive force field of masculine power and authority and untouched by her silent hostility, Rashad sent her a shuttered glance of cool, calm satisfaction.
From the drawing-room window above, Tilda watched him climb into his big black limo. Ten minutes later she got into the Mercedes that had been ordered to take her home. All she would let herself think about was the story she would tell her family. She practised a breezy smile and a cheerful voice. Her surrender on Rashad’s terms would be totally wasted if her mother suspected even a hint of the unlovely truth.
‘I’ve got fantastic news. Rashad has just offered me a terrific job,’ she told Beth Morrison when she got home again. ‘It will pay well enough to eventually clear all the money that we owe.’
The older woman was initially astonished, but her palpable relief soon silenced her surprised questions. ‘Of course! You came first on your accountancy course, so Rashad will be getting a top-notch employee. I’m so glad I wasn’t wrong about him. I always thought Rashad was a decent and trustworthy young man,’ Beth contended happily. ‘Where will you be working?’
‘Bakhar.’
