and inflicted a wound for which he had never forgiven her. But that, Rashad acknowledged heavily, was no defence for a misuse of power to mete out punishment. His father’s talk of marriage and the photo of Tilda with Jerrold had reawakened Rashad’s bitter anger and encouraged him to pursue what he believed to be justice. But from the instant he had seen Tilda again, far less acceptable motives and desires had powered him. No longer could he marvel at the disastrous consequences that he had unleashed on both of them.
‘No. There will be no more threats.’ His lean and darkly handsome face sober, Rashad surveyed her with dark, unreadable eyes. ‘I should never have used coercive tactics.’
Surprised by that total turnaround, Tilda lifted her pale blond head. ‘You’re admitting that?’
‘I can do nothing less when I look at the situation I have created. I was in the wrong and for that I apologise.’ Voicing those words of sincere regret cost Rashad a great deal of pride for he had never had to apologise before. ‘I harboured anger from the past and it blinded me to what was right.’
Tilda could only think of her own anger, nourished and kept alive by hurt. She thought of the fact that she had never let any man so close to her again. She thought of how she had felt just minutes earlier when she had been afraid that he might have been injured. A giant tide of fear engulfed her at that point as she appreciated that her feelings for Rashad ran much deeper than was safe or sensible.
‘I will never threaten you again,’ Rashad promised her levelly. ‘Instead, I am asking you for your co-operation.’
‘Are we really and truly married?’ Tilda prompted uncertainly.
‘Yes,’ Rashad confirmed.
‘But I expect you’ll do whatever it takes to get us out of the marriage as fast as you possibly can,’ Tilda remarked in a tone that was a tad brittle.
Rashad studied the wall to one side of her with frowning attention. Divorce would entail her departure from Bakhar. He discovered that that prospect had no appeal for him whatsoever. Surely, he reasoned, a hasty marriage and an even hastier divorce would only compound the errors he had made? A marriage was a marriage, no matter how it had been entered into. In the same way a wife was a wife, deserving of his support and respect. He should at least try to make a success of their alliance, he decided with sudden purpose. He would have to learn to put all memory of her past behind him.
‘A quick divorce is not an option I would wish to choose.’ Rashad rested dark golden eyes, gleaming with renewed energy, back on her. ‘There is no reason why we should not attempt to make the best of our predicament.’
‘Meaning?’ Suddenly maddeningly aware of the smouldering appraisal resting on the swollen contours of her pink mouth, Tilda tensed. Without warning she found that she was reliving the melting pleasure of his hungry mouth roaming over her breasts and the pulsing ache at the secret heart of her body. She sucked in a fractured breath, embarrassed by her susceptibility.
Taut with arousal, Rashad made a valiant attempt to overcome the barrier of his fierce pride and build a bridge that might take him from coercion to acceptance. He moved closer. ‘Waking or sleeping, you are in my every thought. My hunger for you is no greater than yours for me. I want to be with you.’
Tilda swallowed the lump in her throat and hated herself for being tempted. But he was only interested in getting her into bed. That was all he had ever been interested in, she told herself wretchedly. Yet her body still tingled with the sexual responsiveness that only he could awaken. It incensed her that she knew exactly what he was talking about. Every day, every hour, her every thought was centred on him, to the point of obsession. But that was a truth she despised and would never admit to him.
In any case, she had much more important things to worry about. Within the space of an hour every seeming certainty had vanished. It seemed shameful to her that she should long to walk into his arms and forget everything both past and present because of passion. What would sharing a bed with Rashad fix or clarify? Where were her pride and her common sense? First and foremost, she was in Bakhar for the sake of her family. She reminded herself that she had yet to see evidence that the threat against their security had been lifted.
‘What I need right now is the assurance that that eviction order has been cancelled,’ she murmured tautly.
A faint rise of dark blood marking the angular line of his classic cheekbones, Rashad fell still. ‘It has been.’
As the tense pool of silence gathered Tilda worried uncomfortably at her full lower lip. ‘And the house—has it been signed back to my mother?’
‘Of course.’
‘The outstanding loan has been settled?’
Rashad inclined his proud dark head in immediate acknowledgement.
‘I would like to see all that in writing.’ Tilda closed her restive hands together in front of her. In an effort to conceal her discomfiture, she was struggling to be as businesslike as he had once urged her to be.
‘If that is your wish. I will ensure that you see the documentation.’ Affronted though he was by that lack of trust in his word, Rashad made no further comment. He told himself that he should not be surprised that financial matters were her first consideration. Had he not always known that money meant more to her than anything else? He could not quell the rise of his distaste.
Tilda’s fingers curled in on themselves too tightly for comfort. ‘And I would also like to see the proof you said you had of my affairs with other men.’
Rashad veiled his icy gaze, determined not to surrender to that particular demand. Confronting her with unassailable evidence of her youthful promiscuity would only antagonise her at a time when he needed her co-operation. If she refused to conduct herself as his wife, his father and the rest of his family would be, at the very least, severely embarrassed. Indeed, all too many innocent people were at risk of suffering the consequences of his bad judgement and lack of foresight.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
He looked apologetic and he sounded apologetic, but Tilda was not convinced. She was parting her lips to tell him so when he voiced an apology at the interruption and answered his mobile phone.
His lean bronzed profile taut, he compressed his wide, sensual mouth. ‘My sisters, Durra and Tibah, have arrived.’
In a large reception room downstairs she was immediately approached by two fashionably dressed women, who looked to be in their forties and, as such, a good deal older than Tilda had expected. Both spoke excellent English and greeted their brother with an affection laced with deferential restraint.
‘The king has asked that you bring Tilda to him today so that he can meet her.’ A small plump brunette with a bustling air, Durra greeted Tilda with warm words of welcome.
‘There are a great many preparations to be made,’ Tibah added with enthusiasm. ‘The next few weeks will be very exciting! I do hope you can come now. We try not to keep our father waiting.’
Tilda noticed that Rashad looked very much as though he had been carved out of solid granite. Her heart and self-image slowly sank to her toes while she kept a resolute smile pinned to her taut mouth. She was painfully aware of Rashad’s low opinion of her and felt that he could only loathe the prospect of introducing her as his bride to the father he esteemed. His siblings regarded him with barely concealed tension until he inclined his sleek dark head in agreement.
