The Desert Prince's Mistress by Sharon Kendrick Page A

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

    D ARIAN 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