The Desert Prince's Mistress

DEAR READER LETTER

By Sharon Kendrick

Dear Reader,

One hundred. Doesn’t matter how many times I say it, I still can’t believe that’s how many books I’ve written. It’s a fabulous feeling but more fabulous still is the news that Mills & Boon are issuing every single one of my backlist as digital titles. Wow. I can’t wait to share all my stories with you - which are as vivid to me now as when I wrote them.

There’s BOUGHT FOR HER HUSBAND, with its outrageously macho Greek hero and A SCANDAL, A SECRET AND A BABY featuring a very sexy Tuscan. THE SHEIKH’S HEIR proved so popular with readers that it spent two weeks on the USA Today charts and…well, I could go on, but I’ll leave you to discover them for yourselves.

I remember the first line of my very first book: “So you’ve come to Australia looking for a husband?” Actually, the heroine had gone to Australia escape men, but guess what? She found a husband all the same! The man who inspired that book rang me up recently and when I told him I was beginning my 100th story and couldn’t decide what to write, he said, “Why don’t you go back to where it all started?”

So I did. And that’s how A ROYAL VOW OF CONVENIENCE was born. It opens in beautiful Queensland and moves to England and New York. It’s about a runaway princess and the enigmatic billionaire who is infuriated by her, yet who winds up rescuing her. But then, she goes and rescues him… Wouldn’t you know it?

I’ll end by saying how very grateful I am to have a career I love, and to thank each and every one of you who has supported me along the way. You really are very dear readers.

Love,

Sharon xxx

So why was she doing nothing to stop him when he ran the flat of his hand down over one breast and then back again?

Because she couldn’t, that was why.

Two flares of color ran along each aristocratic cheekbone, and at that moment Darian looked pure Marabanese, with all the accompanying pride and arrogance of that desert ancestry.

Yet his hard mouth had been softened by her kisses, so that for one second he looked unexpectedly vulnerable. It was like having a certain twitch and seeing behind it a glimpse of a man you dared not dream existed. A man with softness beneath the hard polished exterior, making him utterly irresistible. And with something approaching shock, Lara realized that she wanted him now, no matter what the consequences.

He’s proud, passionate, primal—dare she surrender to the sheikh?

Feel warm desert winds blowing through your hair, and experience hot sexy nights with a handsome, irresistible sheikh. If you love our heroes of the sand, look for more stories in this enthralling miniseries, coming soon.

Available only from Harlequin Presents®

Mills & Boon are proud to present a thrilling digital collection of all Sharon Kendrick’s novels and novellas for us to celebrate the publication of her amazing and awesome 100th book! Sharon is known worldwide for her likeable, spirited heroines and her gorgeous, utterly masculine heroes.

SHARON KENDRICK once won a national writing competition, describing her ideal date: being flown to an exotic island by a gorgeous and powerful man. Little did she realise that she’d just wandered into her dream job! Today she writes for Mills & Boon, featuring her often stubborn but always to-die-for heroes and the women who bring them to their knees. She believes that the best books are those you never want to end. Just like life…

The Desert Prince’s Mistress

Sharon Kendrick

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Sarah and David Nicholson,

Wilf and Hubie,

who always provide a place

of chaos and fun in Winchester!

CONTENTS

Cover

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

IN HER hands she held dynamite.

Not real dynamite but something equally explosive, and Lara’s fingers trembled as she looked down at the letter.

Above her head, the magnificent and ornate chandeliers of the Maraban Embassy threw glittering diamonds of light down onto the sheet of paper, and Lara stared at it, knowing that this letter held information which could change the lives of so many.

If it was true.

Lara swallowed, wondering if she should have opened it in the first place—but wasn’t that part of her job, as demanded by her temporary role as secretary, to open the post? A job which up until about ten minutes ago had seemed as perfect as a fill-in job could possibly be. Her recent appointment had been a blessing for the Embassy, because their usual employee was off sick, and a blessing for her, too—since work hadn’t exactly been thick on the ground recently. As a model and actress she had been ‘resting’ so much that lately she’d wondered why she even bothered getting out of bed in the morning.

The letter was written in a slightly wavery style, though whether that was due to the age of its author or to the emotional impact of the contents, Lara didn’t know. The letter was also dated over two years ago, but somebody had obviously only recently posted it for it to have arrived just this morning.

Could it be a forgery? She supposed it could.

She read it again, slowly, taking in each incredible word.

To whom it may concern.

I wish to inform you that my son, Darian Wildman, is the progeny of the late Sheikh Makim, Monarch of Maraban. The Sheikh was unaware that he had a child outside wedlock, and indeed Darian himself has no idea of the identity of his true father. By the time you read this I will be dead, but I could not go to my grave taking with me a secret as powerful as this.

Below is my son’s address. I therefore give you this information with my blessing, to do with what you will.

Yours

Joanna Wildman.

Beneath the woman’s signature was the name ‘Darian Wildman’, and beneath that an address. A business address in London.

Shakily, Lara put the piece of paper back into the envelope. This was dramatic stuff. But then she had learned that drama and intrigue were part and parcel of anything to do with Maraban. Her best friend Rose had married Prince Khalim of Maraban, and through her Lara had caught glimpses of a life so very different from her own.

If someone else had opened such a letter what might they have done? Destroyed it and then forgotten about it? For didn’t the existence of an unknown brother pose a threat to Khalim and his country? He might be older than Khalim and try to overthrow him.

Even thinking such thoughts they sounded far-fetched inside her own head, but they were not—they were true. For the mountain kingdom of Maraban inspired deep and dark passions which went hand in hand with its beauty and its turbulent history.

Slowly Lara rose to her feet, startled by her reflection in the beautiful looking-glass which hung over the huge fireplace. She looked so pale. Almost frightened. As if she had seen a ghost. But in a way maybe she had. Not seen a ghost, but learned about one.

Prince Khalim had a brother!

Oh, why hadn’t someone else opened the letter? Then she would not have found herself in this awful dilemma of having information and not knowing what to do with it.

It would be so simple if the Prince wasn’t married to Rose, but he was. Whether or not she liked it, she was involved, and that involvement had begun the moment her startled blue eyes had alighted on the stark words contained in the letter.

Lara stared out at the grey autumnal day, at the London traffic which moved slowly by, its sound muted by the thick bullet-proof windows, and thought once more about her friend.

Sometimes it still seemed incredible that Rose was now a princess and living in Maraban, with Khalim ruling at her side. Rose had been an ordinary girl, just like Lara herself—and yet look what had happened to her. Even now it still seemed like a fairy story that hadn’t really happened.

Except that it had happened.

Just as this letter had been written and Lara had opened it.

It could be a lie. It could be a forgery. The author of the letter could be completely mad. A blackmailer. A potential assassin. Anything.

So what did she do?

Did she get on the phone to Rose and tell her that her husband could have an illegitimate brother?

But Rose was pregnant again. Think what the shock might do to her.

Should she go to the Ambassador? But surely that would amount to the same thing—the first thing he would do would be to contact Khalim and tell him.

Still the thoughts continued to spin round and round in her head, unchecked until a solution occurred to her which was so blindingly simple she wondered why it had taken her so long to think of it.

What if she—Lara—went and found this Darian Wildman and sussed him out for herself? Almost as if she were sounding out the suitability of a would-be boyfriend.

Lara tucked the envelope into her handbag. If he was a good man then she would feel duty-bound to tell Rose and Khalim about him.

And if he wasn’t?

Then she could destroy the letter and no one would be any the wiser.

Her heart pounded. Maybe she was being too simplistic, and playing God with information which had fallen into her hands quite by chance. And yet Khalim himself always said that nothing in life happened by chance, that everything happened for a reason. Only he called it something else. Lara racked her brain while she tried to remember what it was, and then she nodded.

Predestination. Yes, that was it. Predestination. Perhaps she had been meant to open the letter and to take the matter into her own hands.

Her mind drifted over the name. Darian Wildman. An intriguing name and an intriguing situation. She would find him. And see for herself just what kind of man he was.

But Lara’s heart was beating very fast as she picked up the telephone and asked for Directory Enquiries.

Her thoughts were still reeling when she let herself into her apartment that evening to find Jake, her flatmate, cooking a fiery-looking concoction of curry.

He looked up and smiled as she walked into the sitting room and threw her coat down on the sofa. ‘I was about to ask if you’d had a hard day at the Embassy,’ he joked. ‘But judging from the look on your face I’d say it was a pretty redundant question. What’s up, Lara? Has someone threatened to overthrow the Prince?’

‘Shut up, Jake!’ Lara bit her lip as the tight knot of tension somewhere in the pit of her stomach made itself known. ‘Any chance of a drink?’

‘Coming up—though I must say it’s a little early for you, isn’t it?’ He slopped red wine into two glasses and handed her one, a slight frown creasing his brow. ‘So what’s up really?’

Lara sipped her wine thoughtfully, feeling the warmth flood through her, momentarily dissolving the sense of panic and trepidation she felt. Jake Haddon was the perfect flatmate—indeed, to almost every woman with a pulse he was the perfect man, full-stop. The darling of the British stage and screen, with his long legs and lazy charm and the lock of hair which flopped so endearingly over one of his soulful eyes and which had women itching to smooth it away for him. She had worked with him once but had never fancied him, which was fortunate given that he was now sharing her flat. He had moved in as a temporary measure, when he had been between homes and then had liked it so much that he’d never bothered moving out again. It felt like home, he told her.

And Lara didn’t mind a bit. He was sweet and intelligent and trustworthy—even if he did sometimes tease her about Maraban and her friendship with its ruling family—yet, deep down, she knew she could not possibly confide in him about the letter, or her worries about the effect it might have on Khalim. He simply wouldn’t take it seriously. In fact, sometimes she wondered if he ever took anything seriously.

But he was resourceful, she knew that—far more resourceful than she felt in this weird, jittering state of having discovered something momentous and not having a clue about what to do with that discovery.

‘Jake?’

‘Lara?’

‘Just say…just say you wanted an introduction to someone and all you knew was the place where they worked—how would you go about meeting them?’

He batted his outrageously long lashes. ‘This is a man, I take it?’

‘Er, yes. How did you guess?’

‘I know women,’ said Jake smugly. ‘And you have that kind of secretive, bursting excitement kind of look which immediately tells me that it’s something to do with a member of the opposite sex. Am I right?’

That might be the easiest way to explain it, surely? Jake wouldn’t ask too many questions if he thought she had a simple crush on a man.

‘Sort of,’ she prevaricated.

‘Another actor?’ he hazarded.

Lara shuddered. ‘You know I’d sooner walk into a pit of deadly snakes than get involved with an actor!’

‘Why, thanks,’ he said wryly.

‘You know what I mean, Jake.’

‘Yeah, sure. Feckless commitment-phobes with fickle hearts—that’s us actors!’ He drank some wine and then gave the pot another stir. ‘So who is he?’

Lara had been doing her homework. ‘A businessman.’

‘Successful?’

‘I…think so.’ The company was in Darian Wildman’s name, which meant that he was successful, surely?

Jake’s eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t met him?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. What happened? You saw him at a party and were smitten, decided he was the man for you, but before you could do anything about it he’d left, yes? So you asked around a bit, found out his name, and now you’re hot on his heels, pursuing him?’

‘It was nothing like that,’ Lara said weakly. ‘And it’s far too complicated to explain. I just want a chance to meet him, that’s all.’

Jake threw a handful of coriander into the pot. ‘Phone his office.’

‘On what pretext?’

‘Make something up! You’re an enterprising woman, Lara—and you’re an actress! Play it by ear—and once you’re standing in front of him I am sure he will be completely dazzled by your wild dark hair and amazing blue eyes. The rest, as they say, is up to you!’

Lara finished her wine and held her glass out for a refill, studiously ignoring Jake’s look of surprise—she rarely drank more than one, but tonight she felt she needed it. Could it be that simple? But why not? After all, what did she have to lose? She wasn’t saying that you could know everything you needed to know about a person in one short meeting, but surely it would tell her whether he seemed a decent kind of man. And it would make up her mind whether she told him what she had discovered.

Or whether Khalim should hear about it first.

‘That’s very good thinking, Jake,’ she said slowly. ‘Very good thinking. I’ll give it a go.’

‘I don’t know why you should sound so amazed!’ he said drily. ‘Just because I’m known for my boyish good looks doesn’t mean that I don’t have a few brain cells rattling around inside my head. Now, stop acting like I’m your servant and go and measure out some rice—that’s if you want to eat this side of Christmas!’

She laughed and began to help him—he was so easy to get on with, but she knew deep down that was only because she didn’t fancy him, nor he her. If she had, or he had, then their no-effort compatibility simply wouldn’t exist. It wasn’t that Lara was a cynic where men were concerned; she just preferred to think of herself as someone who was realistic.

They ate supper and watched a video of one of Jake’s films, while he tore his own performance to pieces. In fact, Lara’s resolve not to think any more about the situation lasted all the way until bedtime, but then she lay sleepless, looking at the ceiling for a long time, while moon shadows danced before her eyes and doubts began to creep into her mind.

She had the strangest feeling she was courting danger, as if she was standing on top of a high cliff and preparing to walk over the edge into the unknown—an unknown far more scary than just her usual uncertainty about the future. But that was just her imagination, she told herself as she finally drifted off to sleep. All actresses were cursed with an excess of imagination.

And in the morning everything looked different—as it so often did. It was funny how daylight seemed to put everything into perspective. She told herself that she was being stupid and ridiculously melodramatic—as if unable to separate her working life from her real life. Except that when she stopped to think about it ‘real’ life had taken on a very different meaning ever since her friend had married into Maraban’s royal family!

Even Lara’s mother had been taken aback by it all, and she was fairly used to the bizarre. In the past, if Lara had telephoned blithely to say that she was appearing as a tomato on a commerical for a new brand of soup, her mother had been merely interested. Yet for once she had been lost for words when Lara had announced that she was being Rose’s bridesmaid when she married her prince, and would be wearing cloth of gold and a fortune in ancient jewellery for the day.

It had been easy enough to find the number of Wildman Phones, but not so easy to find the courage to dial the number, and when she did her nerve nearly failed her. But her drama training saved her. Pretend it’s a job, she told herself—and maybe in a way it was. If not a job, then a mission—to be a good friend to people she cared about.

She drew a deep breath. The only way to get past receptionists was not to sound nervous or diffident but to brazen it out. ‘Darian Wildman, please,’ she said smoothly, as if she had known him all her life.

‘I’m afraid that Mr Wildman is out of the office all day.’

Damn! Lara gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘That man! Why the hell didn’t he bother telling me? And he’s left a whole stack of important papers behind,’ she said, half to herself, then sighed and adopted a confidential one-woman-talking-to-another tone. ‘Do you know where he can be reached?’

There was the briefest of pauses. ‘Sure. He’s out casting all day. Let me see…yep! Hold on, I’ve got the address here—do you have a pen?’

The receptionist obviously wouldn’t have won any prizes for maintaining the privacy of her boss, thought Lara.

‘Fire away,’ she said calmly.

The receptionist rattled off an address in Golden Square, which Lara knew was right in the centre of London, just a breath away from Nelson’s Column.

‘What’s he doing there?’ Lara asked casually.

‘Oh, he’s been there all week—they’re casting to find the face of Wildman Phones,’ said the receptionist chattily. ‘Why? Are you an actress or a model?’

Lara’s heart gave a great leap in her chest, but she tried to keep the excitement from her voice. ‘Well, actually,’ she said, ‘yes, I am.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE taxi drew up outside a tall building which looked like an old warehouse—and that, thought Darian wryly, was precisely what it was. It was a dark, monstrous shell of a place which now housed the most modern of photographic studios.

‘Shall we go in now, Darian?’ asked the man by his side, his voice touched by a slight edge of anxiety.

Darian’s eyes had been shuttered, but now they widened by a fraction so that just a glint of gold light gleamed from between the thick black lashes. He turned to look at Scott Stratton, the head of an advertising agency known to be one of the best in the business—famous for its slick, award-winning campaigns and its ability to match client needs with consumer expectations. Or at least it had been up until now, when casting after casting had so far stubbornly refused to find the new face of Wildman Phones. Maybe Darian was being too choosy—an accusation which had been thrown at him often enough in the past—but he was certainly uncompromising, and he would not be satisfied until he found exactly what he was looking for. He just wasn’t sure quite what that was.

Or who.

‘Sure, Scott,’ he murmured. ‘I’m ready.’

Scott glanced at him. ‘Need anything? To make notes?’

Darian gave a glittering smile. ‘No, thanks. I won’t need them. I’ll know her when I see her.’

They walked into the building together, and stood in the chrome-walled reception area.

‘They’re all up there?’ asked Darian, jerking his dark head towards the spiral staircase which led up to the studio.

He spoke softly, but even so the two women who were busy flicking through the models’ cards at the far end of the room immediately stopped what they were doing and turned round to look at him, as if awaiting a command. But then, people always did that when they encountered him. Darian was used to it. They seemed to shrink to his will whenever he exerted it—and even when he didn’t.

‘Yeah,’ answered Scott. ‘Ready and waiting.’

‘Then bring on the parade,’ said Darian mockingly, putting his foot on the bottom rung of the staircase, faded denim straining over one taut, muscular thigh as he did so.

‘Er, not parade, Darian,’ corrected Scott. ‘If you say that they parade then that makes them sound a bit mindless, doesn’t it? Makes them sound as if they’re taking part in some second-rate beauty contest, and models are very sensitive about that kind of thing. Particularly in these politically correct days.’

Darian laughed and turned his head, and as he did so he heard the faint but unmistakable intake of breath from one of the secretaries as she looked at him. He was used to that, too. He guessed it was because his eyes were not run-of-the-mill that the fairer sex always seemed to get transfixed by them. When he was younger he had found the effect a little disconcerting, and later he had rather enjoyed it, but now he was so used to it as to feel nothing more than faint amusement. Another man might have used the power of those eyes more ruthlessly, but Darian did not. He had no need to.

‘Far be it from me to contradict you, Scott,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘But, putting political correctness aside, surely a casting session is exactly like a beauty contest? Though admittedly not a second-rate one—not in this case—not if they’re going to be representing Wildman. Twenty females about to be assessed on their looks and their sex appeal—how else would you define it?’