Joss turned to the silent woman sitting opposite.

She was the epitome of Middle Eastern modesty melded with elegant Western sophistication. From her sleek, dark chignon to the high heels that had restricted her walk to a delicate, swaying glide she was the real thing.

Class. Leila had it in spades.

He didn’t need the opulent black pearl pendant or the matching bracelet of massive pearls to tell him she was accustomed to luxury. She wore them with a casual nonchalance only those born to an easy life of privilege could achieve.

She seemed suitable. Her ownership of those enormously rich oilfields made her eminently suitable. It was the only reason he was considering marriage: to get his hands on what would be the key to his next major venture. Besides that she had connections, and the right background to be useful. Yet Joss never left anything to chance.

‘I’d like to know your daughter better,’ he said. ‘Alone.’

About the Author

ANNIE WEST has devoted her life to an intensive study of tall, dark, charismatic heroes who cause the best kind of trouble in the lives of their heroines. As a sideline she’s also researched dream-worthy locations for romance—from bustling, vibrant cities to desert encampments and fairytale castles. It’s hard work but she loves a challenge. Annie lives with her family at beautiful Lake Macquarie, on Australia’s east coast. She loves to hear from readers and you can contact her at www.annie-west.com or at PO Box 1041, Warners Bay, NSW 2282, Australia.

Recent titles by the same author:

CAPTIVE IN THE SPOTLIGHT

DEFYING HER DESERT DUTY

UNDONE BY HIS TOUCH

GIRL IN THE BEDOUIN TENT

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Imprisoned
by a Vow
Annie West

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For a very special lady:

Helen Bianchin.

For all your support and generosity—thank you!

CHAPTER ONE

‘MARRY A STRANGER!’

‘Don’t sound so surprised, girl. You can’t expect me to support you for ever.’

Leila bit back a retort that her stepfather’s pockets were lined with the fortune he’d acquired by marrying her mother. She’d had years to learn open defiance wasn’t worth the savage retribution that followed. Now wasn’t the time to let him know he hadn’t broken her spirit despite his best efforts.

‘As for marrying a stranger, you’ll wed the man I choose and there’s an end to it.’

‘Of course, Stepfather. I understand.’ She’d heard servants’ gossip that Gamil had his eye on another bride. He wouldn’t want an inconvenient stepdaughter, a reminder of his previous wife, on hand. ‘It’s generous of you to organise this when you have so many business matters to deal with.’

Gamil’s eyebrows lowered. His eyes narrowed as if he detected the sarcasm she hid behind a calm façade.

Leila had become adept at concealing emotion: grief, fear, boredom, anger…particularly anger. It burned inside her now but she held it in check. Now was not the time.

But soon! It struck her that an arranged marriage to a foreigner who’d take her far away was the chance she’d prayed for. Her previous attempts to escape had met with humiliating defeat and ever-tighter restrictions. But what could Gamil do once she was married?

It was her chance for freedom.

A thrill of excitement raced down her spine and she had to work to keep her face expressionless. Looked at like that, marrying a man she didn’t know in a cold-blooded business deal was a heaven-sent opportunity.

‘It goes against the grain to let him see you like this.’ Gamil waved disparagingly at her bare arms and legs, her new high heels and the delicate silk dress flown in especially from Paris.

Even without a mirror, Leila knew she looked as good as she ever would. She’d been bathed, waxed, coiffed, manicured, pedicured, scented and made up by experts.

A sacrificial virgin to Gamil’s ambition, primped and polished for a stranger’s approval!

Leila doused a furious surge of indignation. She’d learnt long ago life wasn’t fair. And if this preposterous scheme meant escape and the chance to lead her own life…

‘But it’s what he’ll expect. He can afford the best in everything, especially women.’

Trust Gamil to see women as commodities to be bought. He was a misogynist through and through. Worse, he was pathologically controlling, revelling in his power.

His cold eyes pinioned her and Leila’s skin crawled at the hatred in them. One day she’d be free of this brute. Until then she’d do whatever it took to survive.

‘You’ll do nothing to disappoint him. You hear?’

‘Of course not.’

‘And watch your tongue! None of your clever remarks. Stay silent unless asked a direct question.’

Gamil needn’t have worried. Leila didn’t speak when Joss Carmody entered the formal sitting room.

Her breath snagged as her gaze climbed a big frame to his rugged face. His strong features weren’t chiselled but hewn, all tanned angles and sharp edges, stark lines and deep grooves. His black hair, though brushed back, curled overlong at the collar. She had the impression of unruly wildness, combed into temporary decorum, till she met his eyes and realised this man was anything but lacking in control.

He surveyed her with the keen alertness a banker devoted to his financial reports.

Joss Carmody’s eyes were indigo dark, like the desert sky just before the first stars winked awake. They held hers and she felt a curious squeezing sensation high in her chest. Her pulse sped as she stood, mesmerised.

Whatever she had expected it wasn’t this.

A moment later he turned to discuss business with Gamil. Oil of course. What else would bring an Australian resources tycoon halfway around the world? Or make him consider marrying her?

The land she’d inherit on marriage held the region’s last and largest untapped oil reserves—a unique holding Gamil used to further his own prestige.

She watched Joss Carmody sit down, cradling a cup of strong coffee, effortlessly dominating the room.

Surely even tycoons took more interest in their potential brides than this? His utter indifference rankled. Surprising how much it rankled. After years under her stepfather’s brutish regime it shouldn’t bother her.

Why should a stranger’s indifference matter? She should be grateful he had no personal interest in her. She couldn’t have gone through with this if he’d looked at her the way Gamil had once stared at her mother—with that hot, hungry possessiveness.

Joss Carmody didn’t see her, just a parcel of arid, oil-rich land. She’d be safe with him.

Joss turned to the silent woman sitting opposite.

Her green-grey stare had surprised him when he arrived. He’d sensed intelligence, curiosity and, could it be, a hint of disapproval in that gaze? The idea intrigued.

Now she lowered her eyes demurely to the cup in her hand. She was the epitome of Middle Eastern modesty melded with elegant Western sophistication. From her sleek, dark chignon to the high heels that had restricted her walk to a delicate, swaying glide, she was the real thing.

Class. She had it in spades.

He didn’t need the opulent black pearl pendant or the matching bracelet of massive pearls to tell him she was accustomed to luxury. She wore them with a casual nonchalance only those born to an easy life of privilege could achieve.

For a split second something like envy stirred.

He repressed it as he did anything that resembled untoward emotion. Instead he appraised her.

She seemed suitable. Her ownership of those enormously rich oilfields made her eminently suitable. It was the only reason he considered marriage: to get his hands on what would be the key to his next major venture. Besides that she had connections and the right background to be useful. Yet Joss never left anything to chance.

‘I’d like to know your daughter better,’ he said as Gamil drew breath. ‘Alone.’

There was a flash of something in the other man’s eyes. Fear or speculation? Then Gamil nodded and departed with one last, warning look at his daughter.

Joss pondered that look. Surely the old man didn’t fear he’d force himself on her? As if Joss hadn’t women enough to satisfy every whim!

‘You’ve been very quiet. You don’t take an interest in the oilfields you own?’

Eyes cool and clear as a mountain stream lifted to his. ‘There seemed little to add.’ Her English was flawless with a subtle, barely there accent that proved curiously enticing. ‘You and my stepfather were engrossed in your plans.’ Her charming smile didn’t reach her eyes.

‘You disapprove?’ Sixth sense warned that her smile concealed rather than revealed.

She shrugged and he watched, intrigued as the silk slid and moulded a pleasing, feminine figure. His chosen bride was rounded in the right places, despite the fragility of her throat and wrists.

She was a necessary part of the deal yet he hadn’t expected to feel more than slight curiosity about her.

The stirring of male appreciation in his belly surprised him. He hadn’t expected a beauty. He permitted himself a moment’s satisfaction. At least being with her occasionally wouldn’t be a hardship.

‘The fields will be developed.’ Her low voice had a husky edge that drew his skin taut with anticipation. ‘You have the resources to do that and my stepfather maintains a very close interest in the family business.’

In other words she didn’t bother her head with sordid details like where her wealth came from. Why wasn’t he surprised? He’d met lots like her: privileged, pampered and eager to live off the hard work of others.

‘You don’t work in the industry yourself? Take a personal interest in your assets?’

A spark of something lit her eyes, darkening them to stormy green. her nostrils flared. Then her lips curved in another of those small Madonna smiles and she leaned forward gracefully to put her cup down with a click on the alabaster table.

Joss had an impression of something rippling like an undercurrent beneath her calm expression. Something elemental that made the air between them thicken, heavy with contained energy.

She spread her manicured hands. ‘My stepfather takes care of all that.’ Yet there was something ever so slightly out of kilter, perhaps the way her tinted lips thinned a fraction too much.

Then the impression was gone, leaving Joss to wonder at his flight of fancy. An overactive imagination wasn’t his style.

He was accustomed to brokering deals with men as hard as himself. A life in mining had made him rough around the edges, unused to dealing with delicate females, except on the most basic level. His groin tightened as he imagined his cool bride-to-be losing that superior air and growing hot and eager under his touch. Satisfaction filled him, till he remembered that wasn’t what he wanted from this deal. She’d sidetracked him.

‘You expect your husband to take care of business while you enjoy the fruits of his labour?’

She darted a glance at the door where Gamil had exited. ‘Forgive me. Perhaps I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I was under the impression you wanted me as a silent partner while you make the business decisions.’ Her eyes were bright with apparently innocent enquiry. ‘Would you welcome my interference?’

Her fine dark brows arched in eloquent surprise. For the first time in over a decade he felt wrong-footed.

Joss stiffened. It was an illusion, of course. Far from being out of his depth, he was running this whole scheme, including the marriage arrangements, to suit himself.

He didn’t want her amateur meddling. Bad enough that he had to put up with her stepfather’s uninformed ideas until the deal was done.

‘If you have expertise in the area I’d like to hear it.’ The words were mere form. Joss worked alone. There was room for only one commander in his empire. ‘And of course your connections to key figures across the region will be invaluable.’

‘Of course.’ The flat expression in her eyes, now dulling to grey, told him she’d already lost interest. ‘But I’m afraid I have no expertise in petrochemicals.’

‘And where does your expertise lie?’

Again that darting glance to the door. If it weren’t for her smooth serenity he’d almost believe she was worried about saying the wrong thing.

‘I doubt they overlap with yours. Mine are more on the domestic scale.’ She smoothed a hand over the green silk of her dress.

‘Domestic as in shopping?’ This desire to delve beneath her self-satisfied composure surprised him. Why the need to understand her? To label her in a box marked ‘self-absorbed heiress’?

Because she was to be his wife.

After thirty-two years he was finally acquiring a spouse, if only to further his commercial interests.

Marrying went against every inclination. His life was a cautionary tale about its inherent dangers. But the commercial imperative decided him. She was a business asset.

‘How did you guess I love to shop?’ she cooed, stroking the pearls at her wrist. Yet the light in her eyes and that heightened spark of energy humming between them said something else went on inside that lovely head.

‘Just so long as you’re not under the impression I’m looking for someone to domesticate me.’ He didn’t want her thinking this was personal.

Her eyes rounded and a gurgle of delicious laughter broke across his senses, tightening his skin and circling his vitals. He straightened. But already she’d clamped her lips against the sound.

Domesticating Joss Carmody!

Who in their right mind would take on that challenge? He was a big, hard man, all sharp edges and steely determination. It would take someone foolishly besotted by his brooding aura of power and that sizzle of unashamed male sexuality. Someone stupid enough to believe he could ever truly care.

He wasn’t the same as Gamil, she could already see that. Yet viewing those coolly calculating eyes, that formidable self-possession and monumental ego, Leila saw enough similarities.

Joss Carmody didn’t have a softer side.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Leila said hurriedly, appalled that surprise had provoked a genuine response from her. ‘The idea hadn’t crossed my mind.’

‘You’re sure?’ His straight eyebrows scrunched down in a scowl of disbelief.

Leila supposed he saw himself as a matrimonial prize. With his looks and obscene wealth women must flock to him.

Yet surely she wasn’t the only one to see him for what he was: self-contained, dangerous and definitely not ready for domestication. Impatience at his all-conquering attitude blindsided her.

‘Surprisingly enough, I am.’ To her amazement Leila heard the rapier-sharp provocation in her tone. His expression told her he heard it too.

After years guarding every word, how could she trip herself up now? Where was her hard-won composure? Even Gamil at his worst couldn’t provoke an outburst these days. It was vital she play to the Australian’s expectations if the marriage was to go ahead.

‘So what did you envisage, Leila?’ His voice dropped half an octave, slowing on her name. He rolled it around his mouth, almost as if savouring it.

Fine hairs rose on her arms and nape. No man had ever said her name like that. A challenge and an invitation at the same time.

Heat flushed her throat as she realised she’d stepped into perilous waters. He didn’t threaten like Gamil, but she sensed danger in his sultry invitation. Not the danger of physical punishment but of something more insidious.

Her lack of experience with men told against her now.

She blinked. Gamil was no doubt hidden beyond the doorway, sifting each word, ready to mete out punishment for errors.

The laugh had been a mistake. She’d read it in Joss’s surprise. Yet she couldn’t regret it. He deserved to be shocked from his insufferable self-satisfaction, even if her stepfather made her pay later.

‘I thought you were interested in my inheritance, not me personally.’ She kept her tone even, holding his gaze, refusing to reveal how much hinged on his response.

After a moment he nodded brusquely. ‘I’m not after an heir and I have no interest in playing happy families.’

At least he didn’t expect intimacy. Relief swelled.

She’d wondered whether, when it came down to it, she would be able to sell herself into an intimate relationship in order to escape. Had wondered too about the logistics of disappearing as soon as they were married to avoid giving herself physically to a man she didn’t want. Now it seemed she wouldn’t have to.

This was pure business. He’d gain the oil reserves, while Gamil gained income and status through his new son-in-law.

She was supposed to be thrilled by Joss Carmody’s offer of matrimony. Though come to think of it there’d been no offer. It had been a deal done between power-hungry men.

She squashed instinctive outrage as a luxury she couldn’t afford.

‘I don’t want a wife who will cling or make demands.’

‘Of course not.’ She couldn’t imagine him accepting emotional ties. Nor did she want any.

‘So tell me, Leila—’ he leaned closer, his voice a deep thread of sound that shivered across her flesh ‘—why do you want to marry me?’

Her brain froze as she watched those firmly sculpted lips shaping her name, feeling again that tremulous shock of disturbance deep inside.

Then she breathed deeply, her mind clicking into gear, considering and discarding possibilities.

Tell him what he expects to hear and seal the deal.

‘For what you can give me.’ His almost-imperceptible nod confirmed she was on the right track, feeding him the response he expected. ‘To see the world and live the life of a billionaire’s wife. Bakhara is my homeland but it’s rather…confining.’ Wry laughter threatened at the understatement and she bit her cheek, using pain to counter weakness. It was a trick Gamil, if only he’d known it, had inadvertently taught her over the years, with his regime of punishments for imagined infringements. ‘Married to you my life will change for ever.’

Dark eyes surveyed her so closely she saw the exact moment he made up his mind. His lips pursed and his eyes gleamed approvingly.

Joss Carmody knew what he wanted. A wife who wouldn’t clutter his life. A woman who’d marry him for his wealth and prestige. A woman who would shop and amuse herself while he got on with what interested him: making even more billions of dollars. Money drove him. Nothing else.

What would he do if he realised he meant just one thing to her?

Escape.

‘He’s late!’ Gamil paced the courtyard, his heavy tread careless of the exquisite mosaics Leila’s ancestors had installed and the carefully nurtured grass by the long mirror pool, a lush green bed in a land of scarce rainfall and high temperatures.

‘What did you say to him?’ He spun round, spittle spraying Leila’s cheek. ‘It must have been you. Everything else was settled. There’s no reason for him to cry off unless you put doubt in his mind.’

His angry countenance filled her vision but she stood steadfast, knowing better than to retreat before his fury.

‘You heard all that passed between us,’ she said levelly. Too much in fact. Her temerity in laughing at Joss Carmody’s self-conceit had earned her weeks of punishment on bread and water. Fortunately her rations had been increased this week so she wouldn’t be too weak to say her vows.

‘That I did.’ Ire mottled Gamil’s complexion. He leaned forward, his stale breath hot on her face. ‘I heard you play word games! Obviously that was enough to make him have second thoughts. And now…’ Gamil gritted his teeth and turned away.

‘How will I hold my head up if you’re jilted by such a man? Think what it will do for my reputation, my prospects at court! I have plans…’

He stalked to the other end of the courtyard, muttering. His hands clenched and unclenched as if ready to throttle someone.

Her stepfather rarely resorted to physical violence, preferring more subtle methods. But she had no illusions she was safe if he felt himself goaded too far.

Leila pressed clammy hands together. If only Joss Carmody would thrust open the ornamental doors and stride into the courtyard.

Never had an unwanted bridegroom been so eagerly awaited.

Fear churned her stomach. Was Gamil right? Had the Australian cried off? What, then, of her plans for independence and the career she’d always wanted?

No! She couldn’t think like that. There was still time, though he was ninety minutes late and the whispering guests had already been ushered into the salon for refreshments.

Heat filled the courtyard. Leila stiffened her weary spine against the frightening compulsion to admit defeat.

How many more years could she take? This last bout of solitary confinement had almost broken her.

Gamil had broken her mother, destroying her vibrant optimism and love of life. Leila had watched her change from an outgoing, charming beauty, interested in everyone and everything. In a few short years she’d transformed from a society hostess par excellence and an asset to her first husband’s brilliant diplomatic career to a faded, downtrodden wraith, jumping at shadows. She’d lost the will to live long before illness had claimed her.

Leila tipped her head up, feeling the sun on her face. Who knew how long before she’d feel it again?

Despite the gossamer-fine silks, the lavish henna decorations on her hands and feet, the weight of traditional gold jewellery at her throat and ears, Leila was no pampered princess but a prisoner held against her will.

If Joss didn’t show, standing here in the open air might be the closest she’d come to freedom till she came of age at twenty-five in another sixteen months.

‘What are you doing outside in the heat?’ The dark voice sidled through her thoughts and shock punched deep in her solar plexus.

He was here!

Her eyes snapped open. At the sight of his imposing frame, his don’t-mess-with-me jaw and piercing eyes, Leila found herself smiling with relief. Her first genuine smile in years. It stretched stiff facial muscles till they hurt, the sensation strange in her world of guarded emotion.

Joss halted, struck anew by her curious combination of fragility and composure. That hint of steel in her delicate form. She looked thinner, her neat jaw more pronounced and her wrist narrow as she raised a hand and the weight of gold bangles jingled.

Her eyes opened, the pupils wide in clear grey depths. Then as he watched velvety shades of green appeared, turning her gaze bewitching.

She smiled. Not that tiny knowing smile of last month, but a broad grin that made something roll over in the pit of his stomach.

Ensnared, he drank in the sight of her, the warmth in her frank appraisal, the pleasure that drew him closer.

Heavy scent filled his nostrils, a dusky rose that clogged his senses. It wasn’t right on her. But then this woman, decked in the traditional wedding finery of her land, seemed so different from the one whose verbal sparring had intrigued him weeks ago.

‘I was waiting for you.’ There was no rancour in her voice but her eyes held his as if awaiting his explanation.

A hot spurt of sensation warmed his skin. Guilt?

Gamil hadn’t dared voice reproach when Joss arrived, knowing as countless others had before him that Joss lived by his own rules, at his own convenience. He didn’t give a damn if his priorities didn’t match anyone else’s.

Business came first with him—always. The urgent calls he’d taken this morning had required immediate action whereas a wedding could be delayed.

Yet seeing her expression, Joss had the rare, uncomfortable feeling he’d disappointed. It evoked memories of childhood when nothing he did had lived up to expectations. His tough-as-nails father had wanted a clone of himself: utterly ruthless. His mother…just thinking of his mother made him break into a cold sweat. He shoved aside the dark memories.

‘You waited out here? Couldn’t you have waited in the cool? You look—’ he bent closer, cataloguing her pallor and the damp sheen on her forehead and upper lip ‘—unwell.’

Her smile slid away and her gaze dropped. Instantly the heat in his belly eased.

‘My stepfather made arrangements for the ceremony to take place here.’ She gestured across to a fanciful silk canopy. Joss dragged his gaze from her. There were pots of heavy-scented roses, ornate gilded furniture, garlands of flowers, rich hand-woven rugs and gauzy hangings of spangled fabric.

‘Clearly he’s not familiar with the idea that less is more,’ Joss murmured.

A choked laugh drew his attention, but Leila was already turning away in answer to a brusque command from her stepfather. Beneath the flowing silk of her robe, she was rigid. She paced slowly, as if reluctant.

Joss watched the interchange between them. One so decisive and bossy, the other unnaturally still. His hackles rose.

He stalked across the courtyard to join his affianced bride. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, his pleasure at today’s business coup faded. He felt out of sorts.

The wedding was almost over. The ceremony had been short, the gifts lavish and the feast massive, though Leila hadn’t been able to indulge much. After short rations for so long, she felt queasy even smelling rich food and the room had spun if she’d moved too quickly.

She’d had to work to repress excitement. Soon she’d be out of her stepfather’s house for good.

She’d be the wife of a man who wouldn’t impose himself on her. He’d take her away from here, his only interest in the oilfields she’d inherited. They’d negotiate a suitable arrangement—separate residences and then eventually a discreet divorce. He’d keep the land and she’d be free to—

‘Leila.’ His deep voice curled around her and she turned to find him watching, his dark gaze intent. He held out a heavy goblet.

Obediently she sipped, repressing a cough at the heady traditional brew. A concoction designed, it was said, to heighten physical awareness and increase sexual potency.

Joss lifted the cup, drinking deeply, and the crowd roared its approval. When he looked at her again his gaze as it trawled her was different. Heat fired under her skin. It felt as if he caressed her: across her cheek, down her throat then lingering on her lips.

Something flared in his eyes. Speculation.

Sharply she sat back, fingers splayed on the chair’s gilt arms as she braced herself against welling anxiety.

‘You make a beautiful bride, Leila.’ The words were trite but the warmth in his eyes was real.

‘Thank you. You’re a very attractive groom.’ She’d never seen a man fill a suit with such panache or with that underlying hint of predatory power.

Joss’s mouth stretched in a smile. A moment later a rumble of laughter filled the space between them. ‘Such praise! Thank you, wife.’

She didn’t know if it was the unexpected sound of his amusement or the velvet caress of his gaze but Leila felt an abrupt tumble of emotions.

Suddenly this marriage didn’t seem so simple. She’d spent so long fretting about escape, focused on getting through the marriage ceremony. Now it hit her that perhaps he had other ideas on what happened after the wedding.

Leila shivered.

For the first time she realised Joss Carmody might be dangerous in ways she’d never considered.

CHAPTER TWO

‘THERE’S BEEN A CHANGE of plan,’ Joss said as the limousine surged forward. ‘We’re going straight to the airport. I need to be in London.’

He turned to his bride, surprised to find her attention fixed on the back of their driver’s head. She didn’t acknowledge the wedding guests clustered to see them off. She didn’t even lift an arm to wave to her stepfather, standing at the ornate gates to the road.

With her gold-encrusted headscarf pulled forward, obscuring her profile, Joss only caught a glimpse of her straight, elegant nose.

‘Leila?’ He leaned forward. ‘Did you hear me?’

Her hands were clasped in her lap, the knuckles white.

What now? He didn’t have time for feminine games. He’d already given up a whole afternoon playing the attentive bridegroom.

‘Leila, look at me.’

The command did the trick and she turned instantly. Her eyes were a smoky grey, wide and unfocused. Her lips were flattened and her skin pale.

Impatience flared. What was the problem? Something he’d have to deal with no doubt when all he wanted was to get back to business.

He should have known marriage would complicate his plans! It had gone against every instinct to acquire a wife, though the business benefits had outweighed the negatives.

Yet with the impatience came an unfamiliar pinprick of concern. ‘What is it, Leila? Are you unwell?’

‘No.’ The single word was husky, as if issued from a dry mouth. ‘I’m never sick.’ Her lips moved in a shadow of a smile.

Joss remained silent. Something was definitely amiss. He told himself that so long as it didn’t affect him it didn’t matter. He wasn’t his wife’s keeper. But curiosity stirred. More, he acknowledged a faint but real desire to ease what he guessed was pain behind those beautiful blank features.

‘Would you like to stop the car?’ After the interminable wedding, he couldn’t believe he was offering to delay further. ‘We could go back inside and—’

‘No!’ Her voice was strident, her face no longer blank but animated at last.

‘No,’ she repeated, her voice softer. ‘That’s not necessary. Let’s just…go.’

Was it his imagination or was that a plea in her voice?

‘As you wish.’ He leaned forward and opened the limousine’s bar fridge. Ignoring the foil-topped bottle of Cristal and gold-rimmed champagne flutes some romantically inclined staffer had placed there, Joss reached for bottled water. Unscrewing the cap, he passed it to her.

She took it but didn’t make a move to drink. Was she waiting for a cut-crystal tumbler as well? He wouldn’t be surprised, given the pampered life she’d led.

‘Drink,’ he ordered. ‘Unless you’d prefer me to call a doctor?’

Instantly she raised the bottle and sipped. She paused and drank again, colour returning to her cheeks.

Now he thought about it, he couldn’t remember her drinking at the reception, except when he’d raised the goblet to her lips. Nor had she done more than peck at her food.

‘You need food.’ He reached for the gourmet snacks beside the bar.

‘No, please.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not hungry. The water is fine.’

Joss’s eyes narrowed on the sharp angle of her jaw revealed as she tipped her head back. Her slim throat worked as she took a long pull from the water bottle.

‘I’m feeling much better now.’ This time she almost convinced him. Her voice was steadier, her gaze direct. ‘What were you saying about a change of plans?’

‘We’re not staying in Bakhara,’ he responded, watching her narrowly. ‘Something has come up. I need to be in London tonight.’

He could go alone. But he’d just acquired a hostess with impeccable breeding, social standing and poise who’d be a valuable asset in his new business dealings. He intended to make use of her.

Besides, he saw no point in sabotaging the polite fiction they were a couple. Leaving his bride on her wedding night would be inconvenient front-page news. If she was to be of use to him, it would be at his side.

‘London? That’s marvellous!’

Leila’s incandescent smile hit him hard. It wasn’t the polite, contained curve of the lips she’d treated him to before but a wide brilliant grin. It was like the one she’d turned on him when he’d arrived a few hours earlier.

Its impact set his pulse tumbling.

She wasn’t beautiful. She was stunning.

How had he not realised? He’d thought of her as coolly elegant. Now her sheer dazzling exuberance rocked him.

With colour flushing her cheeks and throat, her lips parted in pleasure and her eyes dancing, she beguiled in a way no blatantly sexy supermodel ever could.

An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his chest and Joss was stunned to realise it was his lungs struggling to pump oxygen. Perhaps whatever ailed Leila was catching. His reaction to her was unprecedented.

‘I’m glad you’re so excited about a trip to London.’ His voice was gruff.

Joss had never been overcome by attraction to a woman. It was the way he was made. An emotional wasteland, one mistress had accused in tears after he’d crushed her fanciful hopes of happily ever after.

He desired women. He enjoyed the pleasure they provided. But they never caused a ripple in his life.

As for emotions…he’d been cured of those in his youth.

Growing up in a dysfunctional family, learning early the destructive power of so-called ‘love’, Joss had never wanted anything like it again. No emotions. No entanglements. No dependants. His gut clenched at the very idea of kids and a clinging wife. Only a deal like this, based on sound business requirements and no emotional expectations, could convince him to marry.

Joss was a loner to the core.

‘You’ve spent time in London, I believe?’ He should know more about the woman who was to be his hostess.

She nodded, her smile barely abating. ‘I was born there. Then we moved to Washington when my father took another diplomatic posting, then Paris and Cairo with short stints in between in Bakhara. We moved back to Britain again when I was twelve.’

‘And you enjoyed it?’ That much was obvious. ‘You have friends to catch up with there?’

Her smile faded and her gaze swept from his. It struck Joss she’d had her eyes fixed firmly on him all through their conversation. He felt an odd…lack now she’d turned away.

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘So it’s the shopping you’re looking forward to?’

‘No, I…’ She swung to face him, but this time her lashes veiled her eyes. Did she realise how sexy that heavy-lidded look was? No doubt it was one she’d practised. ‘Well, of course, shopping is part of the London experience.’ Her mouth curved in a smile but this time it didn’t have the same wattage. Its impact didn’t resonate inside his chest.

Good. That earlier response was an aberration. He had no intention of feeling anything for his wife other than satisfaction at the benefits she brought to his balance sheet: fuel resources to exploit and her personal connections in the region.

‘I can see you’ll enjoy yourself in London.’ He’d wondered if he’d face an emotional plea to extend their stay in Bakhara after the wedding. It pleased him she was so reasonable. They’d deal perfectly together. ‘The jet is fuelled and ready to go as soon as we reach the airport.’

‘That’s—’ She stiffened and sucked in a gasp. ‘My passport! I can’t—’

‘You can. Your passport is waiting at the plane.’

‘Really?’ She leaned forward, her eyes searching. ‘You had no trouble getting it from…from the house?’

‘My staff did it. I assume there was no difficulty.’ Joss surveyed her curiously. He’d almost swear that was shock on her face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ Her voice stretched high. ‘Of course not. I just…’ She shook her head. ‘Everything’s perfectly fine, thank you.’ She turned away to watch the retreating city as the car sped towards the airfield. ‘How long till we reach the plane?’

Joss leaned back in his seat, intrigued by the flicker of emotions he’d seen in his wife’s face. He’d pegged her for a woman of unruffled sophistication, with the poise of a socialite who took world travel and privilege for granted.

It was a surprise to find there was more to Leila than he’d expected. If he had the inclination he’d almost be tempted to discover more.

Almost.

He had higher priorities than learning about his wife on anything other than a superficial level.

‘We’re almost there.’

His words were music to Leila’s ears.

Escape, not only from her stepfather’s home, but from Bakhara, seemed too good to be true. Though she loved her homeland, she wouldn’t feel safe from Gamil till she was a continent away. She’d expected to stay in the country a few more weeks and had fretted over the possibility Gamil would find a way to convince Joss to leave her behind when he went.

The few times over the years when she’d succeeded in escaping the house she hadn’t got far. Gamil’s staff had found her and forcibly hauled her back, and each time the punishments had grown more severe. Gamil’s money and legal power as her guardian gave him control over her till she married or turned twenty-five. He’d restricted her travel, education, friendships and money.

Even now she was married, she’d feared he’d find some way to stymie her escape. But now—freedom! She could taste it on her tongue, sweet and full of promise.

The thrill was almost enough to dispel the strange queasiness she felt.

It had been over twelve months since she’d been allowed out of the front door. The clenching spasm of stomach muscles, the panic that had grabbed her throat and made her heart race as she’d left the house, had hit out of nowhere. She hadn’t even been able to wave farewell to the guests, every fibre concentrated on conquering that sudden tension.

As if she’d been afraid to step into freedom.

Ridiculous! For years she’d done nothing but plan how to get away.

It was just the rich food after sparse rations that had turned her stomach. The heavy scents clogging the air at the wedding feast and the buzz of conversation after months of monastic silence that made her dizzy.

Or maybe it was excitement at being so close to escape. Fear that at the eleventh hour it would all go wrong. She knew firsthand how Gamil liked to toy with his victims—hold out the illusion of liberty then yank it away. She’d watched it happen to her mother too. Each time Leila had vowed not to let him best her. But she shuddered, remembering.

‘Are you cold?’

‘Not at all.’

Nothing could stop her boarding that plane. This was the first day of her new life away from the man who’d made her world, and her mother’s, hell. Soon she’d put her plans into action. Set herself up with the money she got on marriage and see about resuming her studies. She’d build a new life without ever needing to ask anyone’s permission again.

Joy flooded her. This was real. Joss had already secured her precious passport. How often had Gamil taunted her that he kept it under lock and key?

The limousine was ushered through a gate and onto the airfield. Moments later they drew up near a sleek jet. Staff waited to see them aboard.

‘Ready?’ The deep rumble of her husband’s voice tickled Leila’s spine, leaving her skin tingling. But, she reassured herself, he was husband on paper only. The instrument of her freedom.

‘Ready.’ Eagerly she pushed open the door before the chauffeur reached it.

Warm, desert-scented air wafted into the car as she slid from the seat. She nodded her thanks to the uniformed driver, turned to face the crew lined up at the base of the steps and grabbed the car door as her knees abruptly crumpled.

The world swooped around her: the sky vast, almost endless as it tilted and stretched towards a far distant horizon. It was so huge, so empty, as if it had the power to suck her up into its immense nothingness. Sick heat beat at her temples.

Her pulse raced as her heart catapulted against her rib cage. In her ears she heard the roar of pounding blood.

A nameless, dragging terror clawed at her. She knew it would press her down till that infinite space swamped her, expelling the last of the air from her labouring lungs.

Leila couldn’t breathe. Yet she fought to stay on her feet. She saw the chauffeur say something then Joss was in front of her. His mouth moved. His brow pleated in a scowl.

He might have been behind glass. Everything was distant but for the heat, the weight of the very air pushing at her, and the tandem crashing thud of her heart and lungs as panic seized her and her stomach churned.

Adrenalin surged as she fought the impulse to fling herself back into the car. Into that small cocoon of safety that beckoned so tantalisingly.

She wouldn’t do it.

She wasn’t going back, no matter what!

Yet it was all she could do to keep her feet on the ground, her hands limpet-like on the door.

‘Leila!’ This time she heard Joss. There was concern in his brusque tone. ‘What is it?’

She dragged in a deep breath and with furious effort straightened her shoulders. She lifted her chin, swallowing with difficulty, her throat as dry as the great inland desert.

Joss’s dark gaze held hers, reminding her she was strong. She’d survived years with her dangerously controlling stepfather. She’d got through a farce of a wedding that was all about business, not love. Surely she could walk to the plane.

The thought of being taken back to the capital, perhaps to her old home and her stepfather’s tender mercies, was a douche of ice water on overheated flesh.

‘Sorry,’ she said in an unfamiliar voice. ‘My legs are stiff from sitting so long.’ She tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. ‘I’ll be okay in a minute.’ At least her voice was merely hoarse now, not wobbly.

For answer Joss turned and said something to his staff, who dispersed out of sight.

Leila drew another breath. Whatever this unnamed fear, it wasn’t rational. It could be overcome. She took a tentative step, still holding the car door. Her legs were made of concrete, so heavy, yet shaking and weak as water.

She took a second step towards the jet. Only twenty paces to the stairs. She could manage that.

With a shuddering breath Leila forced her cramped fingers to release the door. Willing herself on, she paced towards the plane.

Out of nowhere strong arms wrapped round her, scooping her up. They hefted her against a solid body that smelled of soap and citrus and what could only be the spicy scent of male flesh. A thread of heat eddied through her, warming her frozen body.

The arms tightened and she felt the reassuring thud of Joss’s heart against her: steady, calm. Reassuring.

In that moment her instinctive protest faded away.

It didn’t matter that she hated the idea of needing help. Or that Joss acted simply because he couldn’t leave his bride collapsing on the tarmac.

For the first time since her mother’s death Leila knew the comfort of being held. The shock of it helped clear her pounding head.

‘Relax,’ Joss said in an even tone as if dealing with a half-fainting female didn’t faze him. Perhaps he was used to women swooning at his feet! ‘I’ll have you somewhere quiet in a moment.’

‘I can walk. I want to board the plane!’ She jerked her head up and found herself with a close-up view of his solid jaw and a full lower lip, incongruous in such a harshly defined face yet somehow right. Midnight-blue eyes bored into her, alight with speculation. Straight eyebrows tilted high towards his hairline as if he registered her desperation.

Anxiety still jangled like a drug in her bloodstream but she met his scrutiny with all the dignity she could muster.

‘Please, Joss.’ It was the first time she’d said his name and it slipped out with an ease that surprised her. ‘I’ll be fine once I’m aboard.’

He hesitated and Leila’s nerves stretched to breaking point. She watched his brow furrow as he scrutinised her minutely. ‘Very well. The jet it is.’

Leila dragged in the breath to fill her empty lungs. ‘Thank you.’

She shut her eyes and tried to regulate her ragged breathing, willing her pulse to slow. She sensed him move but didn’t open her eyes. It was enough to feel those hard muscles holding her, the sense of safety seeping slowly into her taut body.

She didn’t let herself question why she felt safe in the arms of a stranger.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not usually given to…’ What? What was wrong with her? ‘Usually I can even walk and make conversation at the same time.’

A huff of laughter riffled the hair on her forehead. ‘No doubt. Don’t forget I’ve seen you play hostess, deal with an unfamiliar husband in front of hundreds of guests at a never-ending wedding and maintain your poise without batting an eyelid.’

Leila’s eyes popped open at the note of wry humour in that deep suede voice. It…appealed to her.

She’d thought Joss Carmody too dour for humour. Too focused for sympathy, especially for a wife he didn’t want. She’d been sure when he looked at her all he saw was a vast tract of land awaiting development.

‘That was a short wedding celebration by Bakhari standards,’ she murmured, concentrating on his face and not the vast sky beyond his shoulder as he ascended the stairs to the plane. ‘We got off lightly.’

Gamil had been furious, wanting to display his wealth and important son-in-law to the cream of society. He’d surpassed himself in ostentatious displays of riches that would have made her parents cringe. No wonder she’d felt ill. It must have been the heavy food.

Leila felt a solid shoulder shrug against her as Joss stepped sideways through the door. Strange how she didn’t mind in the least the alien sensation of being clasped so close to him.

‘I had places to be. I couldn’t stay feasting for day upon day.’

‘Of course not. Very few people insist on such traditions any more.’

She took a deep breath of cool air and surveyed the luxurious private jet. Already she felt better. Maybe after years locked away she’d simply lost her ability to deal with the Bakhari heat. The explanation buoyed her.

‘I can stand now. Thank you. I feel all right.’

Joss tilted a look from his superior height, scouring her face as if penetrating her secrets. His expression gave no hint of his thoughts. But then he was a self-made multibillionaire. He’d perfected the art of keeping his thoughts to himself.

A flicker of unease trembled under her skin. What did he see as he watched her? A business asset or something else?

Leila pushed her palm against his collarbone, trying to lever some distance between them. It didn’t work, only making her aware of his unyielding strength. Held in his arms, she suddenly felt not so much protected as vulnerable. Puny against his formidable masculinity.

It made her uneasy.

His gaze dipped to her mouth and her lips tingled as if she’d eaten chilli.

‘Joss! I said I can stand.’ Suddenly it was imperative he release her. She’d felt light-headed before but this was different. Something she didn’t want to explore. Something to do with him.

Smoothly he put her down, watching her intently.

Fortunately the strength had returned to her legs. She was herself again, able to walk, spine straight and legs steady, to the lounge chair the stewardess indicated.

Sitting straight despite its encompassing luxury, Leila turned to the hovering stewardess.

‘I’d like some water, please. And do you have anything for travel sickness?’

‘Of course, madam.’ The woman bustled away.

If Leila tried hard enough she might convince herself it was motion sickness she’d experienced out there after her first trip in a vehicle in ages. Or the effects of heat.

She watched Joss sit on the other side of the cabin. His gaze didn’t leave her as she took the medication and a healthy slug of water.

His scrutiny made her uneasy. It wasn’t like Gamil’s, which had always made her flesh crawl. But Joss’s steady regard seemed to strip her bare. Surely he couldn’t see the tumble of elation and anxiety she strove to hide? Concealing what she felt had been a matter of survival under Gamil’s cruel regime and she’d become adept.

Deliberately she put her head back and closed her eyes, reassured by the hum of the engines starting.

When finally she felt the plane take off she opened them to see Joss, head bent over a stack of papers, his pen slashing an annotation across the page.

Relief welled up inside her. He’d forgotten her, his curiosity had been temporary. Once they reached London he’d forget her entirely.

She turned to see Bakhara drop away and exhilaration filled her. Her new life had just begun.

CHAPTER THREE

‘I SEE YOU’VE made yourself at home.’

Joss sauntered into the kitchen. The sight of his wife setting a kettle to boil made the huge, functional room seem domestic, almost cosy.

It was the last place he’d expected to find her. Given the number of servants in her old home he’d imagined her reclining in bed and summoning staff to wait on her.

Leila swung round, eyes wide, and he felt the impact of her clear gaze like a touch. Intriguing. Yesterday he’d put the sensation down to curiosity and a tinge of concern when she’d all but fainted at his feet.

‘You surprised me,’ she said in a husky voice that purred through his belly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

Joss shrugged. ‘I’ve been known to make my own coffee occasionally.’ Hell, he’d spent enough time batching in rough-and-ready outback accommodation to know his way around a kitchen. He could feed a whole shift of hungry miners if need be. Plain, hearty fare that stuck to the ribs, not the sort of fancy delicacies a society princess like Leila ate. She was like his mother had been—used to being waited on.

‘I meant I didn’t expect to see you in the apartment.’ As his brows rose she added, ‘Not at this time of day. It’s only early afternoon.’

‘And tycoons never take time off?’ He watched her gaze skitter away across the gleaming floor before returning to his.

The connection ignited a tiny spark of sensation.

Joss ignored it. He was good at ignoring unimportant things. Things that didn’t figure in his plans.

‘I understand you’re a self-made man. You can’t have got where you are without working long hours.’

So, she’d been interested enough to find out that much.

‘You’re right.’ He strolled across the room, peeled off his jacket and dropped it on a stool near the enormous island bench. ‘My working hours are long.’

There was an understatement! He didn’t bother explaining that he enjoyed the cut and thrust of expanding his empire. That he revelled in the challenges of business despite the highly efficient teams he employed.

Business was an end in itself, giving total satisfaction. His commercial success gave him a purpose nothing else could. There was always a new goal, inevitably harder, more satisfying than the last. Hence his move into new territories with this Bakhari deal and his recent mining acquisition in Africa.

‘I’ll be working tonight, video conferencing with Australia, and I leave tomorrow to deal with a crisis.’ The rest of his London meetings would have to wait. An oil-rig accident took priority. ‘In the meantime it’s time for us to talk.’

‘Good idea.’ Leila nodded but her shoulders looked stiff.

Why was she tense? Because of him? Or was she ill again? He frowned.

Last night, arriving in Britain, she’d barely stirred when they landed, knocked out apparently by the medication she’d taken. He’d had to carry her to the car and again from the basement car park to the apartment.

He’d left it to his efficient housekeeper to get her to bed. Then he’d put in a couple of hours in his private gym and study before retiring in the early hours.

Yet instead of sleeping instantly as he’d trained himself to do, Joss had lain awake pondering the enigma that was his wife.

There’d been no mistaking her fragility as he’d held her in his arms. She’d weighed next to nothing when he’d scooped her up and onto his jet. He’d felt the bony jut of her hip and the outline of her ribs.

That had stirred long-buried memories. Of Joanna at fifteen—all skin and bone, turning in on herself rather than facing the selfish demands of their parents. Parents who’d never given a damn about either of their children, except as weapons in their vindictive, ongoing battle against each other.

Holding Leila, feeling the tremors running through her, evidence of the weakness she strove to hide, Joss had been hit by a surge of protectiveness he hadn’t known since he was ten, wanting to save the big sister who had wasted away before his eyes.

But Leila wasn’t Joanna. Leila wasn’t some wounded teenager. She was a grown woman, well enough to sell herself for an easy life of wealth.

It was no concern of his if she’d overdone the pre-wedding dieting. Yet he found himself checking. ‘You’re better today?’

‘Much better, thank you. The wedding preparations must have tired me more than I knew.’

The kettle boiled and clicked off. ‘Would you like something? I’m making chamomile tea.’ She favoured him with one of those small, polite smiles. The perfect hostess.

‘Sounds appalling. I’ll stick with coffee.’ He strode to the door, ready to call his housekeeper, only to find her scurrying towards him.

‘What can I get you, Mr Carmody?’

‘Coffee and a sandwich. My wife will have chamomile tea and…?’ He raised an interrogative brow.

‘Nothing else, thanks. I’m not hungry.’

Joss surveyed the demure beige silk dress hanging loose on her. She’d lost weight since they first met. Then she’d been slim but rounded in all the right places. Now even the line of her jaw was stark, too pronounced.

His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t just the weight loss that disturbed him. She looked…drab. He was no fashion expert but even he could see that shade leached the colour from her face. The dress was completely wrong, suited to an older woman rather than a young and pretty one.

At least her legs were as delectable as he recalled.

At their first meeting he’d been distracted, enjoying the counterpoint of her sexy legs and lush mouth with her composed, almost prim demeanour. Plus there’d been those tiny flashes of spirit that had reassured him she had the capacity to hold her own as the society hostess he required.

She was a fascinating combination of intellect, beauty and cool calm. Or she would be to a man who allowed himself to be fascinated.

Joss wasn’t in that category. He had no intention of disrupting a sound business arrangement with anything like an intimate relationship.

He strictly separated his business and private lives. Though physical intimacy probably rated in the business side of his life: sex for mutual pleasure plus the expensive gifts and five-star luxury he provided to whatever woman he chose to warm his bed.

‘Mr Carmody?’

Joss found his housekeeper surveying him curiously.

‘I leave it to you, Mrs Draycott. Just bring a selection that will tempt my wife’s appetite.’

Leila’s stare sharpened. That look provoked a tiny sizzle of pleasure in his gut, like anticipation at the beginning of a new venture.

‘Of course, sir.’

‘We’ll be in the small sitting room.’

Leila held his gaze unblinkingly. Then without a word she crossed the room, her head regally high, her walk slow, drawing attention to the undulation of her hips.

But Joss kept his gaze on her face, trying to read what lay behind her calm countenance. For there was something. The frisson of energy that charged down his spine when his gaze locked with hers proved it.

He could almost hear the words she wasn’t saying.

Almost, but infuriatingly not quite.

He followed her, stopping abruptly as she halted in the doorway.

Her scent invaded his nostrils, not the heavy attar of roses from the wedding, but something light and fresh, barely discernible as he tilted his head towards her neat chignon.

This close he felt it again as he had on the runway yesterday: tension crackling in the air as if she generated some unseen power that magnetised his skin.

What was it about Leila that drew him?

‘Which is the small sitting room? You have several.’

‘To the right,’ he said. ‘Third door along.’

Following, Joss allowed his gaze free rein, cataloguing each dip and sway as she moved. His wife didn’t flaunt herself with an exaggerated strut. Yet with each slow step the slide of silk over her backside and flaring around her legs screamed ‘woman’ in a way that had all his attention.

Was his wife sending him an invitation?

The possibility intrigued him. Yet remembering her cool look in the kitchen it didn’t seem likely.

Besides, this was a marriage of convenience. She’d be an excellent society hostess and her connections would be invaluable. For her part Leila would acquire prestige, an even more luxurious lifestyle and unprecedented spending power.

A win-win deal. Only a fool would mess with that for the sake of sex. It would complicate everything.

With a wife he couldn’t cancel all calls or silence protestations of devotion with an expensive farewell gift. Nor did he intend to face a moody spouse, smarting over some apparent slight, when they hosted an important dinner.

Sex with his wife might raise her expectations of a family one day; though he’d made it clear children weren’t on his agenda.

His flesh chilled. No, this arrangement would remain simple. Impersonal.

Yet Joss’s gaze didn’t shift from Leila as she entered the sitting room and took a seat, the picture of feminine grace. He had the unsettling suspicion he’d got more than he’d bargained for in this marriage of mutual convenience.

Leila chose a deep chair. The soft leather cocooned her and the frisson of disquiet she’d felt since Joss had arrived eased a fraction. She didn’t feel ready to deal with him when there was so much else on her mind.

Waking disorientated in an apartment that was all minimalist luxury she’d felt a wave of relief, finding herself alone. No one else had shared the huge bed, and the wardrobe was devoid of Joss’s clothes. Yet she’d barely had time to register thankfulness that he’d kept his word and his distance.

Too quickly her thoughts had turned to yesterday’s suffocating fear at the airstrip.

It was something she’d never experienced before. When she’d stepped onto the airfield the vastness of the open air had pressed down as if squeezing the life out of her.

Was it something to do with the sudden change after being forcibly kept indoors, confined for long periods?

She could only hope yesterday had been a one-off. She had no intention of letting the past dictate her future.

‘Your room is comfortable?’ Joss sat, stretching his long legs with the assurance of a man supremely comfortable with their glamorous setting. The place screamed wealth from the stunning views down the Thames, to the original artworks and designer furniture that impressed rather than welcomed.

With his back to the window it was hard to read his expression but she’d bet it was satisfied.

‘Very comfortable. Thank you.’ Leila had grown up with wealth, but nothing like this place. And the last few years she’d led a spartan existence, until her stepfather had pulled out all the stops to impress Joss Carmody.

Even the feel of silk against her skin was an unfamiliar sensual delight. As for wearing heels…she’d chosen stilettos today, hoping to get used to the feel of walking on stilts. She intended to take every opportunity to break with the past.

Silence descended. Did her husband have as little idea of what to say to his stranger-spouse as she did?

‘Have you lived here long?’

Broad shoulders shrugged. ‘I bought the penthouse a couple of years ago but I haven’t been here much. I tend to move wherever business takes me.’

She nodded. Mrs Draycott had intimated it was a pleasure having people to look after. Leila understood it was rare for Joss to be on the premises.

That suited her. She’d rather be alone to take her time sorting out her new life.

‘How long will you be here?’

His long fingers drummed on the armrest. ‘We’ll be here at least a month.’

No mistaking the subtle emphasis on the pronoun. Leila’s heart skipped a beat. ‘We?’

‘Of course. We are just married, after all.’

Leila pushed aside panic at the thought of sharing even such spacious premises with Joss Carmody. Despite their agreement to pursue separate lives, her hackles rose defensively at the idea of being close to him for even a short time. He was powerful, self-satisfied and used to getting his own way. Characteristics that reminded her too forcefully of Gamil.

Yet she understood Joss wouldn’t want to broadcast the fact their marriage was a paper one only. No doubt their separation would be arranged discreetly later.

She’d use the time to investigate her study options and find the perfect home. She longed for a house with a garden, but maybe a flat would be more practical till she found her feet.

But a whole month here? Surely that wouldn’t be necessary. Once she had her money—

‘Leila?’ She looked up to find him staring. ‘What is it? You don’t like the penthouse?’

‘On the contrary, it’s very pleasant.’

‘Pleasant?’ One dark eyebrow shot up. ‘I’ve heard it called many things but not that.’

‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ Leila said slowly. ‘The apartment is spectacular.’ If you enjoyed cold modern minimalism that broadcast too ostentatiously that it cost the earth.

‘Here you are, sir, madam.’ Mrs Draycott entered with a vast tray. ‘There are sandwiches and—’ she shot a smiling glance at Leila ‘—Middle Eastern nut rolls in syrup and cakes flavoured with rosewater. I thought you might appreciate a little reminder of home, madam.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Even though memories of home were now fatally tainted.

Leila accepted a plate heaped with delicacies and smiled at the housekeeper as she left the room.

‘These are good,’ Joss said after polishing off one of the pastries and reaching for a second.

‘You have a sweet tooth?’ Leila put her plate down on a side table and reached for her tea. ‘Did your mother make you sweet treats as a child?’ Though they’d always had a cook, Leila remembered her mother’s occasional baking as the best in the world.

‘No.’ The word seemed shorter than ever in that brusque tone. ‘My mother didn’t sully her hands with anything as mundane as cooking.’

‘I see.’ His tone didn’t encourage further comment.

‘I doubt it.’ Joss’s voice was cool but the fierce angle of his pinched eyebrows told of harnessed emotions.

‘My mother abhorred anything that might interfere with her girlish figure or delicate hands.’ His gazed raked her and Leila’s skin prickled as if he’d touched her. ‘Plus she believed the world revolved around her. She had no inclination for anything domestic if it involved dirtying her hands. That’s what other people were for.’

Leila frowned at his scathing assessment. Or perhaps it was the burn of ice-cold fury in his eyes.

She looked away, uncomfortable with the sudden seismic emotion surging beneath his composure.

They were strangers and she’d prefer they stayed that way. The trembling hint of sympathy she felt at what sounded like an uncomfortable home life wasn’t something she wanted to pursue.

Instinctively she knew he wouldn’t thank her for it.

Leila cast around for a response. ‘Your mother must be very impressed at all this.’ Her gesture took in the architect-designed penthouse in a building that was the last word in London exclusivity.

And maybe that explained the soulless feel of the place. Apparently Joss didn’t have the time or inclination for anything as domestic as furnishing his home. This looked as if it had been decorated by a very chic, very talented designer who wanted to make a bold statement rather than a home.

‘My mother isn’t alive.’ Joss’s gaze grew hooded as he let the silence between them grow. ‘I don’t have a family.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘The absence of relatives at the wedding didn’t alert you?’ His tone was abrupt and Leila cursed herself for not noticing. Given the number of Gamil’s invitees, the imbalance should have been glaringly obvious. Except she’d been on tenterhooks wondering if she’d finally managed to escape his clutches. Most of the day had been a blur of fear and elation.

‘No. I…’

Her words petered out in face of Joss’s frown. From his steely expression it was clear he considered her abominably self-absorbed.

‘Nor do I want a family. I have no interest in continuing the family name.’ His eyes bored into her, their intense glitter pinioning her. ‘And I don’t see any point bringing more children into a world that can’t feed the mouths we’ve already got.’

He looked pointedly at her plate, still laden with Mrs Draycott’s carefully prepared treats.

Leila’s stomach cramped at the thought of all that intense cloying sweetness. After her recent meagre rations she hadn’t a hope of eating all this rich food. That had to be part of the reason she’d felt unwell yesterday, trying to force down the elaborate wedding feast under Gamil’s watchful glare.

But, short of revealing to Joss the real reason for her lack of appetite, there was nothing she could do but eat. Joss might not be cast in the same mould as Gamil but she’d take no chances. He was bossy, powerful and authoritarian. She’d learned to her cost that domineering men couldn’t be trusted. There was no way she’d trust Joss with the story of Gamil’s brutality and her own helplessness against him. Who knew how he might use that against her?

Besides, the memory filled her with shame. Logic told her she’d done all she could to withstand Gamil’s abuse, but part of her cried out in self-disgust at the fact she’d been a victim.

Reluctantly she reached for a tiny cake. Inhaling its rich honeyed scent, she felt a wave of nausea hit her and she hesitated.

‘I happen to know Mrs Draycott went to a lot of effort to make something special for you.’

Leila felt the weight of Joss’s scrutiny as she bit into the delicacy.

Bittersweet memories drenched her with that first taste. Of a time when she’d taken happiness for granted. Her mother laughing in their Paris kitchen with their cook’s enormous apron wrapped twice around her slim form. Leila’s father, debonair in evening jacket, sneaking a cake from a cooling rack and having his hand smacked, so he wreaked his revenge with a loud kiss on his wife’s lips. Memories of childhood birthday parties and smiles.

‘It’s good,’ Leila murmured and risked another bite.

Too soon the memories were dislodged as bile rose in her throat. Her stomach churned in a sickening mix of distress and unsatisfied hunger.

She made to rise. ‘Excuse me, I need—’

‘The bathroom?’ Joss’s tone was rusty with anger and she swung her head up to find him scowling down at her. ‘Why? So you can dislodge any trace of food from your system?’

Leila shook her head, stunned by his anger.

‘I’m feeling a little unwell, that’s all. I—’

‘You’re making yourself unwell, don’t you mean?’

‘No!’ She surged to her feet. ‘I don’t mean that at all.’ She was tired of having people put words into her mouth and overseeing her every move. She was weary and out of sorts and—

‘Tell me, Leila.’ His voice was lethally quiet as he stalked across to block her exit. ‘Is it bulimia or anorexia?’

Joss was determined to sort this out now.

His fragile patience for pampered princesses grew threadbare. And somewhere, deep inside, was a thread of real fear, the knowledge of precisely how dangerous an eating disorder was.

It did no good to tell himself Leila wasn’t his concern. He couldn’t turn his back.

‘It’s neither!’ Her head reared back in what looked like genuine shock. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my eating habits.’

He surveyed her slowly, pleased to see her sick pallor had abated, replaced by spots of high colour in her cheeks and fire in her eyes.

It struck him that his wife was beautiful when roused.

‘Then why have I never seen you consume more than a bite? Why are you sick after eating?’

He stepped nearer, close enough to inhale her fresh scent, and she angled her head high. He’d give her this: she didn’t back down from confrontation. His skin sizzled as she surveyed him. A pulse of something like desire beat hard in his belly.

If he’d known Leila could be so…animated, he might have thought twice about marriage. He’d wanted a demure, stylish hostess, not a spitfire. But the coiling heat in his lower body made a lie of the thought.

‘Do you always jump to conclusions?’ One fine eyebrow arched high on her smooth forehead, giving her a supercilious, touch-me-not air that made him want to level the barriers between them and give her a taste of raw, earthy pleasure. The force of that need shocked him.

‘Do you always avoid questions for which you’ve no answer?’

Her nostrils flared as if she kept tight rein on a quick temper. Unbidden, interest stirred. He’d always liked passion in a woman—in bed, not emotionally.

The thought brought him up sharply.

Leila was his wife. He was not going to bed her. He was not going to risk the possibility of messy, emotional scenes with the woman he’d just tied himself to.

She folded her hands in a show of patience that might have fooled him but for the heat still simmering in those luminous eyes. Despite his better judgement he found himself enjoying the contrast.

‘I haven’t been eating rich meals lately. The food at the wedding feast was designed to impress but it wasn’t to my taste.’

‘You’ve been dieting? Didn’t your father warn you about becoming underweight?’ His mouth thinned at her stupidity. Didn’t she value her health?

‘Stepfather.’ Instantly she pursed her lips as if regretting the correction. ‘And no, he didn’t have a problem with my diet.’

Again that puzzling flicker of almost-expression crossed her face, as if she suppressed something. Something Joss was determined to uncover.

‘And now? You can’t tell me the cakes aren’t to your taste. I saw the look on your face when you took that first bite.’ She’d closed her eyes as if overcome by bliss. The sight of such unadulterated sensual pleasure had been arresting, drawing him towards her and heating a coil of masculine anticipation low in his groin.

Leila shrugged. ‘It was lovely but, as I said, my diet has been very plain, very…restricted. This was just too much of a good thing.’

Joss clamped down the surge of admonition on his tongue. He knew she hid something. But her shock at his accusation seemed genuine. For the moment he’d have to reserve judgement.

‘And now? Do you still feel sick?’

She tilted her head, her eyes widening. ‘You know…’ she paused as if considering ‘…I don’t!’ She looked genuinely pleased.

‘Good. You need to build up your appetite.’

‘I do?’

He nodded, already resuming his seat and picking up his coffee. He was savvy enough to realise it would take a while to get to the bottom of whatever ailed Leila. ‘I’m going away on business but when I return and we start entertaining you won’t be able to run to the bathroom through every meal.’

Entertaining? Shock slammed her and her stomach knotted in dismay. Since when would a couple leading separate lives entertain guests?

Leila sank into her chair, her eyes fixed on Joss as he drained his coffee then bit into another syrupy nut roll with strong white teeth. Dazed, she watched the rhythmic movement of his solid jaw. Clearly he was a man of healthy appetite, part of her brain registered, just as if she weren’t reeling from his announcement.

‘What do you mean, entertaining?’

‘You’ll assist when we have guests.’ He shrugged. ‘A lot of business is done, connections made, socially. One of the reasons I considered you a suitable bride is your pedigree: child of diplomats, brought up in the best circles, with links to many powerful families with whom I’ll be doing business.’ He sat back, clearly pleased with himself. ‘You’re a born hostess. It was one of the things I checked when we met.’

‘Indeed.’ The word emerged between gritted teeth. Her skin prickled as fury engulfed her.

He looked so smug that he’d deigned to consider her suitable as his wife. And he wanted her to be his hostess? As if she owed him something! He’d come to her, wanting her inheritance.

‘That wasn’t in our agreement,’ she bit out.

‘It wasn’t?’ His sculpted lower lip firmed. His eyes narrowed and abruptly the tension in the air thickened.

‘No.’ Leila refused to be cowed. ‘You didn’t mention us entertaining together.’

Slowly Joss crossed one leg over another. His fingers splayed over the arms of his chair. But Leila wasn’t fooled into believing he was relaxed. There was an alertness about him that made her think of a predator, sizing up dinner.

‘You think the mere fact of our marriage entitles you to be kept in the style to which you’d like to be accustomed? Without stirring yourself in any way?’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. You married me for my father’s oil-rich land.’ How dared he try to make her sound mercenary?

‘So I did.’ His smile had a hungry edge that tightened every nerve. ‘And in doing so I acquired a hostess to help me achieve my goals. At present that involves smoothing my dealings with the elite of European and Middle Eastern society. You’re perfectly placed to assist me.’

Perfectly placed!

Leila pressed her lips together rather than let rip with a scathing retort.

‘I’m afraid I have other plans.’ She sat back and stared into sparking midnight-dark eyes.

She was safe now, out of Bakhara. Soon she’d have her own funds and in a country like England Joss couldn’t impose his will as her stepfather had.

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