The Desert Prince's Mistress

‘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?’

‘But it isn’t just looks and sex appeal we’re searching for, is it?’ questioned Scott seriously. ‘Otherwise someone we’ve shown you already would surely have come up to standard?’ He sighed. ‘You’ve seen loads of beautiful women this week.’

‘You think I’m being too choosy?’ asked Darian.

Scott shrugged and then shook his head. ‘I admire your perfectionism, if you must know. Your search for that indefinable something or someone—a person who will embody everything you want to say about your company. I guess that’s the secret of your success. Am I right?’

Darian shrugged. ‘That’s part of it.’

But only part. Darian put a lot of his success down to a restless and relentless seeking nature. He never did anything long enough to get bored, because when you were bored all the freshness and enjoyment simply vanished. It was the same with relationships. Familiarity, in his experience, bred a tedium far more deadly than contempt.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, then—let’s go.’

They made their way up the winding staircase towards the studio.

None of the people who worked for him knew yet that this advertising campaign was to be Darian’s swansong. First he would choose the perfect woman and with her face bombard the country with the name of his mobile phones to ensure maximum publicity.

Then he wanted out. He was planning to sell the company and walk away. To take the money and add it to the pile he had already made by selling previous successful companies, and look for yet another new challenge.

And then what? prompted a little voice in his head. Is that going to bring you happiness? Darian’s mouth curved into a sardonic smile, and he batted the thought away as if it had been a mildly troublesome fly. Men who sought happiness were doomed. Women, too. Success and achievement were far more tangible concepts than happiness as far as Darian was concerned.

They were almost at the top of the flight of steps when he heard Scott’s slightly muffled voice from behind him. ‘We should announce you, really, Darian—shouldn’t we?’

‘Well, you could, I suppose,’ said Darian lazily, but then he shook his head. ‘No, on second thoughts—don’t. Let’s surprise them.’

‘Sure?’

Unseen, Darian smiled. ‘Oh, perfectly sure,’ he said softly. ‘Women are always so much more interesting when you catch them unawares, don’t you think? You see them for what they really are, rather than what they want you to see.’

‘That sounds like a pretty harsh judgement,’ observed Scott. ‘I didn’t have you down for a cynic.’

Darian smiled again, but this time it barely curved his lips. ‘Not harsh at all,’ he said softly. ‘Nor cynical. Just an accurate assessment. Now, come on—let’s go.’ And as his dark head appeared in the lighted studio the whole room fell silent.

Lara was out of breath, her unruly hair looking even more tousled than usual. The denim jacket she wore was making her much too hot, but she didn’t want to spare the time to take it off. She waited for the bus to swish its way through the puddle past her, and then made a run for the door of the studio, glancing at her watch as she did so. Damn, damn and damn!

Her agent had been doubtful—sniffy, even—about putting Lara forward for the casting, but frantic questioning had assured her that, yes, there was a last vacant slot in the day’s casting for Wildman Phones.

‘Why the hell didn’t you put me forward for it in the first place?’ she had wailed.

Her agent had sounded incredulous. ‘Lara—the last time I saw you your hair was cropped and dark.’

‘But I was appearing in a Russian play!’ she’d protested. ‘It’s back to normal now!’

‘How normal is normal?’ her agent had enquired patiently. ‘You’re a brunette, lovie—and they’re looking for the archetypal English rose!’

‘Archetypal, not stereotypical!’ Lara had retorted. ‘There’s nothing in the rulebook to say an English rose can’t have dark hair!’

‘I suppose not,’ her agent had responded doubtfully.

Lara pushed the studio door open and a brief feeling of irony washed over her. English rose indeed! Clad in denim and a clinging black tee-shirt, anyone less fitting the description she had yet to see. But she reminded herself that she wasn’t really here to get the job. She was here to see the great man himself, that was all—and what better way to do that than legitimately?

The two women standing in the foyer looked her up and down.

‘Which way’s the casting?’ Lara squeaked.

One looked uncertain and the other gave a slightly smug smile as she jerked her thumb in the direction of the spiral staircase. ‘Up there. And you’re late,’ she added bluntly.

‘I know I am,’ moaned Lara, as she legged it up the steps.

The room was stifling, reeked of lots of different clashing perfumes, and was full of women. Correction—beautiful women. And every single one of them had taken to heart the English rose theme in a big, big way. Despite her nerves, Lara bit back a smile.

Some of them wore lace-trimmed blouses; others were resplendent in flower-sprigged high-necked dresses. There was even one woman clad in floor-length muslin who looked as if she would be more at home eating cucumber sandwiches on a quintessential English lawn, instead of packed into a crowded studio with a load of competitive peers.

And every woman in the room shared one unmistakable characteristic.

They were all blonde!

‘S-sorry!’ gulped Lara as each sleek golden head turned in her direction.

Then, just as quickly, the women turned away from her again, and it took a moment or two while she caught her breath for Lara to realise that they were now all looking at one person. Or, rather, one man.

Lara hadn’t noticed him at first, because he had been standing in the shadows in one corner of the room, but once she had seen him she wondered how on earth he could have escaped her attention—because he seemed to radiate a vitality which made everyone else in the room look as though they were only half-alive. She narrowed her eyes in his direction and felt her heart clench in her chest, as if an iron fist had crumpled it between cold, hard fingers.

‘I—I’m 1-late,’ she stammered.

‘Damn right you are,’ he agreed, in a silky murmur.

She kept her face composed—she never quite knew how she did it—not when she was feeling this faint and dizzy and weak—and surreptitiously snaked her tongue out over lips which had dried so thoroughly that she felt she would never be able to speak again.

Sometimes you knew the truth about something by instinct alone, and if she had ever doubted the claim made by the writer of that letter then that doubt was vanquished instantly as she stared across the room at Darian Wildman.

Was it just her imagination working overtime—fuelled by the information she had received—or was everyone else in the room, Darian included, blind to what was as obvious as the blazing glare from one of the studio lights?

This man had royal blood running through his veins, setting him apart from everyone present. Marking him out as a different breed altogether—as different as a lion standing amid a group of mewing kittens.

He was tall—impressively tall—even taller than Khalim—yet his skin was not so dark as Khalim’s. But then this man was only half-Marabanese, Lara remembered. His flesh glowed gold and tawny and his eyes were gold, too. She had never seen eyes like them—they were like shards of golden glass, deep and gleaming, except that gold was a warm colour and this man’s eyes were cold.