LITMIR.BIZ

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does it feel to be the Crown Prince’s latest lady?’

      ‘Turn this way, luv … let us get a shot of the sparklers round your neck!’

      ‘Are you flying out to meet the Bakhari royal family?’ A woman yelled, trotting alongside her and extending a microphone. ‘Is it true you first met when Prince Rashad was up at Oxford?’

      Aghast at the attention and the intrusive interrogation, Tilda sped on almost at a run and kept her head bent down to discourage further photos being taken. Another couple of bodyguards came rushing up in support of their beleaguered colleagues and hastily ushered her out of the main concourse, down a corridor and into a private room.

      Her dismayed eyes collided without warning with Rashad’s searing golden scrutiny. Although the austere classic lines of his lean, strong face bore his customary air of detachment, Tilda felt as jolted as if she had stuck her finger into a live electric socket: wrath emanated from him in a force field. He inclined his arrogant dark head in a clear signal for her to approach him. She would have preferred to stay where she was. On the other hand she did not want to run the risk of being ordered around in front of his staff, all of whom were clumped in a corner being careful to neither speak nor look in their direction.

      ‘I will deal with this matter after we board.’ Rashad’s low-pitched intonation somehow achieved the same stinging effect as the flick of a whip.

      Tilda’s sense of intimidation was put to flight by a surge of annoyance. Here she was packaged and presented from head to toe and from the skin out as His Royal Highness had commanded. She had done exactly as she had been told. She had not put a foot wrong. What was the matter with him? Was he never satisfied? Her life promised to be hell for the duration of their relationship, she thought angrily. But she was quick to remind herself that the reward was that, within twenty-four hours, all immediate threat to the stability of her family would be eradicated.

      She stole a grudging glance at Rashad from below her honey-brown lashes and her tummy flipped with an immediacy that infuriated her. He was breathtakingly handsome. Yet there was something more compelling than mere good looks in his lean, sculpted features, something that ensnared her and made her want to look again and again. Five years earlier, she had been hopelessly addicted to him and wildly in love. A deep pang of pain assailed her at that recollection and chilled her to the marrow. No, she promised herself staunchly, never again would she allow her more tender emotions to overwhelm her in Rashad’s radius. She could not afford to make herself that vulnerable again.

      His private jet was large and the interior so sumptuous it took Tilda’s breath away. She sank into an extremely comfortable seat and braced herself for take-off while ruminating over what might have annoyed him. Was it the startling interest that the press had demonstrated in her at the airport? Well, that was scarcely her fault. He was a fabulously wealthy womaniser and royal into the bargain. The paparazzi adored him and tracked his movements round the globe. His social life filled gossip-page columns every month and occasionally even attracted headlines.

      Soon after the plane had left the runway, Rashad undid his seat belt and rose from his seat with swift movements. ‘You may now answer my questions.’

      Tilda, who had only flown a couple of times in her entire life, relaxed her white-knuckled grip on the arms of her seat and opened her eyes. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, shaking her pale blond head in bewilderment. ‘I’ve done nothing and I already feel like I’m on trial.’

      Rashad surveyed her with lustrous dark eyes of suspicion. He could not recall when he had last come so close to losing his temper. Her luminous turquoise eyes rested on him in seemingly innocent enquiry. But the very fact that she had contrived to home in on his one oversight and take advantage of it convinced him that once again she was acting.

      ‘Why did you tip off the press about our travel plans?’

      Tilda blinked, letting the ramifications of that far-reaching question sink in. Outrage flashed through her. ‘Now just you listen here,’ she gasped, struggling to undo her seat belt with furious hands.

      Rashad crouched down on a level with her. ‘No, you listen,’ he urged soft and low and deadly in warning. ‘If you shout, you will be overheard and you will embarrass my staff. Impertinence and discourtesy are much disliked in Bakhar.’

      Fit to be tied, Tilda trembled with rage and chagrin. ‘You’re the only person who makes me feel like this—’

      Rashad undid the seat belt that had defeated her with a deft flick of one hand and subjected her to the full assault of his stunning dark golden eyes. ‘You are strong-willed. I’m the only person who stands up to you.’

      Tilda scrambled up and took herself over to the other side of the cabin. Her oval face flushed, she spun round again before he could remind her that it was rude to turn her back on him. ‘You’re also the only person who continually makes me the target of unjust accusations. Surely that is some excuse for a loss of temper?’ she whispered back at him vehemently, her hands balled into fists of restraint by her side. ‘I’ve never had any contact with the press. I haven’t a clue about how to go about tipping them off, either.’

      Rashad dealt her a sizzling appraisal. ‘I cannot accept that. Five years ago the paparazzi barely knew of my existence and my association with you was never revealed in print. But today, even though I have never yet appeared in public with you, the paparazzi were waiting for your arrival. They have already identified you and made reference to our past acquaintance. Who else could have whetted their appetite with such details?’

      ‘How would I know? It wasn’t me!’ Tilda protested.

      ‘Sooner or later, you will have to tell me the truth,’ Rashad delivered with hard resolve. ‘Lies are at all times unacceptable to me.’

      Tilda ground her teeth together. ‘I’m not lying to you. Why would I tip off the press? Do you think I’m proud of the reason why I’m allowing myself to be flown out to your country?’

      ‘Enough, ‘ Rashad shot at her in a warning growl, marvelling at her ability to stand there looking so exquisitely beautiful while she went for him like a spitting, clawing tigress. But he meant every word that he had spoken. He would not settle for lies. She had strength and intelligence. He was convinced that if he was tough enough with her, those virtues would rise nearer the surface.

      Tilda picked a seat as far away from him as she could. Silence fell, and it was a silence laden with angry tension. A sun of impotent rage was rising inside her. According to him, everything that went wrong was her fault and now she couldn’t even shout at him. Where was the justice in that? How dared he blame her for the level of press interest in his fast-lane life with models and actresses? From where did he get the brass neck to continually take the moral high ground? In comparison she lived a life of unblemished virtue. So, she wasn’t perfect? So what! Was he?

      Temper still simmering, Tilda shot him a furious glance. ‘Do you really think that I have any wish to be publicly known as your trollop?’

      Rashad had to dig deep into his reserves to maintain silence in the face of such unbridled provocation. His trollop? He set his perfect white teeth together and flexed long, shapely brown fingers. Once the jet landed, his staff reappeared to disembark and Rashad was approached by his current senior aide, Butrus. A professor of law and an excellent administrator, the older man made a rather strained enquiry as to what designation he should place on Tilda’s visa to enter Bakhar.

      Rashad’s anger, all the more powerful for being denied utterance, was still intense. Wrathfully impatient of the bureaucracy of petty detail that the royal family had always been exempt from, Rashad responded in his own language and with an unashamed resolution that none would dare to question. ‘She is my woman. She does not require a visa.’

      Butrus froze, then went straight into retreat and bowed very low. An electric silence enveloped them all, his entire staff falling still. An almost imperceptible hint of colour demarcating his high cheekbones, Rashad realised that for the first time in his life he had shown his stormy emotions in public. As quickly, he decided that his candour might have shocked

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