The Desert Sheikh's Captive Wife. Lynne GrahamЧитать онлайн книгу.
Tilda launched at him furiously. ‘But you should be ashamed of yourself for treating me like this!’
Rashad consulted the rapier thin designer watch on his wrist and murmured with smooth regret, ‘I have another appointment now. Your time is up.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry—I’m going all right!’ Tilda spun on her heel and hauled open the door with a perspiring palm.
Rashad sent her a sardonic smile. ‘You really couldn’t expect me to fall for the same fairy stories this time around.’
Her oval face red as fire, Tilda stalked out.
CHAPTER THREE
TILDA got on the train back to Oxford. She was in shock. Everything about her meeting with Rashad had shaken her up. Not least the manner in which she had reacted to that kiss! Her passionate physical response to him had coursed through her like a river in flood and she was furious with herself. Evidently loathing Prince Rashad Hussein Al-Zafar was no defence whatsoever against his persuasive sensuality. What did that say about her intelligence or her self-control?
In that field, Tilda conceded angrily, absolutely nothing had changed in five wretched years. Rashad had still only to touch her to set her on fire with longing. But nobody knew better than Tilda that it was a kind of weakness that could lead to disaster. Her family history bore that out. Her mother, Beth, had only been nineteen when she had fallen pregnant with Tilda and had had to get married in a hurry. Beth’s woes had not ended there for her husband had resented his new family obligations. An ambitious young lawyer, he had been a neglectful husband and an uninterested parent. Five years later, Beth had become a widow and an easy mark for Scott Morrison’s promises of undying devotion. Madly in love, Beth had conceived her third child just a few months into the relationship and had rushed back into marriage with seriously unhappy results.
Tilda suppressed a sigh. Although she felt guilty acknowledging it, she had tried to learn by her mother’s mistakes and had resolved that no man would ever be allowed to come between her and her wits, or her education, for that matter. In the early teenage years she had had little interest in boys. Scott’s bullying, drinking and womanising had put her off the entire male sex, while she had done what she could to support her mother and help out with the younger children.
At eighteen years old, she had been in her last year of school. When Scott had told her that he had fixed her up with part-time work as a waitress in a nightclub managed by one of his seedy friends she had been incensed, for she had already had a weekend job in a supermarket. Unfortunately whenever Tilda had dared to defy Scott, he had taken his temper out on the rest of her family, who had been much less able to stand up to him. Within a week the continual arguments and her mother’s distress had vanquished Tilda’s resistance. While dutifully agreeing with Beth that, yes, she would earn more money, she had known that the extra hours and late nights would scarcely be conducive to the intensive studying she had been doing for her final exams.
From the outset Tilda had hated the attention that her looks had drawn from the customers. The club had attracted slick, high-earning professionals and wealthy students and spoilt young men who had drunk too much and thought the female staff were fair game. Tilda had soon realised why the manager only seemed to hire waitresses who were more than ordinarily attractive. Some of them had regularly slept with the clientele in return for gifts or cash and their liberal ways had encouraged custom.
Tilda had worked there only a fortnight before she had first seen Rashad. His supple, sexy aura as he had descended the stairs had caught her eye first. When he had turned his head and locked dark golden eyes with hers, she had literally stopped breathing. Mentally it had been like running into a solid brick wall and seeing stars. She had found it impossible not to keep gazing around to see where he was, or to steal another transfixed glance at him. Every time she had looked, she had found that he was looking, too, and, even though that had embarrassed her, she had been helpless to resist temptation.
A big dark-haired guy had approached her towards the end of that evening. ‘Fancy coming to a party tonight?’ he asked, his foreign accent roughening his pronunciation.
‘No, thanks,’ she said flatly, turning away.
‘I’m Leonidas Pallis and I have a friend who wants to meet you.’ He dropped a card and a hundred pound note down on the tray she was holding. ‘Party kicks off around midnight. That should cover your cab fare.’
‘I said, no, thanks.’ Her cheeks scarlet, Tilda thrust the banknote back at him and walked away.
Soon afterwards, a waitress called Chantal came over to speak to her. ‘You really riled Leonidas. Don’t you know who he is? He’s the grandson of a Greek tycoon and he’s absolutely loaded. He gives incredible tips and throws amazing parties. What’s your problem?’
‘I’m just not interested in mixing with the customers outside working hours.’ Tilda could also have mentioned that she had school the next day, but the manager had banned her from admitting that she was still a schoolgirl as he had said it might give the club a bad name.
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