Desert Sheikhs Collection: Part 1. Jane Porter
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in an alcove—private, yet managing to provide a good view of the rest of the restaurant. It was as if they had been saving the nicest table just for him, and that didn’t surprise her at all.
As they settled into their seats Lara thought that perhaps this was the best way of all of finding out what the real man was. A one-to-one dinner where she could discover as much about him as possible. It would be like taking an inventory.
‘You were miles away.’
His voice was a velvet murmur which nudged into her thoughts, and Lara blinked to find the gold eyes trained on her, piercing through her as if the light which shone from them was the precious metal itself. And for a moment she felt uncomfortable, as if what she was doing was somehow furtive. Well, when she stopped to think about it—it was. ‘W-was I?’
He gave a wry smile. He didn’t usually send women off into a trance! ‘Drink?’
Lara nodded. ‘Please.’
‘What?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
He raised his eyebrows fractionally and ordered wine. ‘Shall I choose what you’re eating, too?’ he questioned sardonically.
Lara nodded, enjoying the confounded look on his face. ‘Please.’ She smiled. ‘You’ve obviously eaten here plenty of times before—I’m happy to take your recommendations.’
‘Are you always so delightfully acquiescent?’ he questioned, in a voice of silky provocation.
Lara didn’t react to the not-so-subtle implication. ‘Only in matters concerning my stomach,’ she said. ‘I’ll eat whatever is put in front of me.’
‘You don’t survive on cigarettes and black coffee, then?’
Lara shuddered. ‘You’re joking!’
He studied her. A small moonstone necklace gleamed against her pale skin, and it took a supreme effort not to be completely distracted by the soft shadows of her cleavage. She wasn’t all skin and bones, like a lot of actresses and models.
‘How come you stay so slim?’ he questioned.
‘I only eat when I’m hungry, and I walk wherever possible.’
‘Even in London?’
‘Especially in London—it’s the best way to avoid the traffic and to see the city properly!’
He ordered, waited until red wine had been poured for them, then sat back in his seat, his fingers caressing the deep bowl of the glass.
‘So.’
Lara took a mouthful of wine, needing something to help her relax, to take her mind off the fact that his mouth had softened and she was wondering what it would be like to kiss it.
She smiled. ‘So.’
‘What shall we drink to?’ He raised his glass, his eyes questioning. ‘The new face of Wildman?’
‘Why not?’ Her heart was beating very fast as their glasses touched.
‘Soon to be emblazoned on posters all over the country,’ he mused. ‘How does that feel—knowing that your face will be everywhere?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never done a poster campaign before.’
‘But you’ve done other kinds of advertising—television, magazines.’
‘A bit.’
‘And does it feed the ego?’
It was a mocking challenge. A faintly hostile question. ‘Not really. Actors are notoriously insecure,’ she said, taking another sip of wine. ‘Didn’t you know that?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s the theory, but if that’s the case, then it strikes me as an odd type of profession to choose.’
‘Maybe the two are inseparable. Maybe it’s because they’re insecure and don’t feel comfortable in their own skins that they’re able to inhabit someone else’s so easily.’
The curve of her breasts gleamed softly beneath the cream silk. ‘I can’t imagine that you feel uncomfortable in your own skin,’ he observed quietly. ‘When you’re so very lovely.’
Lara quickly put her glass down before he could see that her hand was shaking. The compliment warmed and yet alarmed her. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. Her body was not supposed to be tingling and glowing and basking in his approbation as a cat would contentedly lap up the warm rays of the sun. This was not a date, this was a fact-finding mission, pure and simple.
If she wasn’t careful then they would spend the whole time talking about her, or, even worse, his wretched company, and then, before she knew it, the evening would be gone and she might never have this opportunity again.
The waiter came over, and she waited until he had deposited two dishes of steaming prawns before them.
She speared one uninterestedly. ‘Anyway,’ she said brightly. ‘You know something about me, but I know absolutely nothing about you.’ Other than that your contained and watchful silence makes me feel as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof.
‘But I thought that all actresses were self-centred and like nothing better than to talk about themselves?’
‘It’s very insulting to continue making those sweeping statements.’ Lara narrowed her eyes. ‘Though I suspect that’s why you said it—to try and stop me asking you questions about yourself.’
The golden eyes bored into hers. ‘You’re very persistent,’ he observed.
‘I think persistence is an undervalued quality.’
His voice was cool. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Where you were born.’ She chewed a mouthful of bread, as if she was just thinking the questions up as she went along. ‘Where you grew up.’
Darian went very still, his antennae on alert. ‘How very curious,’ he murmured. ‘Why?’
And Lara realised that she wanted to know in spite of everything, that even if she hadn’t opened that letter and needed to find out then she still would have wanted to find out more about Darian Wildman. He fascinated her; he was an intriguing man. But he was also a perceptive and intelligent man, and doubtless one who was used to women clamouring to know all about him. And if in the process of finding out about him she appeared like one of many, then that was just too bad. ‘I’m interested,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’
He twirled the stem of the wine glass between his long fingers. ‘Why do women always want a history?’
‘Because we like to know what makes people tick.’
‘And men don’t?’
‘Not really. Men are more interested in the here and now—women like to discover how we got to it.’
‘Because?’
Now she spoke from the heart. ‘Because our history is what defines us all and makes us who we are.’
Darian’s senses would usually have been put on alert at the turn the conversation had taken, but he was lulled by the sudden passion in her voice, by the blue fire which sparked from those long-lashed eyes. She was thoughtful and insightful, not what he had been expecting at all, and the unexpectedness coupled with the novelty made his habitual guard slip a little.
‘My history isn’t a particularly exciting one.’
She heard the brittle note which edged his voice, and part of her wanted to back off. But she couldn’t. This wasn’t just some prurient interest, some woman on the make, chipping away at the formidable exterior to find out what had made the man beneath. This was serious stuff.
‘Isn’t that subjective?’ she queried. ‘Everyone else’s