The Desert Prince's Mistress Read Free Page A

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 curvedinto 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 questioninghad 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