The Prince of Pleasure (14 page)

"Okay. Let us figure out what RN will do the best job of keeping you in line—"

"Does he need an RN?" Laurel said. "Or somebody to wield a whip? Because he already has somebody to do that."

The doctors looked at her. There was a steely glint in her eye.

 "He has me."

********

They went back to the house Khan had rented.

Jamal had seen to it that they'd been moved into a different suite.

This one was not a white oasis.

The walls were papered with cabbage roses. The carpet carried the same theme. There were more roses on the drapes and the bedspread, and the furniture was brightly lacquered in gold.

The bathroom décor was pretty much the same, with the addition of gilt cherubs that hung on the mirrored walls.

But the tub was big enough for two, and the bed was wide and high and strewn with pillows. Sunlight poured through a pair of French doors, and the balcony outside those doors overlooked a private garden.

"Not too bad," Laurel said.

Khan thought about the big tub and those mirrored walls.

"Not too bad at all," he said, taking her in his arms.

"None of that," she said primly. "I'm in charge, remember? And you're going straight to bed."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she said briskly, as she pulled back the comforter and the top sheet. "Get undressed."

"Role reversal. Could be interesting."

She swung toward him, laughing.

"Pure thoughts make for a pure heart," she said, or started to say, but he'd already unbuttoned his shirt and she could see the dressing over his wound.

She'd seen it endless times in the hospital but somehow, seeing it here, in a real room, with Khan wearing real clothes…

Her heart ached at the sight.

The gauze. The tape. The skin around it, black and blue from the impact of the bullet.

Her eyes filled

"I could have lost you," she whispered.

Khan reached for her and drew her into his arms. She burrowed against him, careful not to put pressure against the wound, marveling at the depth of her feelings for a man she'd only met a couple of weeks ago.

"We could have lost each other," he said softly.

She looked up at him. He bent his head and kissed her. His hand slid to her breast.

"No. We can't."

"I need you, and you need me. It has been much, much too long since I was inside you."

His words were simple, and honest, and true. She needed the fullness of him deep within her.

"Your wound," she whispered.

"Mmm." He wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck, lifted her face to his. Kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her mouth. "My wound." His hand clasped hers. He brought her palm against him, over the hard, hot fullness behind the straining denim of his jeans. "What wound is that?" Her breath caught; she made a little hum of pleasure and it went straight through him. "It is this wound that needs your attention."

"Khan. I could hurt you—"

"Only by denying me the one thing I need to convince me I am no longer at death's door."

He kissed her. Deeply. Tenderly. She sighed, rose to him, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him back.

He undressed her slowly, wanting to prolong these moments. Her cotton blouse fell to the carpet. Her bra fell beside it.

Was she as beautiful as he remembered? It seemed much longer than a handful of days since he'd made love to her.

Yes.

God, yes.

She was beautiful. Soft. Lovely.

Elegant.

He cupped her breasts, luxuriated in the little moan that escaped her lips, watched her face as he feathered his fingertips across her nipples.

"Oh," she whispered, "oh, ohhh…"

He bent his head. Kissed the creamy slopes. Licked the pink crests, drew them into the heat of his mouth, sucked them, and her cries grew in intensity.

She was wearing a skirt.

He slid his hand under the waistband. Felt the smoothness of her belly, the delicate lace edge of her panties, slid his hand further down and cupped her.

She moaned.

He whispered her name.

She was hot. Wet. Hot and wet for him, only for him.

And, God, if he wasn't careful, it would be over before it even began. . 

Where was his self-control? He was good at this. At sex. No immodesty about it; it was the simple truth. He prided himself on giving pleasure, on knowing how to make it last but it was different with Laurel, different, so different…

He put his hand between their bodies.

Unzipped himself.

Pushed her skirt up, her panties down. .

This was like the first time, when all sanity had fled his brain, when all he could think of was burying himself inside her, when finesse hadn't meant a damn…

He stroked her. She trembled. He parted her. She cried out. He stroked her again, and again, and she said his name, said it, said it, said it…

He held her while she climaxed. Then he brought her to the bed and undressed her, tore off  his clothes, and then he was inside her, deep inside her, moving, moving, claiming her, taking her…

She sobbed his name.

He came as she did, his release endless, endless, until, finally, he groaned and collapsed against her.

She shuddered and buried her face in his shoulder, and as the muscles of her womb pulsed around him, he grew hard again, still inside her, and he caught her hands in one of his, drew them high over her head and thrust again and again, over and over until she screamed in ecstasy.

He tumbled over the edge of the world with her.

When he could think again, he murmured her name. She sighed and opened her eyes…

"Are you happy with me, sweetheart?"

Happy? The word didn't come close to what she felt.

"I've never been happier."

Khan smiled, rolled onto his side, drew her close against him.

And knew that his plans for her, for him, for their future, were absolutely going to work.

********

The first step—actually, the only step that mattered—was the hardest.

He waited until morning. Breakfast, on the terrace, flowers in the garden scenting the air, sun warm on their faces. It was a perfect setting.

At least, he hoped it was.

"I've been thinking," he said, as she poured coffee into his cup and hers. "About R and R. Rest and relaxation. So I can be sure I heal properly."

She flashed a relieved smile. What a clever soul he was!

"I know that I'm not 100% yet."

"But you will be," she said, so earnestly that he felt a flash of guilt, "if you do the right things."

"Exactly." He paused. "But I can't do the right things here."

"No," she said, after a minute, "I guess not. I was thinking…"
"And?"

"And, I'm sure the Wildes would let you move into
El Sueño
while you recuperate."

"I'm sure they would—but I would feel better in my own place, among my own things." He paused again. "What I'm saying is that it is time I returned home."

Hell, what an SOB he was! Her lovely face fell; he didn't know whether to applaud his cleverness or fall to his knees in apology.

"You're probably—you're probably right."

He nodded. "I can be among familiar things. And I can do a little work—just a little," he added quickly, at the look that flashed into her eyes. "In fact, it will be much less wearing to keep up with my duties at home than it could possibly be if I were to remain in the States."

Ah, God, he hated himself! She was trying to smile but she wasn't doing a good job of it. She was upset at the thought of his leaving, which was precisely what he wanted.

 It was proof, absolute proof that she would acquiesce to his plan.

"When would you leave?"

"The day after tomorrow." He reached across the table and clasped her hand. "The flight is long but I have a private plane. You know, bedroom, bathroom…"

She didn't know but then, of course he would have a private plan, one fit for a king.

And, of course, he would want to go home. He would leave her. She'd always known that.

"I have an office at home. Well, a suite of offices. Faxes. Computers. Printers." He turned her hand palm up, traced her lifeline with the tip of his index finger. "Everything I'd need, to keep in touch with Caleb as he finalizes arrangements with the oil companies I've been dealing with." He gave it a long thirty seconds. "I have Skype, as well."

Skype. He was telling her they could phone each other and see each other as they did. Was that supposed to make her happy?

Apparently, he thought it would.

And she was too proud to let him think otherwise.

"Skype," she said brightly. "That's nice."

"Well, I do not require it, but you might."

She managed a smile.

"Yes. I guess being able to—to see you when you call will be—"

"Being able to see the people in your office. And your clients. I'm assuming you'd find it helpful."

She looked at him. He looked back. Calmly. Collectedly—though what he wanted to do was shoot to his feet and take her in his arms.

"Khan. What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you going with me," he said softly. "To Altara."

A dozen emotions swept over her face. Joy. Confusion. Concern. Doubt. But the only one that mattered was joy.

"Laurel." He pushed back his chair, rose from it, then squatted down beside her. "Come with me. Let me show you my country. The grasslands. The deserts. The mountains. And the sea that is the color of your eyes." He brought her hand to his lips. "Say yes, that you will come."

"Why?" Her gaze was direct and full of questions. "Why do you want me with you?"

He thought of half a dozen things to say, some clever, some sexy, some that would surely make her smile.

Later, he would remember that he'd thought, too, of telling her the true depth of what he felt for her, but how could he do that without telling her the rest? That a bride had been chosen for him?

No. He couldn't tell her that.

Who knew how she would react?

He already knew her feelings about traditions, especially antiquated ones, and this one would surely upset her.

Still, he could tell her the one truth that mattered.

"I want you with me," he said simply, "because I cannot imagine being parted from you."

Her smile filled lifted his heart.

"In that case," she said, "how could my answer be anything other than 'yes'?"

Three days until they left Dallas?

That was hardly enough time to decide what to pack, to tie up loose ends at the office—

To try and figure out whether what she'd agreed to was sane.

Laurel had gone back to her apartment, to collect her things.

"What things?" Khan had asked.

"Things," she'd replied. "Clothes. Odds and ends. Shampoo and makeup and—"

"You don't need anything. We have a brand new mall full of shops I know you'll enjoy." He'd rattled off a dozen designer names she would have loved, if she could have afforded them, but she never had the chance to tell him that because he read her mind, gathered her to him and said that whatever she wanted would be gifts from him.

Did he really think she'd let him pay for her clothes and cosmetics? Bad enough he'd bought her the beautiful dress, the shoes, all the rest—and they were still arguing over the sapphire necklace, once he'd told her it belonged to her.

"I can't let you buy me such expensive things," she'd said, and he'd smiled and said yes, of course, she could.

She knew he meant well, that he was generous to a fault, but she had always provided for herself. Having a man take that role made her uncomfortable.

She was an independent woman.

Surely, he understood that.

Or did he?

Back in her own apartment, among her own things, away from Khan's strong presence, logic began a slow but steady return.

She was going halfway across the world. What about her job? Her life? What, exactly, did I
cannot imagine being parted from you
mean?

Did he want her with him until he was fully healed?

Did he want her with him until he came back to the States?

She hadn’t asked, but she should have.

There were simpler questions, too. For instance, how would he introduce her to his people?

Somehow, she didn't think a prince of a kingdom steeped in tradition could simply do what he'd done with Adele Simpson. Putting his arm around her, drawing her forward, saying, "This is Ms. Cruz," wasn't going to work.

Or was he going to avoid the problem by not introducing her at all?

Dammit!

Laurel tugged a suitcase from her closet, tossed it on the bed and opened it. She hadn't thought things through, and that was completely unlike her. She'd never made an impetuous decision in her life.

All the way back in middle school, she'd started researching what she'd have to do to win a scholarship to a really good university. She'd made a list of  courses successful scholarship applicants took, noted all their extra-curricular activities, and she'd taken those courses and more, volunteered for all those extra-curricular activities and more.

She'd meticulously planned her life.

Then, she met Khan. And all her deliberate weighing of this against that had flown out the window.

She took two pairs of jeans from her closet, folded them neatly and put them in the suitcase.

Had she let her hormones rule her head?

Maybe, at the beginning. But her hormones weren't in charge any more.

Now, it was her heart.

She'd fallen in love.

And Khan… And Khan…

And Khan, what?

Laurel sank down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't mentioned love. To be fair, neither had she but if he loved her, shouldn't he say it first? Wasn’t that traditional when it came to declarations of love?

She almost laughed.

After all she'd said about tradition, she was hiding behind it but, really, some traditions made sense. For her, anyway.. How could she possibly say 'I love you' to him if she didn't know that he loved her, too?

She was going away with him, and she had no idea what lay ahead.

How was she going to explain that to the senator? He was her boss; she had to tell him something. The last time they'd talked had been the morning after the shooting. He'd been wonderful, asking her if there was anything he could do, assuring her to take as long as she needed away from the office.

And now, she was going to Altara.

Laurel rubbed her hand over her forehead. She had to think.

Was she really going to change her mind? Despite Khan's insistence that he felt fine, she knew he was still recovering. He needed her with him. More than that, he didn't want to be parted from her. And she…

She didn't want to be parted from him.

She took a steadying breath, then let it out. Okay. The thing to do was behave logically from this point on. First step? Call the senator. Explain that she was going with his suggestion to take as much time as she needed.

 A week. Maybe two.

Quickly, before she could think about it too much, she reached for her cell phone and hit the senator's direct number on speed dial.

"Laurel. I was just going to call you."

"Hello, Senator. I'm sorry I've been out of touch but—"

"No need to explain. Khan's told me how quickly things have been moving."

"You spoke to him?"

"A little while ago. I gave your decision my official blessing."

 "What decision?"

"Why, your decision to accompany him home. Frankly, my dear, I'm happy to see you carve some time in your life for—" He chuckled. "Well, for a life. An existence separate from your work. And don't worry about keeping in touch. You're long overdue for a vacation."

They made a minute or two of small talk and then she ended the call.

What was she walking into?

She should have been the one who contacted her boss, not Khan.

She didn't want anyone to speak for her.

That he'd done so made her angry—and, in some remote, female way that was damned near humiliating, it also thrilled her, but how could that be? She wasn't into the 'me Tarzan, you Jane' kind of thing.

After a couple of minutes, she rose, finished packing, closed the suitcase, and went briskly down to the lobby where one of Jamal's men waited. He shot to his feet, all but clicked his heels, and reached for the piece of luggage.

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying it myself," she almost said.

But she didn't.

This was a new world for her, but its traditions were old and important to Khan. And he was—she had to remember this—he was only a handful of days away from an all-too-close encounter with a crazy that could have taken him from her.

Surely, she could swallow her concerns over what were, after all, minor differences between them, until he was fully himself again.

So she smiled at Jamal's man, handed over her suitcase and thanked him, politely, for his help.

********

Khan had said he had his own plane. That wasn't so unusual among the rich. The Wildes had planes, as did several of the senator's clients…

What Khan had was a Boeing747.

"This," she said, "
This
is your plane?"

"I know"

She looked at him. He sounded uncomfortable and looked it, too.

"My father purchased it, not I."

"It's—it's—"

"Showy. Ostentatious."

What she'd meant was that it was big. It was a perfect example of that favorite kids' word. .Humungous.

 "I hate the damned thing," he said. "I have it on the market but so far, no takers."

"I bet," she said, her voice faint. How many people in the world could there be who could afford to buy a plane like this?

A crew of three greeted them when they boarded. Two men and a woman, all in well-tailored pale grey uniforms.

"Sir. It's good to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, Mark. Laurel, this is Captain Carter. Mark, this is Ms. Cruz."

The pilot smiled and shook Laurel's hand.

"And this is Captain Taylor, Mark's co-pilot and navigator." Laurel started to extend her hand to the man standing beside the pilot. Khan deftly turned her toward the woman.

After more handshakes and an introduction to the cabin attendant, Khan led her toward a grouping of sofas and chairs in what would have been the first-class section of the 747. Jamal and his men had settled into seats in the closed-off rear compartment.

"Gotcha," Khan said softly.

"I don't know what you mean," Laurel said with wide-eyed innocence, but she couldn't keep from laughing. "Okay. One point for your side. A woman co-pilot? And a guy as flight attendant? Not your father's crew, I bet."

"No. I hired them."

"Was Jamal horrified?"

Khan grinned as they settled into a glove-leather loveseat.

"Not as much as some of my council members."

"To which you replied…?"

"Let's just say it turned into an interesting lesson in 21
^st
century employment practices."

"Seatbelts, please, Lord Khan. Ms. Cruz."

The flight attendant waited until they'd complied. Once he'd gone back up the aisle, Laurel leaned closer to Khan. The opportunity was too good to waste.

"So," she said softly, as the engines began to whine, "you do know something about gender equality."

Khan raised one dark eyebrow. "All right. Let's have it."

"You called my boss."

"I did, yes."

"To get his approval about something that involved me."

"Yes, again. I wanted to ease the way, if that had been necessary and…" He met her gaze and sighed. "Damn. It was yours to do, not mine."

She'd been primed for a fight, or at least an argument. She hadn't expected him to look so contrite.

"I am sorry, sweetheart."

She hadn't expected an apology, either.

"I think," he said, "that I may yet have much to learn about gender equality."

How could she not smile at that?

"That's all right," she said softly. "I'll teach you."

He put his hand under her chin, lifted her face to his, and kissed her with slow, sweet thoroughness.

"Did I tell you that I have a private bedroom on board this plane?"

Her lips curved an inch from his.

"I think you might have mentioned it."

"It's the perfect refuge for a man recuperating from an injury."

"What about for the woman with him?"

He kissed her again, his lips moving gently against hers.

"Even better."

"Ah. Well, you'll have to show it to me."

"As soon as we can take off our seat belts." He laughed softly. "All we have to hope is that the plane reaches the correct altitude before I do."

********

His bedroom was elegant, a sophisticated man's interpretation of a place both serene and private.

A bed, covered in austere black and white, took up most of the space. Drawers and cabinets were built into the walls. The bathroom made up for its modest size with its use of white tile and a glass-enclosed shower.

A painting hung on the wall behind the bed. In it, a graceful nude stood beside a basin of water and dried herself languorously with a towel.

Laurel looked at it and swung toward him. "Degas," she said, with delight.

Khan nodded.

"Oh, it's the perfect choice for this quiet oasis."

His face lit. That was how he thought of the room, as his oasis in the clouds, where he could escape from everything, at least for a while, during what seemed increasingly endless business trips.

"And it's real?"

"No. It's a copy, done by an artist I sponsored." He cleared his throat. "I bought the original at auction a few months ago." He wanted to sound casual, hated himself for sounding boastful, but the look on Laurel's face was all a man could want. "It hangs in the new museum we built out of one of the palaces we no longer use."

"One of the palaces
you
no longer use, you mean."

"Yes."

She smiled at him. "You're really changing things."

"I'm trying."

"It can't be easy."

He thought of the problem awaiting him at home, of how difficult it was going to be to ease out of the bridal negotiations without ruffling too many feathers.

Was now the time to tell her about it?

"Your people are very lucky to have you."

His heart swelled.

"I am the one who is lucky," he said gruffly. "To have you." He drew her into his arms. "Laurel. We haven't talked much about Altara."

"No. We haven't."

"I've told you how beautiful it is. The mountains. The desert. The Sapphire Sea."

"I know. And I'm eager to see it all. The glass towers in the cities, the ancient villages in the foothills of the mountains…" She took a steadying breath. "But what will your people say, when they see me? Do they even know that I'm with you?"

A muscle flickered in his jaw. "My ministers, you mean?" The muscle danced again. "No."

"No?"

He saw the worry in her eyes, heard it in her voice. The problem was, he didn't have answers for her. News of the bridal arrangements had changed things.

 How would she deal with what awaited him?

God, how selfish he had been, bringing her into this. He should have gone home, alone, sorted out the mess. He knew that now, he'd known it all along, but he'd been blind to doing the right thing because he could not run the risk of losing her…

"Khan? You haven’t answered my question. What will your ministers think?"

"They will think that you are beautiful."

She stiffened.

 "Don't do that! I'm not some—some foolish female you can silence with platitudes."

She was right, and it was one of the things he loved about her, one of the many things he loved about her.

"Laurel."

"No." Her eyes snapped with anger. "If you're going to—to say something to—to try and turn this into a—a sexy game, don't do it because—"

"Because," he said, "this isn't a game of any kind. I know that, and I know what I will tell my ministers. It is what I should have already told you." He drew a long breath; let it slowly leave his lungs. There was a faint pain when he did; it reminded him, as if he needed reminding, of how close he'd come to losing her. "Laurel. Sweet Laurel. I love you."