The Prince of Pleasure (15 page)

What did a man expect of a woman, when he showed her his heart? Surely not tears.

" Beloved. Please, don't cry."

"I'm not crying," she said, as tears spilled down her cheeks. "Why would I cry when you've just told me you love me?"

He framed her face between his hands.

"I do love you. With all my heart. I cannot imagine living without you." He waited. She was still crying and he, a man who had never felt fear, felt the first stirrings not of fear but of terror. "Say something. I beg you, say—"

"I love you, too..."

Her words seemed to whisper in the air between them. He could almost see them, shining with light.

He laughed. "You love me?"

"Yes! Oh yes, yes, yes—"

He kissed her. "Say it again," he said, against her lips.

"I love you, my prince. I adore you, with all I am, all I will ever be. And I will love you, to the end of time."

********

He made love to her, there in that place of perfect serenity.

He undressed her slowly, drawing out each second as if it were spun glass. He kissed her lips, her throat. Her breasts, her belly. He knelt, put his mouth to the soft curls between her thighs, brought her to shuddering climax with his teeth and tongue and quick, clever fingers.

Still, he hadn't taken off his own clothes.

Being naked with him, stripped of everything, vulnerable to everything, was almost unbearably exciting. Still, she wanted to feel him against her. His hot mouth, his hot skin, the fullness of his erection.

Her hands went to the buttons on his shirt. She undid them, one by one. Slid the shirt off his shoulders. Saw the wound that would always remind her how close she'd come to losing him.

She rose to him. Kissed his mouth. The taut muscle over his heart.

Her hands moved lower.

To his belt.

His fly.

She undid it. He made a sound deep in his throat.

His jeans slipped down his legs and he stepped free of them.

He was wearing black Jockeys. His sex bulged against the cotton fabric; she cupped her hand over him and he groaned.

His hands went to his shorts. She stopped him.

"My turn," she whispered, and she drew them down.

He was naked. And beautiful. All hard, lean muscle. All hard, lean man.

She caressed him, watched his face as she took him in her hands and stroked his length. His eyes closed. His head fell back and as it did, she dropped to her knees before him.

He groaned again as she took him into her mouth.

She had done this for him once before. It had been the first time she'd ever done it, ever wanted to, and now, when he tried to stop her, she wouldn't let him. She learned quickly what pleased him, how to use her lips, her tongue, and she would have taken him to completion but he said her name, reached for her, drew her to her feet, and tumbled onto the bed with her.

"I want to be inside you," he said, and entered her on one long, deep thrust.

When she shattered and came apart, he came apart with her.

And he knew that he was the luckiest man who had ever lived.

********

They slept and woke, made love and slept again.

And, as Laurel lay dreaming in his arms, he decided that not preparing her for what lay ahead was cowardly. He knew how she felt about tradition but she would understand diplomacy, and that the arrangements that had been made, without his knowledge, would require the utmost diplomacy to undo.

I should tell her now.

But she was sleeping, her face peaceful, and he'd noticed a tension in her the last couple of days.

The conversation he dreaded could surely wait a little longer.

When she awoke, he told himself, he'd tell her then.

But when she sighed and stretched and blinked her eyes open, all he wanted was to kiss her. And when they were somewhere far over the Atlantic, the moment seemed wrong for a serious discussion of something unsettling and right for  an elegant, moonlit dinner in the bedroom that had become their private world.

He came closest to telling when the plane landed in Paris to refuel, but she had a million questions about the city and he held her hand and told her how it would be the next time they came here.

"We'll stay at my flat near the Palais Royal," he said. "We'll walk along the Seine, and we'll eat at an amazing little lace I know near L'Opéra, and then we'll fly on to London or wherever you like. I want to show you the world." He pressed a kiss into her hair. "Sweetheart. About the next few days…"

She put her hand lightly over his mouth.

"I know it won't be easy," she said. "I mean, your ministers will be—will be surprised. But we'll get through it."

His heart filled with love.

"
A'lanai'imata,
sweetheart," he said softly.

"You said that to me before. Do you remember? It was the night you were shot."

"Did I?" He smiled. "Amazing. I was probably only half-conscious and yet my heart knew what my brain had not yet figured out." His smile tilted. "It means, I love you.'"

She blinked. "Does it always mean that?"

"Of course. Always. What else could it possibly mean?"

She thought back to that night, to what Jamal had said the words meant.

"Laurel? What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said, "nothing at all."

He ran the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. "Say you love me again. In Altaran."

She smiled.
"A'lanai'imata,"
she whispered, and his logical plan to do the logical thing and tell her of the difficulties awaiting him fled in his desire to make her his.

********

Hours later, Khan woke her with a kiss.

"Sleepyhead," he said softly, "time to open your eyes. We land in fifteen minutes."

Laurel sat up against the pillows. Sunlight filled the bedroom. Khan was sitting on the edge of the bed next to her, dressed in…

Dressed in flowing white robes. A white headdress. A curved, bejeweled dagger was tucked into a leather sheath at his waist.

For a heartbeat, he was a stranger.

"It's called a
djellabah,
" he said, as if he could read her mind.

 "I know what it's called. I just didn't—I didn't expect—"

"You didn’t expect to see me in a dress."

He was trying to make her smile and she knew it. And, really, what was so difficult about seeing him in the
djellabah
?
If anything, it emphasized his masculinity.

"You just—you look so different," she said. "That's all."

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be back in jeans and suits soon enough. This is for tradition only, and because my people will make a little fuss over having me home again"

"Does that happen each time you go away?"

"Well, no. It's only that…" He cleared his throat. "The media got hold of the story about the shootings."

Laurel bit her lip.

"So, everyone knows. About what happened."

He nodded. "Don't look so upset, sweetheart. More exciting things happen in any major city every day of the week. A little brush with—"

"With death," she said quickly. "You almost died because of—"

Khan silenced her with a kiss.

"You are a woman worth dying for," he said in a low voice.

"Don't say that! Please. If you had—if I had lost you—"

"But you did not lose me, and I did not lose you. I never will."

There was a gentle bump as the wheels of the plane touched the runway. Laurel shoved aside the sheet and comforter.

"It'll take me a few minutes to—"

Khan rose to his feet. In his white robes and headdress, he seemed to fill the room.

"There is no rush. You are not leaving the plane with me."

She stared at him. "Why not?"

"There is a—a ceremony. I have not the time to explain it now. Those who have come to greet me are waiting."

She scrambled up against the pillows, opened the window shade an inch, and looked out.

Dark blue mountains defined the horizon. Closer, the runway shimmered beneath the glare of a bright yellow sun. But what made her catch her breath was the line of  white-robed men on horseback who waited, motionless, alongside the plane.

"Who are those men?"

"They are my escort."

She stared at him. "Horsemen? In robes?"

"It is because of what happened. The incident. They are showing me respect. Later, when I see you again—"

 "You should have told me."

"I did tell you. Tradition is important to my people."

"Yes, but—but this isn't what I expected…"

The truth was, it wasn't what he'd expected, either. The foolish display of pomp and circumstance. The horses and men dressed like extras in a bad movie, when half a dozen Jeeps and a handful of men in suits would normally have met him.

"Khan?" Laurel laid her hand on his arm. "Let me go with you."

"No." He spoke harshly. He hadn't meant to, but he was angry and growing more angry by the minute. At the theatrical display outside the plane, at the clumsy matchmaking…

At himself.

He hadn’t handled things well.

He should have anticipated that word would get out about the shooting, and that someone would get the brilliant idea to greet him with full ceremony. He should have come home alone and smoothed the way before bringing the woman he loved to Altara.

Instead, he had been selfish and now, all he could do was try to protect her from prying eyes and speculation until all the nonsense was out of the way.

"No," he said, more gently. "Get dressed,
shalal
. Jamal and some of his men will escort you from the plane. They will take you to my summer palace, in the mountains. I will join you there as soon as I can."

Fear beat its wings in Laurel's throat. Too much was happening, too fast.

"Laurel." Khan bent down, threaded one hand through her hair, drew her head back, and kissed her, hard enough to make her gasp. "Just remember that you are my woman."

A second later, the door closed after him, and she was alone.

Jamal and three of his men were waiting when Laurel left the plane. She'd half expected him to have a horse ready for her but, of course, he didn't.

A small convoy of four shiny black Jeeps stood a few yards away.

"Ms. Cruz," he said courteously, "are you ready to proceed?"

She nodded, but her thoughts were with Khan. The column of horsemen was out of sight but when she shaded her eyes against the sun's glare, she could see a rooster tail of dust that marked its progress.

She'd watched Khan's ceremonial homecoming from the plane.

It was difficult to believe such pageantry still existed in the world.

The delegation awaiting him had cheered when he came down the stairs from the 747, a wild kind of ululation that had sent chills dancing along her spine, and they'd waved what she only then realized were rifles while their horses danced with excitement.

Khan had stood straight and unmoving, accepting the ancient welcome as easily as she'd seen him accept handshakes from Texas oilmen.

 Half a dozen of the men had dismounted, walked forward, and dropped to their knees, heads so deeply bowed that their foreheads almost touched the sand.

Khan had motioned them to their feet. He'd gone to each man and embraced him, after which he'd made a short speech that had been followed by more cheering.

When that was ended, a boy had come forward, leading a while stallion. Khan had taken the animal's gold and silver reins, swung up into the saddle, and the other horsemen had fallen in behind him.

 I don't spend all my time riding across the desert on a white stallion.

He'd made the words sound like a joke but there was nothing amusing about what she'd observed. The greeting was, Laurel was sure, an ancient display of respect for the ruler of the kingdom of Altara.

Or a display of subservience.

Either way, the spectacle was magnificent, exotic…

And unsettling.

Even more unsettling was the nagging realization that she'd made this journey to another time, another place, without asking any questions about what her role would be here, among such tradition-bound people?

More to the point, what would it be in Khan's life?

I need you,
he'd said,
I don't want to be parted from you
—and a little while ago, he'd said he loved her.

Surely, all of that was enough….

"Ms. Cruz?"

Laurel blinked. Jamal's tone was still polite, his expression respectful, but when she took a good look at him, she saw that his eyes were flat and cold.

Eyes, her mother had always said, were windows to the soul.

Maybe.

They were certainly windows to what someone was really thinking. You learned that fast, when you practiced law. Witnesses, even clients, lied all the time; they pretended to like you when, in reality, they despised you. 

Successful attorneys learned to deal with it—as she would learn to deal with Jamal. She knew he didn't like her or approve of her. Well, she wasn't too fond of him, either, but he was Khan's head of security, and fiercely loyal. And Khan trusted him, enough to have made him responsible for taking her to a place called the summer palace, while he rode away and never looked back.

Damn.

She was being ridiculous. Khan was her love. Her lover. But he was also a king. He had duties, responsibilities, and she would simply have to learn to accept that part of him.

"Are you ready to leave, Ms. Cruz? The prince wants you secreted at the summer palace as soon as possible."

"Secreted?"

His smile was thin.

"The wrong word, I am sure. You must forgive me. English is not my first language."

He spoke English as well as she did. If he'd said 'secreted,' that was what he meant. It was an interesting choice of words. There'd been an edge of command in his voice, too, one she recognized as the age old 'me male, you female' tone of supremacy.

She almost laughed.

Did he really think he could take her on?

She had overcome the gender bias of the barrio, been selected as the first female editor of her university's Law Review, made a name for herself in the toughest annals of domestic violence litigation.

No way would she let the outmoded traditions of an old culture shove her back into the 15
^th
century.

If Jamal wanted to play this game, he would find her a formidable opponent.

"I am quite ready," she said, as politely as he. Her practiced smile was the one she used on opposing attorneys.

Holding out her suitcase to him was deliberate.

Every female instinct told her that he would see carrying her luggage as subservient, and that was exactly what she wanted. When he didn't move, she raised her eyebrows. "Jamal? My suitcase."

For an instant, hatred blazed like flame in his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers. One of his men stepped forward and took the case from her.

"Thank you," she said politely, but she spoke to the man he surely saw as an underling, not to him.

Round one was hers.

********

The mountains were further away than they seemed.

Jamal drove the Jeep in which Laurel was a passenger. One of the younger bodyguards sat beside him. Though Jamal  made no attempt at small talk,  the one she thought of as a boy was eager to explain the countryside as they  bumped along a narrow road shared with an occasional truck or car, and a far more frequent horse or ox drawn cart.

When they passed a small herd of goats, he explained that they were Pashminas; others in the herd were Cashmeres. Did Ms. Cruz know that they were raised for their wool? That Altaran cashmere and pashmina wools were prized for their softness and strength the world over?

"Ms. Cruz is not interested in such nonsense," Jamal said sharply.

Laurel assured the boy that she was.

"Until Prince Khan took over, the wools were not shipped out of the kingdom. Now, they are. My uncle is a merchant in the capital. He tells me that he has difficulty keeping up with demand."

When the fields on either side of the road began to fill with flowers instead of goats, Laurel asked if the flowers were being cultivated for the market, too.

"Yes," the boy said proudly. "Prince Khan says we have become true competition for the Dutch, who ship their flowers all over the world."

Different flowers grew in the foothills. They were beautiful and grew in wild profusion. The boy said they were
shalal
. Laurel smiled, remembering Khan's words.

There were vineyards, too. Unasked, the young bodyguard told her that his country had produced excellent wines in the time of the Romans. Now, thanks to Prince Khan, new rootstock varieties were being introduced. 

"The prince is sure that there will come a time when Altaran wines will rival those of France, California and Argentina."

Jamal cut him off in mid-sentence.

"Enough! You bore me with your chatter."

"He's not talking to you, Jamal," Lauren said pleasantly, "he's talking to me. And I'm grateful that someone is interested in helping a newcomer learn about this beautiful country."

The young bodyguard looked over his shoulder at her and risked a quick smile.

Jamal looked at her in the mirror, his face expressionless.

Round two. Oh, the sweet scent of victory!

********

The summer palace stood on the highest peak of the mountains. Forested slopes of pine and oak marched like sentries to a deep green valley far, far below.

The palace itself was… Laurel could only think of one word.

Magnificent.

High ceilings and soaring arches. Persian carpets and marble floors. Priceless art, everything from da Vinci to de Kooning. The de Koonings made her smile. Those 20th century modernist works were surely Khan's choices, not his father's.

The palace staff greeted her warmly.

"My lady," they said, inclining their heads, dipping their knees.

What was the proper response? She thought of asking them not to bow or curtsy but she didn't want to risk embarrassing them. She considered telling them they had no reason to call her 'lady' but that made her think of a bunch of truly awful old jokes.

In the end, she smiled, said 'hello', asked the name of each person  she dealt with—and asked herself how was she supposed to think of them? Were they servants? She hated the word. Her mother had been a 'servant', a woman who cleaned the homes of the wealthy, but she'd always said that being a 'servant' was nothing to be ashamed of.

And what did all that intellectual game-playing have to do with anything?

She was getting lost in nonsense rather than face the truth.

She was living in Khan's palace, without Khan.

Her quarters—his, really—were like something out of the Arabian Nights. He had a private apartment, six huge rooms that included a bedroom that housed a bed that looked as if it could sleep a family of six, a sitting room, a formal living room, a dining room, a sunroom where she had breakfast each morning, and two huge bathrooms with step-down tubs, glass-walled showers, and gold fixtures that could have been melted into ingots sufficient to pay the national debt.

It was a lot of space for one woman…

One lonely woman who was counting off the days until she would again see the man who had brought her here.

What did the staff think? What did they know? What did they say about her? They were charming to her face but who knew what they said behind her back? Did they know she was their prince's lover? Stupid question. Surely, they did.

Then, where was he? Why wasn't he here?

Back to question one.

What did they think?

Better still, what was
she
to think? About Khan? About herself? About exactly how long she'd put up with whatever in hell was going on?

She'd tried calling him. 

His phone rang and rang. He didn't answer but at least now she knew that her cell, and his, worked. Considering the height of the mountains, the endless forest, she'd been half-certain they wouldn't.

The call went to voice mail.

Leave a message.

That was it. Brusque. Brief. Khan's voice, three words, nothing more.

The first time, she said, 'It's me. I miss you.'

The second time, she said, 'Where are you? When will you be here?'

The third time, she was less polite. 'You'd better phone,' she said, 'because I'm verging on a hissy fit of truly epic preparations."

She'd deliberately made the message light but he wasn't a fool. He phoned her a few minutes later.

"Sweetheart."

How could she be angry and still melt at the sound of his voice? And why would she be foolish enough to let him know that? 

"Hello, Khan."

"Forgive me for neglecting you."

"Where," she said, as coolly as possible, "are you?"

"First tell me that you miss me."

"Why would I miss you? Just because I haven't heard for you in more than two days—"

"Two days, sixteen hours and twenty-two minutes."

"Twenty-three minutes," she said, as the fight drained out of her. "What am I supposed to think? You brought me to your country, and then you left me."

She could almost see him nodding in agreement. "I know. Will you forgive me? I have been enmeshed in—in resolving a difficult problem."

"That doesn't mean you can simply forget all about me." Hell. She didn't want to sound petulant. "I mean—"

"I would never forget you," he said fiercely. "But things piled up in my absence and I need to attend to them."

"You're the one who talked about how easy it would be for me to keep in touch with people back home, remember? Now it turns out you can't even keep in touch with me here."

"You are right," he said, his tone crestfallen. "I should have called."

"Yes. You should have."

His sigh was long and deep. "Laurel. I have almost finished resolving a—a complicated situation. Once that is done, I will come to you."

"Complicated, how?"

Silence. Then, he cleared his throat.

"It would take me a long time to explain but I will, once I see you again."

"And when will that be?"

"Soon, I promise."

"Tomorrow?"

"Please try to understand. These are—these are matters of state. I must deal with them in person. Do you see?"

No. She didn't 'see', but asking him the same questions over and over made her feel as if she were pleading for his attention. She had never pleaded for anyone's attention, especially not for a man's, and she wasn't going to start now.

"Is Jamal taking good care of you?"

She had not seen Jamal since he'd brought her here and that was fine, but why burden Khan with that information?

"Everyone is being very kind."

"Good. If there is anything you need from outside, you have only to tell him."

Laurel laughed. "From outside?"

"That's how I've always thought of the world beyond the summer palace." She could hear the smile in his voice. "It was one of the few things my father and I agreed on. The summer palace was always his haven from reality."

"Khan? What did you tell the staff here about me?"

"I told them you were of great importance to me, and that they were to do all they could to please you."

"Yes, but—"

"But?"

But what? What more could he possibly have told them? That he and she were lovers? That was hardly an announcement a man would make to people who worked for him, especially if he was their prince.

And, really, what else was there to tell them, or anyone, about her?

They'd talked of love, of being together—but nothing more than that. They hadn't mentioned the future, or permanency, or what would happen next week, let alone next month.

Her fault, as much as his.

She'd acted precipitously, not pragmatically, and now she was paying the price.

"But," she said, "when I see you, we have to talk."