The Prince of Pleasure (16 page)

"About?"

"Us."

"I agree. And we shall."

"When?"

"Soon."

A quick, hot rush of anger rose within her.

"Is that the best you can do?"
"Sweetheart. I wish, with all my heart, I could be with you. My arms ache for you. You must know that."

Laurel pressed her fingers to her forehead. She did know that; she believed he wanted to be here, that he couldn't be—but he was closing her out. Was this how things would have to be between them? If she became a part of his life, would the man who made love to her lead an existence separate from that of the man who led this kingdom?

"Laurel. Imagine I am there, with you." His voice sank to a rough whisper. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm on the terrace, outside my bedroom."

"Our bedroom," he said softly. "It will always belong to the two of us. And you are alone."

"Yes.

"What are you wearing? Is it my shirt? The one that hangs to your thighs? I love how you look in that shirt."

 She looked down at herself. She was wearing jeans and a cotton blouse.

"As a matter of fact," she said softly, "your shirt is exactly what I'm wearing."

"Unbutton it for me, sweetheart. One button at a time. Will you do that?"

Her breathing quickened. "Yes," she whispered.

"Ah. I see it now. The open shirt. Your breasts. Your beautiful breasts. I see you cupping them. Offering them to me. Do you feel my hands on you? My mouth?"

She felt her throat constrict; her lashes fell to her cheeks.

"Lay back, Laurel. Like that. Yes. You are naked. No panties. No thong. Can you feel my fingers brushing against you? Against your wet heat?" His voice was a growl in her ear. "All that heat. For me. Only for me."

His whispered words were like flame. She could almost imagine he was in her arms, his body hot against hers.

"Goodnight, beloved," he said softly. "Think of me, of this, when you climb into bed tonight."

Laurel gave a choked laugh. "You're a wicked, wicked man."

He laughed, too. "And you will be mine, forever."

His what?

She almost asked, but he'd already broken the connection.

The question crept into her mind again, late that night as she balanced on the edge of sleep.

It was a question that needed an answer. Why hadn't she asked it sooner? And how, why, in what possible way could she have put herself in a situation where she needed to ask such a question?

Sleep rose up, overtook her, and she sought oblivion in its black depths.

********

He didn’t come to her the next day, or the one after that.

He called, but only once, and this call wasn't sexy and hot, it was quick, almost formal. How was she feeling? Did she have everything she needed? He would be with her as soon as he possibly could.

But he didn’t speak of love, or even of passion.

"I am not alone," he said.

What did that mean? She pictured him surrounded by men in flowing robes and told him so. That, at least, made him laugh.

"I'm wearing jeans," he said, "and a cotton sweater."

"Good."

And it really was good. It meant, at the very least, she could think of him as she had always known him. As Khan, the man who said he loved her, not as a sheikh removed from the reality of her life.

At the end of her fifth day at the summer palace, Laurel's patience had worn thin. She missed him but she told herself that she could have handled that.

It was being kept in the dark that fed her growing anger.

She thought of the things she'd said to him when they'd first met. That he was trapped in an earlier time. That he saw women as lesser beings. That his polite talk of 'tradition' was simply a way of maintaining the status quo. .

When he did phone, that night, she let all those accusations fly.

Whatever affairs of state he was enmeshed in, she said, could surely be shared with her. Was she only good for pillow talk? As arm candy? She made accusations she didn't truly believe but by then, she was beyond reason.

She half-expected him to tell her that or, at the least, to say things to soothe her.

Instead, he spoke with anger. He told her that yes, she was a woman, and yes, there were definitely times women had to step back, and yes, he was trapped in an earlier time.

"And for better or worse, so are you."

The words were cold. Blunt. A warning, but one that came too late.

She stood in his opulent bedroom, the phone to her ear. Their bedroom, he had said, but what did that mean? Would he want her, need her, was the time they spent together going to be only in a room like this?

"Laurel?"

His voice was thin; it faded in and out. Reception was not good tonight but then, neither was whatever was happening between them.

"Laurel? Do you hear me? Dammit, answer me!"

She disconnected.

Outside, on the balcony, the night air chilled her flesh. Not even the beauty of the sky, the big ivory moon a pendant over the dark valley, pierced her growing sense of despair.

Had she come thousands upon thousands of miles for this? To be what she had always despised, a woman dependent upon a man's largesse, to come alive when he wished it and stay out of sight when he didn't? To tolerate whatever he dished out?

Her phone was ringing.

Let it ring.

She finally knew what she had to do.

She went through the rooms of her silk prison quickly, stuffing a change of clothes, her toothbrush, her passport, and her wallet into an oversized shoulder bag. Then she clattered down the marble stairs, flew past the da Vincis and the de Koonings, and ran out the front door.

The garage was a couple of hundred yards away. It was a big, low-slung building; she knew the Jeeps were parked inside it, along with a Bentley, a motorcycle, and a Mercedes convertible.

"Good evening, Ms. Cruz."

Jamal stepped out of the dark and blocked her way. Was it deliberate?

"May I be of assistance?"

So polite. So false. At least, she didn't have to play games with him anymore.

"You may get out of my way," she said.

"Are you going to the garage, Ms. Cruz?"

"Yes. I'm going to the garage. I'm going to take one of the Jeeps. And if you try to stop me—"

"The road is steep. You will never make it down the mountain."

"Dammit, get the hell out of—"

"I will drive you."

That stopped her. "Why would you do anything to accommodate me?"

"My lord Khan ordered me to obey your wishes. If you want to leave, I will take you wherever you wish to go."

His voice was soft, a velvety purr from a serpent asking if she really wanted that apple. The moonlight made it bright enough for her to see that he was smiling.

"What I wish," she said, "is to leave Altara."

"The airport is two hours away. It is small, but it is international. I am sure you will have no difficulty getting a flight to the States."

Laurel stared at him. "You knew I'd leave."

He shrugged. "I do not like you, Ms. Cruz, but I never doubted your intelligence. I knew you would not choose to remain with my prince, once you understood the situation."

A night breeze ruffled her hair. She shoved the strands away from her face. There was more coming, a truth that she knew, in her bones, would give her all the answers Khan had avoided.

"And what," she said, trying not to let Jamal see or hear her fear, "what, precisely, is the 'situation,' Jamal? I'm certain you know all the details."

"Everyone knows the details. Well, not you, of course—"

"Dammit, tell me!"

"It is simple, madam. This, the summer palace, is where our princes and kings have traditionally kept their mistresses."

"I am not—"

"The only thing that made the arrangement complicated this time was that Lord Khan's bride had just been chosen for him."

Lauren felt everything inside her still.

"His bride?"

"The negotiations began before he left for your country—they went, I think, much more quickly that he had anticipated."

"I don't understand. Are you saying—are you saying that Khan—?"

"She is lovely, from a fine family, and the people will approve his choice."

"His choice," she whispered.

"You can see the problem, I am sure." Jamal's voice was calm. Steady. He might have been discussing Khan's intention to purchase a new car. "My lord could not very well leave her at the start of their relationship—surely even you, a liberated woman, can see that." He sighed. "You should have shown patience, Ms. Cruz. After the requisite week of celebration, he would surely have come to you."

Impossible. What Jamal had just told her…

"Let me be sure I understand this." She sounded breathless and she paused, told herself it was vital she give nothing away. "Khan is getting married. And once he has, he'll come to me?"

Jamal shrugged. "Having a mistress, having a wife… It is tradition."

Laurel laughed. Or maybe she sobbed. Really, what did it matter?

"Tell me something," she said. "The night Khan was shot... He said something to me. I asked you what it meant. Do you remember?"

"A'lanai'imata
. Yes. I remember."

"You said—you said it mean he was grateful for all I had done."

Jamal folded his arms. "And?"

"And, is that really what it means?"

"I know you do not like me, Ms. Cruz, that you believe me to be your enemy. But I was kind to you that night. What the prince said was that you were his mistress, and he hoped you would stay with him. I strongly suspected that was not what you wished to hear."

Bile rose in Laurel's throat.

Lies, all of it. Lies from the Emperor of the Universe to a woman who'd been foolish enough to believe he was the man who would love her, as she would have loved him, for the rest of their lives.

********
.

The trip to the airport took a little more than two hours. Her phone rang and rang; finally, she shut it off

She was out of the car before it had come to a full stop; she ran into the terminal, arrived breathless at the United Trans Air ticket counter.

Yes, they flew to the States. Yes, she could certainly get a seat on the next flight out…

In three hours.

Three hours. It might as well have been a lifetime, but there were no other options. British Airlines' next flight to London wasn't until the following morning, and she had no better luck at Air France.

She bought a ticket on Trans Air, settled in the farthest corner of the waiting area. Time crept by.

When would Khan find out that she'd left him?

What would he do?

Would he come after her?

Not that it mattered. She didn't want him to come after her. Nothing he could say would change anything.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, a disembodied voice announced boarding for the United Trans Air flight to New York.

Laurel was one of only a dozen or so passengers. The boarding procedure was quick; she took her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and tried not to think about the last time she'd been on a plane, just a few days ago, with a man she'd loved…

No.

She had never loved him. She'd been infatuated. By his charm. His wealth. His beauty. His sexuality. All those things she'd always thought women were stupid to fall for, she had fallen for.

She wanted to laugh but she feared she might cry, instead.

So she knitted her fingers even more tightly together, stared out into the night as the engines roared. The plane taxied down the runway, gained speed, made a graceful leap into the air.

Within seconds, the mountains and valleys of Altara were far below.

Laurel put her head back and started to breathe again.

Half an hour later, the pilot came on. She assumed he was going to say they'd reached cruising altitude.

He didn't.

Instead, he made what he called an important announcement.

In Altaran. In Arabic. In French. In English.

"Ladies and gentlemen, sorry, but we're returning to the terminal on a diplomatic issue. Please be assured the delay will be brief."

"What diplomatic issue?" Laurel heard a man say.

The answer came moments later.

The big jet touched down, taxied to a stop. The doors opened and two men boarded, marched down the aisle, and paused beside her.

"Laurel Cruz?"

She looked at the men. They were big and expressionless, and everything about them spelled trouble.

"Yes?"

"You will come with us."

"Why?"

"You will come with us, Ms. Cruz."

"Listen to me. I'm a United States citi—"

One man undid her seat belt. The other took her suitcase from the overhead bin.

"You will come with us," he said.

They marched her off the plane, into the terminal; bookending her with their impressive size and dangerous attitude. The coppery taste of fear was on her tongue. Did they think she was a terrorist? She thought of the stories she'd read, of innocent people being swallowed up in the dark recesses of overly-zealous governments.

"Where are you taking me?"

No answer.

"I demand to know where you are taking me!"

She stopped walking, dug her heels in. The men gripped her elbows, lifted her off her feet, strode down a corridor, and stopped before a metal door.

"Dammit," Laurel said, "you cannot do this! I have legal rights—"

The door swung open. Khan stood facing her, arms folded, feet apart, his face like stone.

The men set her on her feet.

"The only rights you have," he said coldly, "are those I may see fit to grant you."

He jerked his head at her guards. They stepped back, the door swung shut after them, and the lock clicked home.

The man confronting her was not the man who had been her lover.

He was His Royal Highness, Sheikh Khan ibn Zain al Hassad,  Defender of the   Ancient and Honorable Throne of Altara, Protector of All His People, Leopard of the Finarian Hills.

He was the dictator she'd despised, the barbarian she'd hated. And he was furious. Everything about him said so.

His eyes, narrow and cold as polar ice.

His mouth, grimly flattened to a thin line.

His posture, straight and unyielding, arms folded over his chest.

Even the way he was dressed, the flowing robes, the white headgear…

A tiny shudder swept through her.

This wasn't the man who'd been her lover, it was a man who owned the world—and thought he'd owned her.

The realization was terrifying but it was also liberating. Nobody owned her; nobody ever would. The Great Khan was in for a learning experience of monumental proportions.

"What in hell did you think you were doing?"

His voice was low and chill; it rang with imperial command. It was unsettling, probably deliberately so, but surely he knew that but she wouldn't bend to it.

He had power but she had rights, no matter how he tried to pretend that she didn't.

"I asked you a question."

"I heard you."

 Her voice was as cool and steady as his. Her heart was thumping but he didn't have to know that.

Damn.

He looked angrier, if that was possible, and he'd moved closer. That wasn't good at all. She knew about stance and posture and positioning; one of her law professors, a savvy, sharp woman, had given a weekend seminar she'd called Trial Theater: Going for the High Ground.

Literally.

The bottom line was that men were often taller than women. And bigger. You had to find ways to overcome those disadvantages.

You wore high heels. Expensive ones. You stood tall. You wore the costliest-you-could-afford female version of the ubiquitous, well-tailored navy or gray suit. You made sure your hair and makeup were impeccable.

Right.

And here she was in jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, her hair in a ponytail, her makeup non-existent, facing six foot two of tightly-coiled and unquestionably furious masculinity.

How come anger only made him more beautiful? Not that she gave a damn.  

"I am waiting for an answer."

Laurel raised her chin, managed what she hoped was a smug smile.

"Wait all you like. We have nothing to say to each other."

Bad choice of words. Those amazing eyes went from emerald to the green of the darkest depths of the ocean. He took a step forward.

That left her with no choice except to take one back.

Her shoulders hit the closed door.

"Do not play games with me, Laurel. I am not in the mood."

"And I am not in the mood to be harassed."

"Harassed."

"Yes. Harassed."

His lips drew back from his teeth in a thin smile. "Such a charming word." His smile vanished. "Preparing for a lawsuit?"

"If necessary."

He laughed. She felt her face heat.

"Do not laugh at me, Lord Khan! I'll sue you within an inch of your—"

"Where will you do this suing, hmm?"

"What do you mean, where? Where suits are brought. In a courtroom."

"Not in Altara." His tone had taken a silken edge. "You cannot sue your king."

"You are not 'my' anything I'll sue you in an American—"

"You'd have to be in America first," he said coldly. "And, just in case you haven't noticed, that is not where you are."

"I'm not staying here."

"Have I offered you a choice?"

"You can't frighten me! I know my rights, and—"

She gasped as his hands closed on her shoulders.

"I told you," he growled, "you have only the rights I am willing to grant you."

"I'm a citizen of the United States!"

He laughed. She didn't blame him. She was in a place forgotten by time, except as he permitted it. It sounded like the worst kind of cliché but the simple truth was, she was at his mercy. Okay. Time for Law School Lesson Number Two: when your gut told you that you were losing, it was time to negotiate for the best deal you could get.

"Khan. Look, I know you're angry—"

"Angry?" The silken tone was back. "Why would I be angry? You came to Altara with me. I went away on business, you got bored—no movies, no television, no internet—and you decided to leave me." His voice remained soft but his fingers dug sharply into her flesh. "No note. No phone call. Nothing to tell me you had changed your mind about—about what you had claimed to feel for me."

"What I claimed to feel was—wasn't real."

"You admit that you lied about caring for me."

"I didn’t lie. I just got carried away. The shooting. Spending so much time together—"

"You mean, in my bed."

His words were low. Rough. As hot with sex as with rage. Memories raced through her mind. Khan, his hands on her breasts. His mouth between her thighs. His swollen sex buried deep, deep inside her.

"That's all it was," she said, trying to drive the images away. "Sex. Just sex. Well, I got over it. Why wouldn't I? It wasn't special, it was just—"

He cursed, hauled her to her toes and captured her mouth with his.

No, she told herself, no, no, no.

"Kiss me back," he said, against her mouth, and pathetic creature that she was, she felt her lips soften, felt herself melting into him.

No. She wasn't going to let it happen. She was not weak. She was strong. She was…

He kissed her again.

Softly. Tenderly. His lips were silken against hers, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.

"Don't," she whispered, "don't, please, oh please, don't do this."

"
Shalal.
"

The soft, sweet nickname caught at her heart. He cupped her face. Lifted it to his; she told herself not to meet his gaze.

"Laurel. Look at me."

"Khan, I beg you, if you cared for me at all—"

"If?" His laugh was soft and bittersweet. "I love you, sweetheart. I adore you. You know this is true. How could you have left me?"

Against all the warnings of her head and heart, she looked into his eyes. What she saw there made her want to believe he was still the man she'd known, but she couldn't let herself believe that, couldn't let herself be hurt all over again.

"Laurel," he said softly, "how could you leave me?"

Her lips trembled. "You lied to me."

"I never lied to you!"

"You did. You still are."

"Never!"

"You see? You're still lying!"

"I told you that I loved you. And I do. With all my heart."

"But you went to—to her."

"Ah." His mouth twisted. "That."

"That?" Laurel pulled back. "That?" she said, trying to bat his hands away but he caught them, imprisoned them against his chest. "You brought me here, thousands and thousands of miles away from the world I know, and as soon as we got here, you left me to—to go to another woman."

"I had no choice. It is—"
"Tradition. God, how I despise that word!

"I know it was a mistake. I should have explained everything, but I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

"And you were right. How could I ever understand that—that you were going to marry another woman?"

"What?"

"Don't," she whispered, "please, no more lies. I know everything, don't you see? Jamal told me—"

Khan became dangerously still. "What did he tell you?"

"All of it. That a bride was waiting for you. That—that your marriage plans had moved more quickly than you'd anticipated."

She hesitated. Could she go on without breaking down? A little while ago, she'd been sure she hated this man, that she never wanted to see him gain. But now…

Now, things weren't as clear.

His body was warm and hard against hers. His scent—clean, masculine, real—was in her nostrils. His heart was thudding under her hands. And the awful, humiliating truth was that nothing had changed inside her. She still loved him. She would always love him. She would leave here but the memory of him, of how it had been to love him, would go with her.

"Laurel. Beloved. What, exactly, did Jamal tell you?"

She drew a shuddering breath.

"That a bride had been chosen for you. That you would marry her but that—that you would return to me and I would be—I would be your mistress and—and—and—" Sobs tore from her throat. "I can't do it! I can't lie in your arms at night and know that there are times another woman lies in them, that when you leave me, you return to her, that she will bear you the sons and daughters I wanted to bear you—"

Khan cursed.

Then he bent his head to Laurel's and took her mouth in a long, deep kiss.

She tried to resist but how could she, when his arms were around her? When he held her this way, as if she were all that mattered in the universe?

Because
he
was all that mattered, to her. He was her love, her lover, he was the man she'd waited a lifetime to find.

"Laurel," Khan whispered against her mouth, "my beloved Laurel."

Tears were pouring down her face. He tasted them as he kissed her.

His beloved Laurel, his heart of hearts, was weeping, and the knowledge came close to killing him.

"Sweetheart. My beautiful, amazing, beloved sweetheart." He framed her face with his hands, raised it to his. "Jamal lied."

"But he told me—"

"He told you the part of the story he wanted to tell you, and made up the rest."

"You mean… there wasn't a bride waiting for you?"

The muscle in Khan's jaw flickered.

"Yes." His voice was low. "There was." He felt Laurel tense and he took her in his arms again because there was not a way in the world he was going to lose this woman.

She was his life.

"A bride selected for me without my authorization." His smile was bitter. "My minister—the one who came up with this scheme—believed he had trapped me into a marriage he thought would give him great power. He was certain I would have to go through with the arrangement." He paused. "He was wrong. Completely wrong."

"You should have told me."

"Yes. I should have, but I couldn't figure out how to explain it without reinforcing what you already believed, that I am trapped in the unyielding traditions of a different time."

"So… you went to see her? This woman?"

His expression turned frigid.

"I went to my minister, and dealt with him first. And then, yes, I went to her. Well, to her family. I explained that a terrible mistake had been made."

Laurel could feel her heart starting to lift. "I'll bet they weren't happy."

"A million pieces of gold made them happier."

"She was worth a million pieces of gold?"

"
You
were worth that." His hands threaded into her hair. "I would give up all that I have for you, sweetheart. Don't you know that? I adore you. I want to spend my life with you. And I will, because you will be my wife. "

Tears were still in her eyes, but now, they were tears of joy.

"Will your ministers accept that?"

"They have already accepted it," he said, with the self-confidence she'd come to love, and then he grinned. "I appointed many of them. They are close to my age. They were only too happy to know that, from now on, a man may choose his own wife—as I have chosen mine. "Khan's smile faded. He clasped Laurel's hand and dropped to his knees before her. "Laurel. My beloved. My heart. Will you marry me and live with me, forever?"

"Yes," she said, crying and laughing at the same time, "yes, oh yes! I'll marry you, my love, my life, my heart."

Khan stood, gathered her close, and kissed her. Then he lifted her into his arms and flung open the door to the corridor.

There was a gasp, and then another from Khan's usually unflappable bodyguards. And when he strode into the main terminal, Laurel still in his arms, the passengers lined up to board the London flight gasped, too. Fingers pointed. Whispers swept from one person to the other.

"Khan," Laurel said, very softly, "everyone sees us. The media will find out and—"

"In that case," her future husband replied, "let's give them something they can really get their teeth into."

He kissed her.

It was a long, deep kiss.

There was a little smatter of applause, and it grew and grew until somebody cheered and others took up the cheer. Khan smiled at the crowd.

"This is Laurel Cruz," he said. "And she has just agreed to become my wife."

"Hoorah for Lord Khan and his Lady," a voice called out.

"Hoorah, indeed," Khan said softly, as he carried the woman he loved into the sweet, soft, Altaran night.