The Prince of Pleasure (3 page)

He brought the glass to his lips and took a long swallow. Then he sat back, stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle.

Never mind thinking about that kiss. It hadn't meant a thing.

This had been a long day but business days were always long, no matter the continent or country. Breakfast meetings. Lunch meetings. Appointments sandwiched in between. Drinks. Dinners. With CEOs or COOs or CPAs.

The corporate world never ran out of initials.

Khan turned his face up to the sun and closed his eyes.

Different initials. Different names. An endless succession of men in suits. Women had been scarce at this week's functions. He'd only met with one, and she'd been a personal assistant brought along by her male boss. The guy hadn't even thought to introduce her; Khan had been the one to offer his hand and ask her name.

The woman had been almost embarrassingly grateful.

He could just imagine Laurel Cruz's reaction to such a situation. 

Not introduce her? The man who tried that would pay for it. She'd verbally flay him alive.

The way she'd done with him.

Amazing.

People he met socially, those he dealt with in business, were invariably polite to him. Well, more than polite. They were respectful. Some were even…

Obsequious.

Hell, they fawned over him.
Yes, your highness. Really, your highness. How interesting, your highness.

He could stand in the center of a room, reading aloud from a dictionary, and nobody would object.

Khan opened his eyes and took another swallow of wine.

No danger of that ever happening with the Cruz woman.

She'd made her feelings clear. No backing down. No apologies. She was wrong about him, of course, and her accusations had been ugly…

But who wouldn't admire her for all that attitude?

And for more than that.

The high-cheekboned face. The deep blue eyes. The body that he suspected was a lot more voluptuous than he'd at first thought, that  he
knew
was more voluptuous because he'd taken her in his arms, felt those elegant feminine curves against him…

Khan shot to his feet.

It was time to phone room service, order something simple. Steak. Salad. Coffee.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His cell phone was ringing. Where had he left it?

He checked his pockets, went into the sitting room and looked around while the thing kept beeping. Frowning, he went into the bedroom.

There it was, on the dresser.

The beeping stopped just as he picked it up. The call had gone to voice mail. Good. Dinner first, then…

Who was he kidding? He had responsibilities. He couldn't simply ignore a message. Sighing, he retrieved it and heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, man, it's Travis. Nothing urgent. I just wanted to touch bases with you about tonight. Give me a call, okay?"

Khan blinked.

What about tonight? Was he supposed to be…?

Damn. Yes, he was. He'd completely forgotten that Travis had called early this morning.

"I'm having a few people over," he'd said. "Nothing fancy. Jeans and T-shirt casual. I'll put a few steaks on the grill, open some
vino
and you can do some off-the-record talking with a couple of guys you already met and a few others you haven't. Or you can avoid business altogether, just enjoy some R&R. No pressure, you know what I mean?

Khan knew.

It was code, meant to assure him that Laurel would not be there.

Damned right, she wouldn't. Travis knew that bringing them together again would be like mixing oil and water…

Or kindling and a match.

An image of her flashed through Khan's mind. Blue eyes bright with spirit. Rosy mouth made for kissing.

That would be one way to bring her to heel.

Take her to bed.

Strip away her clothes, her defenses. Touch her. Suck on her nipples. Put his hand, his mouth between her thighs until she cried out in his arms, screamed his name in passion, in pleasure.

His sex stirred, hardened as if he were a sixteen year old schoolboy. The cellphone fell from his hand.

"Goddammit," he snarled, as he bent and plucked it from the floor.

Maybe being alone was the last thing he needed tonight. Maybe being with people was a better choice. A relaxed setting. Some laughs. And, with luck, a woman. A beautiful woman, one who'd smile at his jokes, be flattered by his attention.

Call me,
Travis had said, but what for? A glance at his Rolex and Khan had the answer. It was late. Almost 7:45, and Travis had expected him at 7.

He headed into the dressing room. The jeans were okay. The shirt wasn't. He yanked it over his head, exchanged it for a black T, slid his bare feet into a pair of mocs. A quick glance in the mirror. His jaw was showing its usual dark, end-of-day stubble but the keyword for the night had been 'casual.'

He grinned.

Stubble was about as casual as a man could get.

He scooped up his wallet, his keycard, his car keys, and headed for the door.

The lobby was busy. He moved through it quickly, knowing that the faster he moved, the less chance he had of running into another problem.

Outside, he tossed his parking stub and a fifty dollar bill at the attendant.

"Make it quick," he said, and the kid all but clicked his heels.

The Ranger skidded to a stop seconds later. Khan got behind the wheel, stepped on the gas and roared away.

Hello, relaxed evening.

Goodbye, Laurel Cruz.

She was out of his head, gone for good, and in case there was the slightest danger she wasn't, she certainly would be, after tonight.

What a relief.

********

Not very far away, in a luxury condo off Turtle Creek, Caleb and Jake Wilde stepped onto the long, wide terrace that wrapped around Travis's condo.

Casually-dressed people stood in small groups, laughing, talking, munching on goodies, drinking wine and beer. Classic rock poured from hidden speakers.

The brothers headed for Travis, who was tending the coals of a charcoal fire because, they all agreed, that was the only kind real Texans believed in.

"Good party," Jake said.

Travis nodded. "We aim to please."

Caleb peered at the bed of coals. "Too many briquettes."

"You do it your way, I'll do it mine."

"You never could take a little constructive criticism." Caleb took an olive from a small bowl on a nearby table. "Did you speak to Khan?"

The briquettes were starting to glow. Travis gave them a poke with a long-handled fork.

"I left a message on his cell."

"But you warned him, right?" Jake handed Travis an open bottle of ale. "You said that Laurel was coming tonight?"

"Thanks. No, I didn't warn him. I just asked him to call me."

Caleb frowned. "Maybe you should have said more than that."

"It'll be okay. He'll call any second now and I'll clue him in, tell him she's here and, if he wants, I'll give him a call after she leaves. I'm pretty certain he won't want to see her."

"Damned right," Jake said. "She's the one started all the trouble the other night, not Khan. He was ticked, but he was absolutely the innocent party." He picked up a cracker piled with something brown from a tray, gave it a look filled with suspicion. "What is this stuff?"

"I'm not sure. Amy brought it. I think it's some kind of eggplant thing."

Jake aimed the cracker at a trash container, wiped his hand on the seat of his jeans.

"That's what you get for dating a vegan."

"She's not a vegan, she's a vegetarian."

"Same difference. Stick with the meat-eaters, is my motto."

"He doesn't stick with anybody," Caleb said, picking up a long fork and jabbing it at the coals. "You know our Travis. Four weeks, six if he's really enjoying himself, and then it's adios."

"That's ridiculous," Travis said, elbowing Caleb out of the way. "I'm a bachelor, is all, same as the both of you. Variety is the spice of life."

"Indeed," Jake said, flashing a smile at a stunning brunette who blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. "But Caleb's right. You should have told him."

"Told who what?"

The brothers looked around. Khan looked back at them.

"Hell," Jake said softly and then, with artificial good cheer, "Khan. My man. Good to see you."

Khan looked from one Wilde to the other.

"What did I miss?"

"Nothing," Caleb said quickly.

 Jake glared at his brothers. Then he leaned toward Khan.

"Laurel Cruz will be here tonight."

Khan blinked. He thought of widening his eyes and saying,
Who?
but what would have been the point?

"I didn't invite her," Travis said. "Why would I? After the other night, I'd be happy if I never saw her again. But the senator called me said he wanted to get some papers to you."

"Then, why didn't he?" Khan said in a tone even he knew was sharp. He took a breath. "I mean, he never contacted me."

"I told him he could call you. Or have them delivered to your hotel. He said he wouldn't have them ready until this evening and I said, fine, he could have them couriered here, to my place."

"And Laurel Cruz is his idea of a courier service?"

Travis shrugged.

"I had no idea he was sending her until he phoned a little while ago. I tried calling you, man. I figured I'd tell you to stay put until she showed up, dropped off whatever she's supposed to drop off, and left."

"If you knew she'd be here, what did 'no pressure' mean?"

"That you didn't have to run into each other. You can, I don't know, you can hang out in my study. Or upstairs, in one of the guest rooms. Laurel will show up, I'll take the stuff from her—"

"I am not," Khan said coldly, "a man who hides from anyone."

"No. Of course you aren't. I simply meant—"

"I am most assuredly not a man who would hide from a woman!"

"Look, there's a simple solution. I'll call Laurel, tell her to leave the papers with the doorman or the concierge."

"I am also not a man who would ask his host to turn a guest away from his door on my behalf."

"That's my point. She isn't a guest. I didn’t invite her here. I wouldn't, not after the way she went at you."

Khan felt his face turn hot. The woman was a friend of the Wildes. Because of him, that friendship was now strained.

"Listen," he said, "you don't know all of it."

"I do," Travis said. "What she did was—"

"I kissed her."

Silence. The Wildes stared at him, at each other, then at him again. Khan cleared his throat.

"I was angry."

"And?"

"And, I followed her outside."

"And?"

"And, I—I kissed her."

Jake grinned. So did Caleb. Travis laughed.

"He kissed her," Jake said.

"Yeah," said Caleb, "well, that's sure as hell one way to get even with a woman."

Khan glared at the three of them.

"I am glad that you find this so amusing!"

"Listen to him," Travis said. "His accent's coming back. It always used to, remember? When he got into a jam."

"I am not in a jam. I do not have an accent." Khan paused. "Hell," he said softly. "I owe the woman an apology."

Jake nodded.

"In that case," he said solemnly, "you're in luck. The lady in question just stepped out on the terrace—and she's spotted you."

"Wow," Caleb said quietly. "If looks could kill…"

Khan swung around.

The music, the laughter, the voices all seemed to fade away.

She stood just past the open wall of glass that divided the terrace from the living room.

She was wearing jeans. Some kind of silky-looking shirt. Spike-heeled boots that were the crimson of a tropical sunset. Her hair was loose, a wild waterfall of dark curls that fell to her shoulders and down her back.

She was beautiful.

Spectacularly beautiful.

And he knew, without question, that he wanted to start all over again, tell her that he wasn't the ruthless despot she'd pegged him for, or the barbarian he'd proven to be.

As for the kiss…

He wanted to kiss her again.

Taste her.

Draw a response from her as he almost had, the other night.

First, though, he owed her an apology. And he would make one. Now.

Khan took a step forward.

One of the Wildes—he didn't know which because he had not taken his eyes from Laurel—one of them laid a hand lightly on his arm.

"Khan." The voice was Caleb's. "Man, don't do anything you'll regret."

Khan shook off Caleb's hand.

"Everything's fine," he said, and started slowly across the terrace, toward Laurel.

And Laurel, who had been trying to decide what course of action to take when she found herself staring at the very last man she'd ever wanted to see again, the man she'd thought of endlessly for the last two days, did something she'd never imagined.

She turned and ran.

Coward, Laurel thought, as she pushed her way through the maddeningly crowded room.  

She, who had never run from a fight in her life, was running, and from what? He was just a man, despite all those foolish titles. That he'd humiliated her didn't mean she had to turn tail and run.

If anything, she should have stood her ground, just as she had all her life.

Growing up in south Dallas she'd learned, early, how to face down bigger, tougher kids. Anybody who thought only boys had to deal with bullies and beatings and intimidation was living in another century.

Even school had been a battleground.

You went to a place where acceptance or, at least getting through from day to day meant blending in and sometimes even dumbing down when you already knew you wanted out of these mean streets, you  learned to ignore the taunts of others and keep your eye on your goal.

College.

Not just college.

A top-rated place where she'd learned how to stop being a girl with a mountain-sized chip on her shoulder, although her street creds had come in handy in law school. It turned out that assertiveness, even a touch of aggression, were handy when you were dealing with a tough witness, an uncooperative attorney, or a take-no-prisoners judge.

And she was running from a man who specialized in intimidating those he believed were beneath him?

"To hell with that," she said, and came to a dead stop.

A guy who'd been coming toward her, smiling, a glass of wine in each hand, raised his eyebrows.

"Hey," he said, "I was only going to ask if you—"

She swung around.

There he was.

The Great Khan. The Emperor of the Universe. Approaching fast, dark brows drawn together, green eyes flashing, dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans for Partying with the Peasants.

Still gorgeous.

All male.

All powerful.

And what did any of that matter when he was an arrogant, self-centered bully and she would sooner die than let him get the better of her again?

"Keep away from me," she said, but it was too late.

He was directly in front of her now, standing so close that she had to tilt her head back a little to make eye contact, so close that she could feel the heat coming off him.

"I want to talk to you," he said in a low voice.

"That's unfortunate, because I have no desire to talk to you."

"Laurel. Just give me a minute."

"We're not on a first-name basis."

One corner of his mouth lifted. Was the SOB laughing at her?

"Forgive me. Ms. Cruz. I wish to speak with you."

He had an accent. She knew that from last time. It was irritating, the way he put a different spin on words because of that accent.

That sexy accent. Assuming you were the kind of woman who thought accents like his were sexy, which she, most assuredly, was not. 

"I have nothing I wish to say to you."

"Oh, I'm sure you have many things you'd like to say to me, Ms. Cruz." 

Dammit. He
was
laughing. Or he was close to it. All it proved was what she already knew. There were huge cultural differences between people of his country and hers, and if his culture permitted him to find something amusing in this unpleasant scene, it was one strange culture indeed.

"I've already said them," Laurel replied coldly. "Or is your memory as bad as your behavior?"

There were, at most, two inches separating them. He took a step, eliminated that small barrier.

"Do you really want to discuss this here?"

"I told you, there's nothing to discuss. Anywhere. Or do you have difficulty understanding English?"

His eyes narrowed.

She couldn't blame him.

That had been a low blow. What on earth had made her say such a thing? His English was as good as hers. The man brought out the absolute worst in her.

"I told you. I wish to speak with you."

"You've already done that."

"I have not." He glanced around them. His mouth tightened. "And I would prefer to have our talk without an audience."

An audience? Laurel looked to one side, then the other. He was right. People were watching them. Actually, they were staring, faces bright with interest. The sheikh, even dressed in jeans, was probably recognizable to half those here, and she wasn't exactly anonymous.

Another five minutes, their confrontation would be all over the city.

 "Look, Mr. al  Hassad—"

"That is not how you should address me."

Laurel slapped her hands on her hips. Audience or not, this had to stop.

"If you think I'm going to curtsy and call you king or prince or your highness or something equally ridiculous,  you know what you can do with that thought."

His hand closed on her wrist.

"What are you doing?

"You're a bright woman," he said grimly. "Figure it out."

He started walking. She didn't. His hand closed more tightly around hers. He might as well have had her on a leash.

"Hey!"

He didn't answer.

"Hey," she said again, "let go!"

She might as well have been talking to herself. 

"Coming through," he said briskly. "Sorry. Excuse me."

He didn't hesitate, didn't pause, didn't stop. The crowd parted without protest and why wouldn't it, given his imperious tone?

Laurel dug her heels in. Or tried to, but the marble floor and her spike-heeled boots weren't a good combination for a woman trying to defeat the forward motion of a determined man.

She cursed and sputtered words learned growing up in the barrio, words she'd truly believed were long forgotten. Frustrated and furious, she swung toward him, balled her fist and punched in in the shoulder.

Somebody laughed.

It probably looked like some kind of game, a man, and a woman fooling around, the man ignoring the woman's protests as he pretended to carry her off.

But it wasn't a game. It was insulting, demeaning, a show of pure brute strength, and she wasn't going to take it, goddammit, she absolutely was not, and she wound up again and slugged him harder.

She might as well have been a gnat trying to terrorize an elephant.

He tugged her straight through the room.

She thought he was heading for the front door.

He wasn't.

Instead, he turned a corner, marched the length of a wide hall, turned another corner and, finally, pulled her through an open door and slammed it shut behind them.

Then he let go of her wrist, leaned back against the door and folded his arms over his chest.

Laurel was almost incoherent with rage.

"You," she said, "you—you—you—"

He unfolded his arms, tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, and crossed his feet at the ankles.

The only thing he didn't do was yawn.

Was there an emotion that went beyond fury? She wanted to launch herself at him and scratch his eyes out but she had enough sanity left to know he'd fend her off before she touched him.

"Are you crazy?" she demanded. No answer. Just that expression of absolute tedium. "Dammit, am I boring you?"

He laughed. Laughed! Jesus, she wanted to kill him.

"You think that's funny? You think any of this is funny?"

He shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting and falling with what she could only think of as insouciant ease.

"I was laughing at your question. You are many things, Ms. Cruz, but you are never boring."

"How dare you? How dare you do such a thing to me?"

Khan lifted one eyebrow. "This would all be much easier if you calmed down."

"Calm down?" Her voice slid up the scale. "I'm not the one who needs to calm down!"

"Only one of us is shouting," he said calmly. "And it isn't me."

She took a quick step forward, eyes blazing with fury. He wanted to tell her she was even more beautiful when she was angry but it was such a cliché that he figured it would only make her grab the first thing at hand and hurl it at him.

"Making that—that awful scene in front of half of Dallas."

"Yes." He shrugged. "This must be my day for making scenes."

"What's that supposed to mean? Not that I care!"

"It means I'm going to have to work on controlling my temper." His gaze fell to her hand. He reached for it. She jerked it back. They tugged back and forth for a few seconds and then he rolled his eyes, tightened his grip and raised her hand so he could examine her wrist. "Good. No finger marks."

"Not good," she snarled, wrenching her hand free. "It means I can't file a police report charging you with assault."

He laughed. Again. Her eyes narrowed.

"How can you possibly think this is funny?"

He gave her a long, searching look. Then his smile faded.

"You're right. It isn't."

He could tell that wasn’t the answer she'd expected but then, nothing that had happened since they'd met was anything he'd expected. She was a world apart from the women he dealt with, in business and certainly in his private life. 

Women invariably deferred to him.

The truth was, everybody did.

He could count those who didn't on the fingers of one hand.

His prime minister and his head of security, both boyhood pals he'd chosen for their jobs precisely because neither had a deferential bone in his body. The Wilde brothers.

And now, Laurel Cruz.

Amazing.

"You know, of course, that someone in that crowd back there might have caught all of this on a cellphone camera."

She was still furious, he could tell by the ice in her voice, but she was calmer.

And she was right.

"If they did, it'll be everywhere by tomorrow."

He nodded. "I know."

"And that doesn't bother you? Because it sure bothers me! I'm an associate in a well-respected law firm. I have serious responsibilities—"

"I have some responsibilities myself."

His voice had turned as cool as hers. It was all that kept her from saying,
Like what
?

"Just don't respond."

"Huh?"

"When reporters show up at your door. Or call you. All you have to keep repeating is 'No comment' and, eventually, they'll give up."

She blinked. "That's the best you can do?"

"It's the best anyone in the public eye can do. Trust me, Ms. Cruz. I've had my lawyers look at this kind of problem from every legal angle. It's called—"

"Freedom of speech," Laurel said. Her shoulders slumped. "I know."

Khan frowned and moved away from the door. He paced to one end of the room—a library, he saw now—and back to the other.

Hell.

He had met this woman twice. And lost control of himself with her twice. He wanted to write it off as her fault but he knew better. No matter what she'd said to insult him the first time, no matter what she'd done to turn this second meeting into a media event, it was  his fault.

She wasn't accustomed to being in the eye of the storm. He was. You grew up with cameras and microphones trained on you, you learned—fast—how maintain self-control.

When had he lost that ability?

"Mr. al Hassad…"

He turned toward her. 

"Do not call me that."

She lifted her chin. She'd done the same thing the other night. Then, he'd thought it was pugilistic. Now, it struck him as defensive.

And sexy.

"Forgive me," she said, with a smile sweet enough to add calories to the air. "What, precisely, is the title you prefer? King? Prince? Sheikh? Your highness, your lordship, your worship—"

"My name is Khan."

She blinked. He'd noticed   her doing that before, too. It reminded him of a cat he'd owned as a boy, feline and graceful and with enormous, bright blue eyes that would close with pleasure under the stroke of his hand.

"Khan?"

He nodded. "And please, spare us both the Genghis Khan jokes. I was not named for him. 'Khan' is an old family name. My father wanted something Arabic and probably unpronounceable. My mother wanted something short and American. 'Khan' was their idea of a compromise, and I cannot be held responsible for it."

He was smiling.

Smiling.

Laurel's heart seemed to bang against her ribs.

He was horrid and hateful, but he had a smile to kill for and every now and then, he sounded like a man instead of a dictator.

"My name is Khan," he said in a low voice as he walked slowly toward her. "And I wish I could tell you that all I've thought about for the last two days is that I owe you an apology."

You're—you're apologizing?"

"I know it flies in the face of everything you think you know about me. And I know I should have done it sooner."

He came to a stop, barely a breath away. She had to tilt her head again to look at him, and he tried not to think about how much he liked it when she did that, how it made him think about lowering his head and claiming her lips, or kissing her neck, or measuring the race of her pulse by putting his mouth to the delicate hollow in her throat.

"What's that American saying?" he murmured. "Something about better late than never?"

Laurel stared up at him. Why was she having trouble breathing? Why was he looking at her like that? Why did she want to reach out and touch her hands to his face where a light, end-of-day stubble shadowed his skin?

"Yes." Dammit, she sounded breathless. "That's right. Better late than—"

His hand rose. Cupped her cheek. She fought the desire to turn her face into his palm and taste his skin.

"I should not have kissed you."

His voice was soft. Husky. His fingers caressed her face. For an instant, only for an instant, Laurel gave in to desire, closed her eyes, let herself feel the gentle strength of his touch.

"A man should never kiss a woman in anger."

He stroked the hair back from her face. His arm slid around her. Their bodies brushed, lightly, lightly, but, oh, in all the right places. Her breasts against his chest. Her belly against his…

Against his erection.

She could feel him, through the denim of his jeans.