The Prince of Pleasure (5 page)

Lauren had decided tonight was the night to wash her hair.

Well, she washed it every night, or, to be accurate, every morning when she showered, but tonight was The Works. Wash. Condition. Rinse. Deep Condition, using that funky goop that supposedly tamed it but never did. Rinse again. Blow dry.

She peered into the bathroom mirror.

The Works would take up most of the evening.

That was good.

It was excellent.

She had a briefcase full of files to study but lately, she had trouble concentrating. Something like dealing with her hair—there was a lot to deal with, when your hair was long and curly and had a mind of its own—something so straightforward would surely go a long way toward settling her down.

Or forcing her not to think.

Not to think about—about—

About something not worth thinking about, she told herself firmly.

She stepped away from the mirror, took off her small gold hoop earrings and her watch,  toed off her not-really-Louboutin pumps, her no-way-José-Armani suit, her-I-really-wish-it-were-Vince silk blouse and, finally, her La Perla  bra and panties because, yes, expensive silk undies were her one,  her only addiction…

Unless you counted this week's sudden addiction to going over and over and over the unbelievable thing she'd done at Travis Wilde's party and, no, she wasn't going there.

Not anymore.

Wasn't that one of the reasons she was about to spend three silly, pointless hours on her hair?

She had to stop thinking about that night. Start thinking about reality.

Ergo, her hair.

Her robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door. The robe wasn't meant to look like anything but what it was, a Target special—
Tar-zhay
, she thought, with a little pang of nostalgia. That was what her mother used to teasingly call the store. 

The robe was long and warm; it covered her from throat to toe, just as it had since her first semester at college. It was, she supposed, her security blanket.

Barefoot, she plucked the box of goop that would supposedly tame her hair from the shelf above the sink.

She read the directions, though there was no reason for it. She knew what they said, just as she knew she would ignore them. So what? What did whatever you called people who wrote directions truly know about hair?

Real hair, not the stuff in the photos on those boxes.

She was a lawyer. She knew things were not always what they seemed to be, especially pictures. They got doctored. Photo-Shopped. Women's smiles were whiter. Blondes were blonder. Breasts were bigger, which surely had to be why the breasts of the Dolly Parton lookalike, who'd flashed the Emperor of the Universe, had seemed so enormous in that ridiculous picture that was everywhere.

Did he like big breasts?

Who cared?

She wasn't interested in what he thought or in what he did, and even if he liked big breasts, breasts bigger than hers, he would never know the difference.

He had not looked at her breasts.

He had not looked at her.

Well, he had, but really, all he'd wanted was to get inside her.

And, just like that, the same as it had been happening the entire week, Laurel's knees went watery.

Carefully, she set the box of goop back on the shelf.

She had to stop thinking about what had happened. About him. About how she'd wanted him with blind hunger, how she'd given in to that hunger without any thought of the consequences, forgetting that they were in a stranger's home, that anybody could have walked in on them…

Well, no.

Not with Khan holding her in his arms. With her back against the door. With her legs wrapped around him, her heart pounding against his, his body hot on hers, his scent of man and sex and sweat in her nostrils…

A little moan broke from her throat.

She had certainly not thought about the most basic kind of consequences, that he wasn't using a condom, and wasn't it a damn good thing she was on the pill? For the first time in her life, having irregular periods seemed like a good thing because that was the reason she was on the pill. She certainly wasn't on it because she was having lots of sex.

She wasn't.

Having sex, lots of it or otherwise.

There was too much to do in life without adding a man to the mix, especially if you were going to be the next Justice Sonia Sotomayor.

Then, what the hell had she been doing, letting a man she didn't even like screw her brains out in the middle of a house full of strangers?

It had been wrong. Stupid, Dangerous.

Laurel sank her teeth lightly into her bottom lip.

It had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her—which was why she'd walked out on him. 

That didn't make sense, even to her…

Except, it did. Hadn't she made some ridiculous little speech about honesty as part of her dramatic exit?

"Okay, Cruz," she whispered, lifting her head, staring at herself in the mirror.

She would be honest.

She'd walked out because she'd been horrified. Not at him. At herself.

She'd never been like that before.

Sex, yes. But out of control sex? Wild sex? Sex that she had not planned or prepared for, with somebody who was, basically, a stranger?

And she'd blamed it all on him.

She'd spent a day telling herself she owed him an apology. Or an explanation. But what was she going to say that wouldn't be humiliating? Beside, why would he care? If he had, he would have come after her.

Even she knew that gender equality only went just so far, and—

Bzzz.

The downstairs buzzer? Frowning, Laurel picked up her watch and checked the time. It was eight-thirty. Who would drop by at this hour? Who would drop by at any hour? She had friends, sure. Well, acquaintances. None would show up without first—

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Aha. A new tenant had moved into the flat below hers. Apartment 3A, not 4A. The guy's name was Crouse. Cruz, Crouse, easy to make mis—

Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

Laurel clucked her tongue, padded to the foyer, pressed the button.

"Wrong apartment," she said into the intercom. "You want 3A, not 4A."

Back to the bathroom. Pick up the box of goop. Open it—

The doorbell rang.

Laurel rolled her eyes.

"Give me a break," she said to her reflection. It rang again. She blew out a breath, padded back into the foyer. "Okay. I'm coming, but I'm telling you…" She checked, made sure the safety chain was on, then opened the door the inch the chain permitted. "What you want is apartment three—"

The rest caught in her throat.

She could see her visitor perfectly through the slot between the opened door and the jamb.

It was him. The Emperor. Tall and gorgeous in what was absolutely a real Armani suit, his tie undone, his hair standing on end, five o'clock shadow on his square jaw, a bunch of flowers being slowly choked to death in his clenched fist.

He looked… What? Angry? Upset? Contrite? Could a man look a little of each?

Could that really be her heart doing a stupid thing, a kind of two-step that made her clutch at the wall for support?

"Laurel," he said, in that low, delicious, sexy, faintly-accented voice that had haunted her dreams the entire week.

Her gaze flew from the flowers to his face.

"What…" She cleared her throat. "What are you doing here?"

Was it her imagination, or did he stand a little straighter?

"I—I came to tell you—to tell you—"

She stared at him. "To tell me…?"

He laughed. Or maybe not. He made a little sound that was halfway between a groan and a laugh and as he did, he shook his head.

"I came to tell you that calling me a barbarian—"

"I know," she said quickly. "In fact, that entire thing—"

"What I mean is, I thought you had no right. But you did. You had every right. My behavior was—it was uncivilized."

She stared at him. "What?"

"Kissing you that first night we met." He gave a self-deprecating little shrug. "It was wrong."

Say something, she told herself, but what? Was the Emperor of the Universe actually apologizing?

"And what happened at Travis's…"

Laurel held up her hand. "Wait. Are you—are you apologizing to me?"

"Yes."

"I'm the one who called you names. You don't owe me—"

"What I did at Travis's…" He cleared his throat. "I'm not sorry for wanting you. Hell, how could I be sorry for that? But—but what I wanted was to make love to you." He paused. "And I didn't."

She blinked. "You didn't?"

"Not as I should have." A muscle in his jaw flexed. "You said we had sex. And you were         right. We did. Incredible sex, but still—"

A door across the hall creaked open. Not far. An inch, perhaps less. Laurel fumbled with the safety chain, flung her door open, grabbed Khan's arm, tugged him inside, then slammed the door shut.

"For heaven's sake, do my neighbors need to hear all the details?"

She saw some of the tension leave his body. He grinned. He had an amazing grin.

"If I'd known that's what it took to get through the door, I'd have bribed whoever lives in that apartment to eavesdrop a lot faster."

Laurel narrowed her eyes. 

"I'm delighted that you find this amusing," she said, trying to sound angry but finding that hard to do when a man who looked as if he'd just walked off the pages of GQ was standing before her, while she stood before him in a robe that had seen its best days a decade ago.

She raised her chin, clutched at the collar of the robe and brought the frayed edges together. She'd almost forgotten how much she disliked this man. She'd been wrong to call him a barbarian, but that didn't mean he could win an award as Mr. Nice Guy.

"What do you want, Prince Khan? How did you find out where I live? Did it ever occur to you to phone first, instead of barging your way in here?"

"Three questions, Madam Counselor," he said, with a smile that would have curled her toes, had she let it—but she wouldn't. Of course, she wouldn't.

"Good," she said briskly. "You can count."

 "Three questions," he said again, "and they deserve answers. What do I want? Well, what I thought I wanted was to tell you how angry you made me, calling me a barbarian."

"Perhaps," she said, a little stiffly, "I went overboard, but—"

"It turns out that I actually wanted to apologize. Not for being a barbarian. For being—for  being out of control."

I was out of control, too,
she almost said, and stopped herself just in time. She had no idea where this conversation was going, she only knew that in life as in a courtroom, only a fool gave anything away until she heard what her opponent had to offer.

"As for where I got your address… I called Caleb. He gave it to me."

"You shouldn't have involved him. He has no need to know that—that—"

"He doesn't. I was discreet." He paused. "And then, there's that third question… Yes, I thought of calling first, but you would have hung up when you heard my voice."

"You're so sure of yourself!" She heaved a sigh. "But you're right. I would have."

"So," he said, after a couple of seconds of silence, "here I am. In the flesh. Telling you how sorry I am that I behaved as I did."

She stared at him.

She wanted to say something cutting and send him on his way but—but—

"For heaven's sake," she said, "give me those poor flowers before you massacre them."

He handed the flowers to her. She marched down the hall, into the kitchen, tried to remember if she had a vase and if she did, where in the world she kept it.

"I am sorrier than you can imagine," he said softly.

She swung around. He'd followed her; he was inches away.

"But," he said, "I have no regrets." He took a step toward her. "I'm glad I kissed you. And that we had sex." His voice roughened. "I'm only sorry we didn't make love."

Laurel knew her face was turning pink. How could he say these things? They were so intimate…

"You're blushing," he said softly. "Your cheeks are the same soft pink as your robe."

"I am not blushing."

He smiled. It was a slow, sexy smile; she felt her heart do that ridiculous little two step again.

"Prince Khan—"

"I think we're on a first name basis, don't you?"

"Prince Khan." Laurel swallowed dryly. "Khan. Thank you for apologizing. But—"

"But?"

She stared at him. But, what? Hadn't she been thinking that she was as guilty as he for what had happened? He wasn't a barbarian, and she knew it.

As for that bit about having sex instead of making love…

"I wanted what happened at Travis's as much as you did."

The words came out in a rush. She hadn't planned them, hadn't known she'd say them, but she was glad she had.

You couldn't talk about honesty without being honest.

"It's just that—that I never…" She looked down at the floor. Her voice was low; she wanted to speak louder but it was difficult enough to speak at all. "What we did. How we did it. I'm not like that. I mean, I'm not—"

"I love that you
were
like that. With me." His voice was gruff, his accent a little more pronounced. She looked up and saw that he had come closer; she could see her own reflection in his green eyes. "But, you deserved more."

"No," she said quickly. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I wanted—I wanted you. Just as it was. The things I said later… That was guilt talking, not me."

"There should not have been any guilt. What for?" He reached out, gently took the flowers from her and dropped them into the sink. "I only regret that I was clumsy. I had no finesse. I was like a—a boy who couldn't control his emotions—"

Laurel put her fingers over his lips.

"I didn't want finesse," she said. Her eyes met his. "I wanted you, exactly the way it happened."

Khan gathered her in his arms. She gave a soft whisper of acquiescence. And when he bent his head and kissed her, she wound her arms around his neck and parted her lips to his.