Mina stopped in her tracks, completely guileless in her shock. “What? Why does no one know this?”
“Many details around the assassination are classified.”
“Did she leave because she was afraid?”
He laughed, “My mother? That woman has never been afraid a day in her life.” He shook his head. “No. She left because ours is a small island. My father’s memory was everywhere for her, and guilt and grief were killing her.”
“I can understand... But this way it’s like you’ve lost two parents at once.”
Her eyes oozed pain for him and he frowned, not liking the way her empathy felt like a balm. “Now, Mina. Don’t be maudlin. You know there is nothing like losing a parent but losing a parent.”
The bite in his retort had exactly the effect he had been going for. The sympathetic light in her eye dimmed, replaced with a hint of fire.
He continued, “But, as you now know the full story, you must indulge my desire to learn more about the new mother figure in my life.”
Mina rolled her eyes, but it was a sham to cover up the heart pouring out of them. “I don’t know how I would have made it through without my mother. We adore each other. I have dinner with her two nights a week, usually, and typically stay over on those nights.”
“Interesting...” Zayn noted. “I hadn’t observed that.”
Mina laughed, once again righting the world with the sound of joy.
“Well, not lately. She’s been wanting to take an extended holiday back home in Germany—my grandparents are getting older, you know—and when I learned of my parliamentary interview we both knew I’d be focused on preparing, so she decided to take her trip now. She’s due back midsummer. We’d planned to take a spa weekend together, either to celebrate or soothe, depending on the outcome...”
Her voice trailed off and they both thought of what the outcome had been—something far different from what Mina and her mother had imagined.
Zayn vowed in that moment to make sure Mina’s time at the summer palace made up for the spa weekend she’d missed. He couldn’t reinstate her position on the council—a queen could not sit on the council—and he couldn’t give her back her life as a professor and researcher, but he could at least give her back one of the plans her marriage to him had taken from her.
Her pampering would begin the moment they arrived at the summer palace. But they had to get there first.
“We’re about thirty minutes from the cabin,” he said. “We can make it there before we lose the light. From there it’s less than two hours’ walk to the summer palace, but for that we can wait for daylight.”
Mina nodded. “I’m ready if you are.”
Once again he set the pace, and Mina kept up, this time forgoing any observation notes, and as the last creeping tendrils of light faded on the horizon they stepped suddenly out of the woods into the clearing that housed the palatial log cabin.
Constructed of thick old logs, and large polished stones, the building was designed in a traditional lodge style, with large, scenic picture windows in the center of two outstretched, smooth-timbered wings. Two-storied, it was a commanding structure, made all the more so by the fact that it was the first evidence of mankind they had encountered in miles.
“The cabin is kept stocked with supplies at all times. But unfortunately, it has yet to be retro-fitted with satellite services, so we won’t be able to call from it. It should meet our needs for the night, though.”
Mina merely nodded as he opened the door, gasping when she stepped inside.
Smiling at her wonder, Zayn took in the large exposed beams of the ceiling, the plushly accented open spaces and the enormous central fireplace with nonchalance. “I always thought it was rather rustic and a bit too cozy myself...”
Mina laughed. “I’m sure. After all, no satellite services...”
She wandered round the expansive living area first and then the large kitchen, noting the locations of necessary items as she opened cabinets and drawers.
“Oh, and here’s a can opener! Perfect!”
“A can opener?” He raised an eyebrow.
Mina’s owlish look alone would have been comical, but when it was coupled with her next words he had trouble keeping a straight face.
“You do know that people eat food out of cans, right?” she asked delicately, and her attempt to disguise exactly what she would think about him if he answered no was almost painful.
Holding back, he nodded seriously. “I am aware.”
Her sigh of relief was too much, though, and it broke the dam on his laughter.
When he could breathe again, he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and offered, “I may be King, but I still had my uni days.”
She rolled her eyes at that. “I’m sure...”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Grinning, she shrugged. “Somehow I imagine your late-night takeout and pajama days were a bit higher-class than mine.”
It was his turn to shrug, his smile easy. “Probably. But caviar still comes out of a can.”
This time it was she who couldn’t hold back, and the laughter rolled out of her with a faint edge of hysteria to it—the only hint at the unusual day she’d had. He was impressed.
“Whether it’s out of a can, or anything else, we should eat and then rest up,” he said. “We can shower and change and set out early tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we’ll be at the summer palace before lunch.”
Sobering, she nodded. “I don’t have a change of clothes, but a shower sounds divine. Or, even better yet, a long soak...”
She virtually purred at the idea, her voice going husky and smooth, and despite crash landing his plane and an unplanned half-day hike, he felt his pants tighten in response.
“Ask and you shall receive,” he said. “The summer palace is always stocked with spare clothing and the master bath is equipped with a state-of-the-art hot tub and, I believe, every kind of bath salt and soaking serum anyone could want.”
Closing her eyes, she let out a long, contented sigh, before her eyes shot open again. “Do you know how to cook?”
He almost answered honestly—the question as ridiculous as her concern about canned food—but held back at the last second, curious to see how she would respond.
Keeping his face carefully blank, he said, “I know how a can opener works.”
Frowning, she said, “That’s not very self-sufficient—but unsurprising. When would you have had to cook? It’s fine, though. I can put something together for us. It won’t be what you’re used to—I’m no chef—but we won’t starve.” She eyed him through the corner of her eye, apparently content with her own answers to her questions. “And it will be more than a heated up can of green beans...”
Not bothering to correct her impression, he smiled openly. “Wonderful. I can’t say I was looking forward to green beans...”
He did, however, find he was looking forward to having her cook for him. He might be used to top-rated chefs, but something about the idea set off something hot and primal inside him.
“After dinner, though, that bath has my name all over it.”
Her grin could only be described as wolfish, but he found himself attracted to its wild greed, wanting to see the same glint reflected in her eyes when she took him in. Preferably in the bath, her body naked and slick...
His body stirred again, and, with the direction his thoughts were taking, he decided it was time for a shower himself. An ice-cold one.
Entering the brightly lit and expansively marbled bathroom, he reflected on the fact that his concept of “cozy” was relative. At ten thousand square feet, the cabin certainly wasn’t small, and it boasted every modern comfort. But, most importantly, it was private.
The time he’d spent here with his parents was the only time he could remember in all his life when they�
�d had no servants or staff dancing attendance. His father had insisted on it after the renovation. His son might have been a prince, but he was going to experience life without being waited on hand and foot.
Removing his pants and putting them in the hidden hamper, Zayn then turned the shower on. Steaming jets burst forth from the wall and the waterfall showerhead, stinging his skin as the water encountered the small cuts and abrasions he’d picked up from trekking shirtless through the woods. He hadn’t noticed amassing them on the way. He had been too engrossed in Mina.
Electricity lit his veins at the thought of her. The two of them were absolutely alone, with no staff present to witness any lapses in decorum. Any uncontrolled response would be private...a secret shared between him and his wife.
With her downstairs, preparing dinner for the two of them while he showered, he could almost pretend they were ordinary people—a regular man and woman settling down for the evening, rather than a king and a queen with responsibilities to put their nation before their own happiness. He could almost imagine that they were united by common ground and shared desire, rather than by merely being the casualties of an antiquated contractual agreement.
He turned off the shower and pulled a plush towel from the tidily stacked pile to wrap around his waist. Exiting the bathroom, he was greeted by the scent of North African spices, drawing his attention to his gnawing hunger. Whether he was starving for sustenance or the woman behind the delectable combination of aromas, however, he wasn’t sure.
He followed the scent downstairs and into the kitchen, to find Mina standing in front of the stove with her back to him.
She still wore her jeans and his shirt, the hem of which hit her mid-thigh and hung loosely. The jeans beneath it certainly weren’t cut to showcase the female form, yet the image of what lay beneath was so clear in his mind it was as if he could see through every layer of clothing.
More curls had escaped the loose bun she’d started the day with, but the effect sat well with her masculine attire, hinting at the vibrant femininity that lay beneath. And below that her dizzying intellect. What lay below that he could only guess at, though each layer he discovered seemed more powerful and awe-inspiring than the last.
He could spend a lifetime delving into her depths and never run out of new facets to explore... The idea brought unfamiliar warmth to his chest.
He knew the moment she became aware of his presence, though she didn’t turn around. It was as if a pulse of electricity travelled through her body, until she thrummed with a kind of tension that invited him closer.
“The kitchen is really well stocked,” she said. “We had everything I needed for my grandma’s chicken tagine.”
She kept her voice over-bright, and he knew she was trying to settle her response to him. Not wanting that, he stepped further into the kitchen, standing only a few feet away now as she continued to cook.
When he spoke, he let his smile spill into the words. “Definitely better than a heated can of green beans. Smells delicious.”
And even though she kept her back to him he could sense the blush of pleasure that heated her skin. Could hear it in the catch of her breath.
“Thank you. You’re lucky. It’s about one of ten dishes I know how to make, and it is by far the best.”
Warm laughter rumbled in his chest, rising up out of him from a place far different from the presentational mirth he normally put on. Unbidden, an image of his father rose in his mind. Of the three of them, in fact—his father, mother, and himself—together in this very kitchen, his father at the stove, joking, he and his mother sitting at the counter, his rapt audience.
He was sure he hadn’t recalled that evening since it had happened, which had to be at least fifteen years before, because there was nothing remarkable about it. And yet there the memory was, crystal-clear after all these years.
“Almost done here.” Mina’s voice shone through the bittersweet thoughts, and she said over her shoulder, “Do you mind setting the table?”
He almost laughed.
The question had been so natural and innocuous, delivered off-hand from one person to another. For a brief moment, at least, she’d forgotten that he was the King. It was a novel experience—one he rather liked.
She turned off the stove and finally turned around, opening her mouth to speak as she moved.
But whatever she had been about to say was lost when she abruptly snapped her mouth shut, eyes going wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed. I’ll set the table.”
He did laugh this time, the sound low and heated. Still smiling, he said, “I’ll get dressed after dinner. I’d be happy to set the table.”
She licked her lips, and although his groin tightened in response, threatening the stability of the towel, he was certain she was unaware of the action.
Her cheeks had a rosy sheen to them, and there was a light in her eyes that hadn’t been there moments before, but rather than take any steps down the path of seduction, she clapped her hands together and said in an overloud voice, “Great. Thanks.” Before reaching for, and knocking over, the container of wooden serving spoons that sat on the counter.
Sure that his laughter would not be abating any time soon, Zayn decided to give her a break, gathering the silverware to set the table as his lady had requested.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT HAD TO be shock. Shock that was setting in after a day that had begun with her first hangover, included a plane crash, and was now coming to a close with a disorienting coziness that felt almost normal—albeit on a rather larger scale than most people could afford.
Considering the last few weeks of her life, any hint of normalcy would be reason enough for her to go into shock. So that was what was happening. That was why her temperature had spiked when she’d turned to see Zayn’s broad chest, clean and gleaming, a plush low-slung towel wrapped around his waist the only barrier between her eyes and his full naked glory.
Shock was why her breasts had gone heavy and tender when he’d stepped closer to her in the kitchen, and her imagination had supplied her with the sensation of his breath against the back of her neck, his body heat radiating outward to envelop her.
Shock was behind the growing heat at her core—not the King.
Her body was short-circuiting from a system overload, rather than due to the arousal the biologist in her demanded that she acknowledge. She was a mammal, after all. She couldn’t help her body’s natural response to being confronted with the perfection that was her King.
Golden and muscled, his chest was sprinkled with light hair that disappeared around his gorgeous pectorals and didn’t reappear again until it formed the line that began below his navel and disappeared beneath the towel.
Mina swallowed.
She had seen the naked human form before, but never like this. Never so visceral and hot and alive. Never so commanding. Never so cut.
It had been hard enough to focus during their hours of hiking, when only his chest had been exposed. There was no way she would make it through dinner knowing he had nothing on under the towel.
What would her grandmother think of her wild thoughts? How could she sit at a table and eat her grandmother’s recipe while her mind took off on a carnal tear, presenting her with crisp images of kissing a trail from his jaw all the way down his chest and along that oh-so-kindly marked path she’d observed.
She was going to combust while he laid out utensils on the table.
Human immolation was rare, but scientifically possible, given the right conditions. And the growing internal inferno that threatened to engulf her entire body seemed like the right conditions.
Shoving her hands into oven mitts, at this point more to protect the pan from her heat than the other way round, she carried the dish to the trivet Zayn had laid on the table.
“Mina...” His voice was a seductive caress. “That loo
ks delicious.”
Since it wasn’t possible to blush any more than she already was, Mina tried playing it cool as she joined him at the table. “Thank you. It helps to have such high-quality ingredients.”
Zayn smiled and her toes curled in her socks.
“My dad used to say the same thing,” he said.
His dad. King Alden. She wondered if she would ever get used to such casual references to royalty. But to Zayn, the royal family wasn’t the pinnacle of the aristocracy. It was just family.
“Your father cooked?” she asked, placing the serving spoon and turning to collect the rice and the teff. Zayn had chosen the small dining nook for their dinner, and Mina was grateful. The large table she’d seen in the dining room reminded her too much of breakfast.
“He did,” he said. And after a beat, he added, “He insisted I learn as well.”
Mina snorted. “You call heating up a can of vegetables cooking?”
He shrugged. “Your words, not mine.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re telling me you know how to cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“What can you make?”
She couldn’t picture Zayn in a kitchen outside of the image he presented now, sitting at the table, shirtless.
“Simple things. Pesce al grappa, polle al grappa, paella, polle dominga, jamon e quez...”
Mina was impressed with the list. It was classic Cyranese cooking, much of it considered common food, but all the more delicious for it.
But rather than tell him that she said, “Well, next time you’re cooking, then.”
He smiled, and in the intimate lighting of the nook it lit his face with ease. “Gladly. I would love to feed you.”
His words carried promises far beyond those of a shared meal and Mina shivered.
“Did your mother cook?” she asked.
Zayn chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “No. The noble Singuenza daughters were not allowed anywhere near the kitchens during their formative years and later it was always beyond my mother. I imagine it’s the same for Aunt Seraphina. She was never the rebel.”
Stolen To Wear His Crown (Mills & Boon Modern) (The Royal Guard, Book 1) Page 10