by Trish Morey / Caitlin Crews / Nina Harrington / Raye Morgan
It was only lust, she thought. And lust was fine. Lust was allowed. Lust would fade. Though she could not help but note, every now and again as the summer wore on, that the more she touched him, the more she tasted him, the less she worried about the ways in which she might have lost herself in this strange little fairy-tale.
She was not an idiot. She did not, in truth, wish to govern, and doubted she would be any good at it, anyway. She would have no idea how one even went about it. Lara had no particular interest in politics, but she could, she realized, use the position she found herself in for good. There was no excuse for lying about a castle, of all places, feeling bored and put upon. How she would have slapped herself for even thinking such a thing, once upon a time, when her paycheck had had to last far too long and cover books and tuition as well as pay her rent! Appalled at herself, Lara began to involve herself in charity work—to get a sense of what her people, her subjects, her countrymen really needed.
And what she needed, too, if she was to stay here. If she was really to do this long-term. She pretended it was a lifestyle decision she was mulling over, like when she’d decided to stay in Colorado after college and make her life in Denver. She pretended it was a decision about a location, and about a job.
After all, fairy-tales weren’t real. Not even this one.
“You are just like your father, may he rest in peace,” an old woman told her as Lara toured one of the local hospitals, visiting the helpless and the needy, talking to the overworked staff. I can help these people, she had been thinking just moments before, as she’d tried to smile at a little girl gone bald from the cancer treatments, clearly the old woman’s grandchild. Maybe that’s why I’m here.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, fighting to keep her smile in place as the old woman held on to her hands. It was not the physical contact she minded, she realized, but that wild intensity in the woman’s eyes.
“He was a good man,” the woman said, in the dialect of the upper mountains. “And a great king. I give thanks every day that you have returned to us, to bless us and help us prosper as your family has done for generations, no thanks to that evil woman who stole you away in the first place!”
And what could Lara say? It was hardly the place to argue—particularly with the grandmother of a sick child. And why did it seem as if the part of her that had defended Marlena for so long was simply … tired?
“Thank you,” she said, fighting to keep her expression serene. “I hope I can live up to his memory.”
Later that night, Lara met Adel at the start of a great ball to honor a dignitary whose name she had yet to commit to memory as she knew she should. The palace was alive with lights and Alakkul’s most glamorous people were decked out in their finest clothes, all of it shining and sparkling. The palace gardens had been converted to a kind of wonderland for the evening, complete with a dance floor and little tables clustered in and around the flowering trees and geometrically shaped shrubberies. It was the end of August already. The twilight brought with it hints of the coming fall, the air was cool, and Lara felt a restlessness shiver through her, making her feel as if her skin was two sizes too small.
“You are fidgeting,” Adel told her without altering his calm expression as they stood side by side to receive their guests. She did not have to look at him to know that he looked as he always did—so strong, so capable, his mouthwateringly male form displayed to perfection in the dark suit that clung to his every muscle and made his chest look like some kind of hard, male sculpture. He was mesmerizing. Still.
“It is just as well that you were raised since you were young to rule this place,” she said, not thinking, letting the wildness that rolled inside of her have its way. “I would have made a terrible ruler. Perhaps you knew that. Perhaps my father did, too. Perhaps it is not sexism but practicality that governs you.”
He did not reply. He shot her one of those dark, far-too-calm glances that made her breath catch, and something thick and heavy turn over into a knot in her gut. Then he returned to his duties, the endless greeting and acknowledging of guests, as if she had not spoken at all.
Later, he pulled her out on to the dance floor, and smiled slightly as he gazed down at her. His mouth was softer than usual, that hard line almost welcoming. The band swelled into a waltz as he held her in his arms, his hand in the small of her back seeming to beam heat and comfort directly into her skin through the silk of her gown, the hand holding hers so warm, so strong.
She did not know why she wanted, suddenly, to weep.
“What is the matter?” he asked in that quiet way of his, and she knew he was continuing the discussion from earlier, that nothing ever truly distracted a man of his focus.
“I do not know,” she said, surprised to hear that she was whispering. She blinked, and tilted her head back to study his face. He only watched her, that boundless patience in his gray eyes—that calm readiness for whatever she might say, whenever she might say it to him.
“There is nothing you can tell me that will tarnish you in my eyes,” he said in a low voice, sweeping her around the dance floor, his eyes on her as if nothing else existed. As if there was only the music, the palace, the low murmurs of the well-heeled guests, like a bubble around them. As if there was only this perfect, tiny jewel of a country, hidden away in remote mountains, beautiful in ways that hurt her soul. In the same way that he did.
And she understood, then, how easy it would be. To simply let go. To let him lead, as he did now, waltzing with the grace and mastery she had come to expect of him no matter what he did, his mouth in that enigmatic near-curve as he gazed down at her. It would be so easy to simply accept this life he’d given her. A country. A crown. And the endless delight of their explosive, uncontainable chemistry.
She need only forget herself. What she knew, who she was. She need only accept that her father was never the villain, but instead the misunderstood hero. She need only learn to think of her selfish, childish mother the way the Alakkulians obviously did—as the evil witch who had so destroyed their king with her string of lovers. The woman who had stolen away their princess. She need only erase all she’d believed to be true about her life, her world, herself.
And then she could have him, and all those dreams she’d longed for as a teenager would finally come true.
It would be as easy as breathing. As easy as letting him move her about the dance floor with all of his skill and grace. It would be so very, very easy—and she had done most of it already. She had become so concerned with turning herself into a proper queen—because she wanted his approval. She wanted that slow curve of his mouth that was only hers. She wanted the shine in his eyes that meant he was proud of her.
When had that happened? When had his opinion of her become more important to her than her own?
And why didn’t that realization horrify her as she knew it ought to do?
“You look as if you have seen a ghost,” Adel said softly, his lips so close to her ear that she shivered, feeling that low murmur in every part of her.
“Sometimes you make me feel as if I am one,” she said, before she knew she meant to speak.
His head reared back slightly, and his eyes narrowed, but the song ended—and their ever-present aides interrupted them, prepared to usher the King to one table and the Queen to another.
“Duty calls,” he murmured, holding on to her hand for a beat, then another, after the music had ended. Calling attention to the fact he had not let her go. “But we will return to this topic, Princess.”
She had no doubt that they would.
And what did it say about her that anticipation was like honey in her veins, warming her, sweetening her, turning her into fire and need?
He stepped into her dressing room, and startled her as she reached to take down her hair, letting the heavy curls fall from the elaborate twist at the back of her head. She froze, meeting his gray gaze in the great mirror she stood before, its heavy gold and jeweled accents seeming to fade next to th
e raw power of the man who filled the doorway behind her.
Her heart began to speed up in her chest. Adel did not speak. He only held her gaze with his as he moved toward her, prowling across the thick carpet, all of that restrained power and force seeming to hum from his very skin. She did not look away, even when he came to a stop behind her, and traced a pattern along the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. She did not look away when he bent his head and used his mouth instead of his hand, kissing and tasting a molten path from the tender place below her ear to the bared skin of her shoulder.
“You do not taste like a ghost,” he said, a raw sort of urgency in his voice. She did not understand the darkness in his eyes then, but her body responded to it, as it always did.
“Neither do you,” she said, turning her head and pressing her lips to his hard jaw.
“You do not feel like a ghost,” he continued. She turned in his arms and pressed her breasts against his chest, then tested the shape of his arms beneath her hands.
His mouth claimed hers, insistent and demanding, and she gave herself over to this wicked sorcery, this dark delight, that only he could call forth in her. She slid the suit jacket from his wide shoulders, then busied herself with the buttons of his stiff dress shirt.
He growled with impatience, and shifted forward, lifting her up by her bottom and settling her back against the small table behind her—paying no heed to the small bottles and tubes he knocked out of his way. He reached down and pulled up the hem of her long gown, baring her to his sight. He let out something that sounded like a cross between a sigh and a groan, and then he reached down to hold her softness in his hand, feeling her molten heat, making her moan and move against him.
He made short work of the scrap of lace that concealed her femininity, and then, with a few quick jerks at the fly of his own trousers, he was thrusting into her. Lara shuddered as he entered her, shattering around him, and coming back to find him watching her, those gray eyes intense. As if he could see deep into her, as if he knew the things she was afraid to face herself.
“Please.” she murmured, not knowing what she asked for, but he began to move.
He pulled her legs up, hooking them over his hips, as he thrust inside of her again and again. She felt the fire catch and then burn anew, bright and hot. He leaned down and took her mouth, possessing her, claiming her, making her nothing more than these sensations, these feelings. She burned for him, and he knew it, and she could not even bring herself to mind.
She could only fall apart once more, and hear his hoarse cry as he followed right behind her.
When she woke in the morning, wrapped around him in the great bed, she felt the seduction of this impossible fairy-tale pull at her yet again. She need only let go, and how hard could that be, she asked herself? Why did she fight it?
The slight chill in the morning air, blowing in through the open windows, reminded her that it was coming up hard on September already. She still felt as if it was June—or ought to be. She let her eyes drift closed again, inhaling Adel’s intoxicating male scent, feeling his strength and heat beneath her. Where did the time go?
A thought occurred to her then, washing over her like a cold sweat. Her eyes snapped open. She counted back— tried to remember. But no, it was true. She had not had her monthly courses since she’d been in Denver. And she had not even thought about it.
But she thought about it now, sitting up straight in the bed, her heart in her throat and what remained of the fairy-tale shattering all around her like glass.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THREE days later, it was definitely September, Lara was most assuredly and unhappily pregnant, and more important, she’d finally woken up from the spell she’d been under ever since Adel Qaderi had appeared in that supermarket parking lot back in Denver. She was so wide awake it actually hurt.
She buckled herself into the plush seat in the private jet, willing herself to keep her emotions under control. She did not look out the window as the plane began to taxi down the runway. She did not glance back as the plane soared into the air, clearing the spires and parapets. She knew the country was spread out before her like a canvas, and she refused to indulge in one last look. She reached over and pulled the shade closed, as if she could block out the last few months as easily.
It was one thing to fall under Adel’s sensual spell. She wasn’t sure how she could have resisted him, once he’d looked at her with that passion simmering in his dark eyes. But it was something else entirely to bring another child into another loveless marriage. Hadn’t she spent the whole of her life paying for her parents’ marriage? Wasn’t she still? Her hand crept over her still-flat belly. She could not do that to a child. She would not do it.
Her time in Alakkul might have felt like a dream, her dream, but it had also served to open up her eyes to the uncomfortable truth about her childhood—and her parents. She shut her eyes against another rush of emotion that threatened to suck her under. The truth was that her mother had stolen her away from her father, and had deliberately made Lara believe the worst of him. Another truth was that her father had not come to claim her, nor tell his side of the story before he died—not in twelve long years. Her mother had poisoned her against King Azat, all the while hiding the truth about the funds she’d taken and her own infidelities. The King, meanwhile, had sold his only child into a convenient marriage, to serve his own ends.
It didn’t matter which parent she looked at, because the truth was blindingly clear to her either way. She had never been anything more than a pawn to either one of them. She certainly wouldn’t inflict that same kind of life on her child. She’d die first.
Because as much as she’d claimed to hate King Azat to please her mother, and in many ways she had, the truth was that she’d yearned for a normal family like any other girl. She’d wanted a father and a mother.
And she’d missed Alakkul, too. And Adel, her first love. She did not know how she would manage to shove all those memories aside as she’d done before—but she knew she’d have to do it, somehow. The precious life she carried inside of her could never know the deep pangs of longing she felt for that cool, bright valley, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world. Or the deeper yearning for a hard-faced man with eyes like rain and gentle hands. It would fade, she told herself. Someday, it would fade.
She let her head fall back against the cushioned headrest, and pretended she was unaware of the tears slipping from her eyes to trail across her cheeks. She would forget him. Again. The truth was that their chemistry had been so unexpected that she’d allowed it to confuse her for the whole long summer. It had only served to conceal the truth. Adel did not want her. He wanted King Azat’s daughter. He wanted the throne of Alakkul. She could have been anyone, as long as he had gotten both of those things.
She was still nothing but a pawn. A strategy. A convenience he happened to be attracted to. And she knew with a deep certainty that her child deserved more. Much more.
Her heart might seem to break into more and more pieces with every mile she flew away from him, but she would lock that up with all her memories and put it away. She would do it, somehow. For her child, if not for herself.
Lara came awake slowly, confused. It took a moment or two to realize that the plane was on the ground, instead of in the air, and was rolling along the tarmac. Frowning, she pulled up the window shade nearest to her, but all she could see were streaks of rain against the window, and splotches of light in the dark. A terminal, perhaps—but where?
“Excuse me?” she called, twisting in her seat to seek out the hovering air hostess. “Where are we? What’s going on?”
“It is nothing, Your Majesty,” the woman said, her voice soothing, her smile calm. “The plane has been diverted to deal with a slight mechanical issue. A hotel suite has been secured for your use, and you should be on your way again in the morning.”
Lara was still half-asleep, perhaps—or just confused in general, so she almost forgot to ask, again, wher
e they’d landed. The nervous tension she’d felt disappeared when the woman named a small Baltic country far to the north and west of Alakkul, and she realized that she’d suspected the plane had simply returned her to Alakkul while she’d slept. She told herself she was delighted to be wrong.
There was not much to see of the country so late at night. She was escorted into a waiting car, and whisked away to an elegant hotel in a city center not twenty minutes away from the air field. Lara felt suspended—at loose ends—and knew it was because she had to stop here and think about what she was doing. That had not been her plan. She’d wanted to be firmly back on American soil, deeply ensconced in her old, comfortable little life again before she had to think about the ramifications of her abrupt departure from the new life she’d been living all summer.
She had not even spoken to Adel. She had not given him any warning. She had simply seen the royal physician, confirmed what she’d known must be true, and had plotted her immediate escape.
But as the elevator took her toward the penthouse suite, one more luxury she would forgo the moment she returned to the real world, she could not help but ask herself if what she was doing right now was any different from what Marlena had done so many years before. Was it different because the child she carried was not yet born? Wouldn’t the child be the heir to the throne just as Lara had been? Wouldn’t this same cycle play itself out all over again? Could she really be responsible for inflicting this much pain on her own baby?
She had no answers. And, as she stepped into the suite, she took a deep breath, noted the expensive displays of flowers and the subtly elegant furnishings, and realized—with a start and a leap of something like anticipation in her belly—that she was out of time.