The Royal Elite:
Ahsan
by
Danielle Bourdon
Published by Wildbloom Press
Copyright © 2014
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
For my Aunt Mary Kay
I love you
Chapter One
“If you even think about announcing me, I'll snap your neck like it was made of brittle chicken bones,” Ahsan Afshar said to the startled doorman.
Ahsan needed no precursor to his arrival. He didn't need a snivel nosed attendant calling out his title and his name, drawing the eye of every guest.
His presence alone would do that nicely.
Striding past the blustering employee, Ahsan paused three steps beyond the elegant archway leading into the expansive ballroom. As expected, it only took the glittering crowd a moment to notice his entrance. A hush fell over the room. Shortly after, urgent whispers broke out among the hierarchy, racing from mouth to ear behind the cover of obscuring fingers. All eyes were on him. A few women in gowns that cost as much as some people's homes, raked him head to toe with come-hither gazes, assessing every fine detail: the thin layer of dark whiskers on his jaw, the expensive fit of his black, pinstriped suit, and the exposed skin at his throat from the buttons on a crisp white shirt that he never bothered to do. He'd left his hair long and loose, as if he knew it was a temptation for women to run their fingers through.
An arrogant grin cut across his mouth, acknowledging his ability to grind an entire party to a halt, and then he was off, having spotted the group of men he'd come here to meet.
The late summer gala, held at one of the tallest towers in Dubai, looked to be off to a good start. Held on a floor more than a hundred stories high, the ballroom, dressed in white satin with royal blue accents, spanned several thousand square feet. Tables covered in white satin encircled an oval dance floor polished to such a shine that the dancers swirling over the surface sported mirror reflections instead of murky shadows. Three hundred or so of the world's most prominent members of society were here, prepared to socialize and squeeze in business on the side.
Ahsan took note of several other members of Royalty, clipping a wink here, extending a handshake there. He breezed through knots of dignitaries, sometimes daring to lay his palm scandalously low on the curve of a woman's hip or whisper a rakish comment for her ears only.
As he walked, heads turned. Of course. He expected no less.
The discreet members of his security team had already interspersed in the crowd, making themselves all but invisible like they knew he preferred.
“Well, well, if it isn't Ahsan. Can we all get back to business now that everyone knows you're here?” Leander Morgan said when Ahsan arrived. Dressed in a suit less expensive and less pristine than the rest of the men in the group, Leander nevertheless exuded the confidence that he had every right to be there.
Laughing as he joined the circle of men, Ahsan clapped the nearest gent on the shoulder, pleased to see his brethren looking hale and whole. “You weren't talking business anyway, and we all know it. You're looking well.”
“We might have been,” Sander Ahtissari said, returning a clap to Ahsan's shoulder. The reigning King of Latvala, along with his brother Prince Mattias, wore very amused expressions. “You just never know.”
“No way. You've all got drinks in your hands and, since I know none of your females are here--”
“Wives and girlfriends. Good God, man, females? Were you born in a barn?” Sander said with a laugh.
“Actually, yes. I was.” Ahsan, in high spirits to be amongst his brothers again, leaned across the circle to clasp Chayton Black's hand for a shake. The American Native mix, quieter than the rest with long dark hair, dropped Ahsan a quick grin along with the handshake.
Ahsan offered his hand out to Mattias Ahtissari next, Sander's brother, completing the cycle of greetings while the banter raged on.
“Lies. A Prince of Afshar, born in a barn?” Sander turned a dubious eye on Ahsan.
“My mother was an avid horsewoman. She apparently didn't let a little thing like late term pregnancy slow her down, and so, when she went into labor, she was of course in the stables.” Pausing to grin and accept a drink from one of his guards, Ahsan tipped the glass up for a stinging swallow. He watched the men glance between each other to see if anyone could tell whether or not he was lying. Leander, Mattias, Chayton and Sander seemed mystified by the tale—and openly skeptical.
Turning back to Ahsan as a group, it was Sander who spoke up first. “I'm calling you out on this one.”
“We. We're calling you out on this one,” Mattias added.
“Yes, we,” Leander said.
Ahsan laid a hand over his heart, as if mortally wounded. He met each of the men's eyes. “It's impossible. You don't believe me.”
“Your mouth is moving,” Chayton said. His understated comment earned an abrupt spate of laughter from the others.
“It's moving, he's lying,” Leander clarified.
Ahsan snorted, unable to quell his vast mirth. They knew him too well. Except this time, he was telling the truth. “Who wants to make a bet?”
Leander and Sander's brows arched at the same time.
“Ten thousand—no, let's make it interesting. Fifty thousand. If I'm lying, I'll pay fifty-thousand to the man brave enough to accept the bet. If I'm telling the truth, you owe me. Anyone?” He was having far too much fun watching the men's faces. Sander, tall and broad and blonde, so opposite of his dark-haired brother Mattias, couldn't seem to make up his mind. Leander rubbed his clean shaven jaw, eyes narrowed with contemplation. Chayton studied Ahsan with an unwavering gaze, probably assessing whether the Emir would really allow one of his heirs to be born in a barn.
“I already won a thousand from him on a bet. Someone else can take a turn,” Mattias said.
“Born in a barn,” Leander muttered, as if trying to make his mind up one way or another.
“That's right. Born in a barn. Come on, I know one of you has the bal—”
“You're on,” Sander said, interrupting him. The King of Latvala thrust out a hand to seal the bet. “I think you're lying about being born in a barn.”
Ahsan cracked a pleased laugh and clutched Sander's forearm rather than his hand, a move Sander mirrored. “I am now fifty-thousand dollars richer.”
Sander groaned and reeled his hand back. “You're kidding me.”
The men guffawed, though Ahsan couldn't tell whether it was the shock of knowing he'd really been born in a barn or Sander's look of disgust at losing the bet that caused it. Maybe both. Maybe, too, a little relief they hadn't jumped on the wager first.
“No. It's a tale any of my brothers will be happy to tell you, as well as my mother herself. Drink up, King Ahtissari. Booze should help the sting of loss.” Laughing, he followed his own advice and took a long swallow from his glass.
At the entrance, the doorman continued to announce this debutante or that prince. Ahsan didn't so much as glance that direction. He was aware that the majority of the attention in the room remained with his group, the women figuring out ways to get into their good graces and the men wondering whether they would be shunned by the obviously tight knit circle.
Sander lifted his glass and finished off the contents, a gleam of mock discontent lingering in his eyes. “I'm never going to live this down, am I?”
“Never,” Ahsan assured him.
“Look at the bright side Sander,” Leander i
nterjected. “At least you were born indoors instead of in the hay.”
“At least.” Sander replied with no small amount of dry humor.
“So tell me what I've missed so far,” Ahsan said, trading his already drained glass for a fresh one. To his surprise, a hush fell over the room before anyone had time to answer, a hush suspiciously like the one when he arrived. Heads turned toward the doorway, indicating particular interest in whoever had just joined the party. He'd been too busy bantering to recall what name or title the doorman announced, so, to satisfy his curiosity, he glanced over his shoulder toward the entrance.
The swallow of potent liquor he'd just taken bubbled in his throat when he choked. A small cough, nothing major, rectified a moment later.
In all of his thirty-one years, Ahsan had never been struck stupid by the sight of a woman. He was a connoisseur of the opposite sex, a rogue who took lovers as he pleased, when he pleased. He'd seen beauties from far and wide, from every exotic locale a man could think of.
Yet the stunning woman standing in the archway took his breath away. Darkly auburn, her hair fell in waves to the shapely curve of her bare shoulders, framing a face that he thought should have belonged to a goddess. High cheek bones offset the striking, pronounced line of her jaw, a jaw he would have liked to run his fingertips and lips over. Almond shaped eyes of a color he could not discern from this distance were enhanced with dramatic make-up, the lashes long and thick and black. The white satin gown she wore glittered with rhinestones or crystals across the tightly fit bodice and on the thin straps arching over her shoulders. Cut like a corset, the top of the dress remained snug through the hips and down the thighs, flaring gently from the calf to the floor. It was the overall picture she presented that appealed so completely to him; dainty femininity coupled with confident poise.
He had the urge to stalk through the room and claim her for his own. A strange desire that he'd never had and, after another moment's thought, disconcerted him a little. What concerned him even more was the way his body tensed when she stepped forward, entering the gala proper. Did she have a consort waiting? Was there a man among those present who had already laid claim? He didn't appreciate the instant, negative reaction he experienced at the thought.
“Ahsan. Have you gone deaf, man?”
Jerked into awareness, he glanced at Leander. “What?”
“I've said your name three times. What's gotten into you?” Leander asked with a knowing glint in his eyes.
Annoyed, Ahsan lifted his glass for a hefty swig, then said, “Nothing.”
All four men standing with him stared, as if he'd grown a second head.
“What?” He didn't mean to sound so surly.
Sander laughed suddenly and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That's the first time I've ever seen you get caught up on any woman.”
“I'm not 'caught up',” Ahsan retorted.
“To the point you didn't recognize your own name,” Mattias added.
“I was looking at someone I thought I knew.”
“There he goes again,” Chayton said, harking back to the 'his mouth is moving, he must be lying' sentiment.
The men laughed.
Ahsan flipped Chayton off. Discreetly, of course. Which only served to heighten everyone's amusement.
“Back to business,” Ahsan said next, steering the conversation off the woman and back to something on a more normal footing. He didn't want anyone to know how badly he wanted to scan the room to see if the woman in white had met up with a man or not. He wasn't unaware of several other women hovering near by, moving closer an inch at a time, until they saw an opportunity to accidentally 'bump' into the men or find some other way to strike up conversation.
He wasn't interested in those women. Not for anything more than a one night stand. It was all he ever engaged in, those brief encounters that required nothing of him except release.
Despite his best intentions, he found his gaze wandering while his brethren talked business. He located the woman in white near one of the tall windows, backlit both by the night and the distant glitter of city lights. She stood next to a dapperly dressed gentleman with olive skin and dark hair. A gentleman who paid close attention to every word the woman said.
He couldn't tell if they were a couple, or if the man had simply approached her, as interested as every other hot-blooded, single man present.
It didn't matter. He wasn't about to go skirt chasing. Returning his attention to his companions, he lifted his glass for another drink and tried to forget the auburn haired beauty.
. . .
Sessily Pavel cupped the wineglass in both hands and pretended to listen to the compliments pouring from the man at her side: she had lovely hair, lovely eyes, and such slender fingers. The dress fit her immaculately, a triumph of design and fashion.
Too bad he didn't mean any of it. He was likely here at Bashir's command, such as she, providing her with a fallback should she need it. And she definitely thought she was going to need it. She had no earthly idea how to do what she'd been blackmailed to do, and the strain of maintaining a confident, worldly appearance when she was dying of fear and tension inside would soon take a toll.
“A refill?” Arturo asked.
Sessily realized her wine glass was more than half empty. She needed to lay off the sauce if she wanted to succeed in her mission. “No, but thank you Arturo.”
He inclined his head and had a heavy drink of his own.
Sessily took note of the flex in his jaw and the tightness of his fingers on the vessel. It was proof in her eyes that he was feeling as much tension as she. With conversation limited, she turned her attention outward, never allowing her gaze to land exactly on her target. She skimmed by the group of men, Ahsan especially, discovering he wasn't paying any attention to her. What did she expect? That her mere presence would bring him groveling to her feet? Bashir had warned her what a difficult 'catch' Ahsan would be. Warned her, too, what would happen if she failed to get Ahsan to take her home.
Bashir Afshar, Crown Prince to the Afshar Dynasty, was a vile man. Ruthless, relentless, repulsive. She could think of a hundred derogatory terms to describe Ahsan's brother. And she expected this Ahsan to be no different. After all, they were of the same family, the same upbringing, the same blood.
Her gaze panned back to the group. Landed smack on Ahsan. To her surprise, they were eye to eye, his stare riveting, direct. Panic welled in her chest—what should she do? She wasn't prepared for this. Never mind the flutter in her chest at the handsome, if roguish, vision he presented. Tall, dark and handsome didn't do justice to Ahsan Afshar. In that fleeting meeting of gazes, his natural charisma hit her like a sledgehammer. Drawn in like a moth to a flame, she caught herself before she could do something out of 'character' and spoil the moment. Like swoon. She instinctively knew that would be a turn off for this larger than life man.
Instead, she let the corner of her mouth curve just so and let the stare linger, as if she was much more brazen than she really was. Then she tilted a look up to Arturo, using him as surely as Bashir intended her to.
“Perhaps a dance?” Sessily suggested. Several plots had been running through her mind for days, although she still did not have a good bead on which one to use. Maybe doing something else besides standing there fretting would jolt the gears into motion. She set her glass aside.
Arturo placed his drink on the table and elegantly escorted her onto the dance floor. He was a handsome man in his own right, sleekly attired and groomed to a tee. It was no hardship to fit herself in his arms and pick up the slow pace of the dance. Thankful it wasn't a fast, grinding number, Sessily let the music and movement ease some of her tension. Now, to figure out which of several angles to use on Ahsan.
The most obvious and 'easiest' in Bashir's opinion, had been to simply become Ahsan's lover. While Sessily was many things, a whore she was not. She would only resort to that if all else failed. She had no desire to pretend to want any of these controlling, power hungr
y men.
One of her ideas had been to use a great passion of Ahsan's to get inside: horses. She knew he bred, raised and trained them, and that his stables were known far and wide for the quality bloodlines he produced. Sessily had knowledge of horses, a boon in her current predicament. Perhaps a playful challenge of a race, or interest in breeding her own mares—of which she had none—to his stallions. It would require him to take her to his home, where she could drag out her time by visiting his stables and looking over the horses.
Another, less enticing angle would be to lie and pretend that her 'diplomat' father wanted her to procure relations with Ahsan and his household. Her father was neither in her life nor a diplomat, which meant if Ahsan checked too far into her history, he would discover her subterfuge. All she needed, however, was a few days in Ahsan's presence, in his home, to discover whether or not the man was making plans to try for the throne. For the highest position of Emir in his country.
If he was—Sessily didn't want to think what had to happen then. Bashir's instructions had been explicit and unrelenting.
Horses, she decided during the next rotation. That was her angle, the way in. She didn't have horses, or stables, or wealth, but she decided that these lies would be harder to discover than whether or not she was really the daughter of a foreign diplomat.
The next task to figure out was how to make the initial contact. Bashir insisted that Ahsan didn't like to be chased, didn't like women who fawned and preened and hounded him. Approaching him first had to appear an accident, nothing as blunt as walking up to ask for a dance or a drink.
No, she needed another way. She needed him to come to her. According to Bashir, hell would freeze over before that happened. Ahsan was apparently as arrogant as his brother and did not chase women, either. He didn't need to, Bashir had informed her, because women flocked to him like moths to flames.
During the next turn in the dance, Sessily spared a quick glance Ahsan's way. She could see that Bashir was right. A handful of women in glittering gowns lurked close to Ahsan, whispering and giggling and staring at him. Clearly, they were looking for an open opportunity or for him to take notice. She glanced at Ahsan himself to see where his attention lie—and twitched in Arturo's arms when her gaze locked dead on with the Sheikh for a second time. A tingle raced along her skin, a buzz of electricity that made goosebumps crawl down her arms. As before, she played at hauteur, arching a brow as if their glance-by-chance meant nothing to her, and looked away a moment later.
The Royal Elite: Ahsan (Elite, Book 2) Page 1