by Romancing the Crown Series (13-in-1 bundle) (v1. 0) (lit)
Foolish.. .foolish.. .The whispers mocked her. Serves you right. This is what happens to pushy women.
But...what had happened, exactly?
Hugging herself, Leila whirled to face the glittering indigo vastness of sky and sea. She was shivering still, no longer with shock, but a strange, fierce excitement. Cade Gallagher had kissed her! Kissed her in a way she was quite certain no man should ever kiss a woman who was not his wife.
And that she had allowed it...? Fear and guilt added layers to her excitement, but did not banish it. That she had allowed such a thing to happen was unpardonable.
She knew she should feel frightened, terrified, ashamed. So why was she smiling? Smiling, lightheaded, and absolutely giddy with excitement?
Another time... another place.
That was what he had said. She remembered his exact words. Understanding came; certainty settled around her, comforting as a cashmere shawl.
* * *
Back in his own room at last, Cade slipped out of his tux jacket with a grateful sigh. One helluva day, he thought as he tossed the jacket onto the cushions of the surprisingly trendy brown-and-white striped sofa. And thank God it was over. Tomorrow he'd be back in familiar territory, home country. The world of business was where he belonged, where he felt comfortable. It was what he was good at—doing deals, making plans, working out compromises. All this formal socializing, rubbing elbows with royalty—that wasn't his style. Oh, he knew a certain amount of that stuff was unavoidable from time to time, but he was always glad when it was time to roll up his sleeves and get down to the real work, down and dirty sometimes, rough as a bare-knuckle brawl, but that was what he liked about it—the excitement of the game. That, and the satisfaction that came with winning.
Anyway, for sheer stress, all that was a piece of cake compared to what he'd just been through. He'd rather spend three days in cutthroat negotiations than three hours at a formal reception—and in this case, formal was putting it mildly. Not that it hadn't been impressive as hell, the palace ballroom lit up like Christmas, the food delicious, the music tolerable, if you went in for that sort of thing. And he'd never seen so many purple sashes and gold medals in one place in all his life, or so many beautiful people—especially the women. Everywhere he looked was a feast for a man's eyes. But there was something about it he couldn't quite put his finger on. Undercurrents.
Undercurrents. Yeah, he thought, that about described it, all right. Underneath all the bright lights and highbrow music, the dazzling smiles and graceful bows, elegant tuxes and designer gowns in rainbow colors swirled together like ribbons in a washing machine.. .under all that, like a subterranean river, ran a ribbon of tension, a hum of intrigue he could feel in his bones. He wondered whether it was something going on between these Tamiri people and their nearest neighbors, the Montebellans, or if it was just standard operating procedure for royal courts. Not unlike what goes on every day in Washington, D.C., he thought, or for that matter, any state capitol back home.
This thing with Leila Kamal, though.. .that was another story. That particular intrigue was entirely personal, and the tension a steel rod running straight down the back of his neck. It had made for one helluva nerve-wracking evening, trying to avoid eye contact—or any sort of contact whatsoever—with the woman, while being at the same time aware of her with every nerve in his body. Nervewracking.. .intense.. .but now, thank God, it was over. Finally, he could relax.
With another gusty exhalation, he peeled off his necktie and headed for the bathroom. There, while his fingers dealt with the studs on his shirt, his eyes gazed dispassionately back at him from the ornately framed mirror above the sink.
You were damned lucky, Gallagher.
Oh yeah. He knew just how lucky he'd been. He'd played with fire and somehow managed not to get burned.
That narrow brush with disaster had left him shaken, but he'd managed to put it behind him. All he needed now was a good night's sleep, and tomorrow some mutually advantageous wheeling and dealing with the old sheik, and he'd be himself again.
Stripping off his shirt, he briefly considered another shower. But he was tired, just wanted to hit the sack, so he turned on the tap above the sink instead. He was hunched over the bowl, cupped hands filling up with water to splash over his face, when he heard a light tapping on his chamber door.
What now? One of the servants, probably, they were always bringing him something—towels or fruit or herbal tea—though it seemed pretty late for that. Frowning, he turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel and went to open the door.
When he saw who was standing there, he wondered why he didn't have a heart attack on the spot. At the very least, he was pretty sure he knew now what it might feel like to be speared in the belly with an icicle.
Chapter 4
"Princess—" It gusted from him before he could think. "What're you—why—" And while he was sputtering like that she slipped past him and into his room.
He had a fleeting impression of a light, spicy scent, hair that flowed down her back like an ebony river, a gown made of something pale and floaty—she'd glow in the dark like a candle!
He'd never felt more exposed, or more cognizant of the danger he was in. If anyone happened to walk by.. .if she so much as raised her voice, cried out, Cade's goose was as good as cooked. Even in this part of the world he doubted they still executed people for such transgressions, but at the very least, any hopes he had of doing a deal with the Tamari people would be out the window, and he might even be out—literally— himself. As in, given the bum's rush. Bounced unceremoniously out the door on his butt. Right now, this minute, in the middle of the night.
Plus, Elena was never going to forgive him—never.
With icy dread crawling down his spine, he gave his face an absentminded mop with the towel, glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then silently pulled the door closed. He felt as if the door of a trap had just slammed shut behind him.
Leila moved as if through a wall of suffocating heat—holding her breath, feeling her cheeks burn and sweat bloom on her forehead. Knowing instinctively the source of the heat, she kept her face turned away from him—as if that would help!
She reached with her hand to touch the back of the sofa and leaned against it a little, testing it for support, then brushed her fingers over the fabric to hide the fact that she'd done so. She heard the door close behind her and silence fill the room. In it the thump and swish of her pulse sounded loud as the storm surf striking the rocks below the cliffs.
"Princess—" His voice was harsh.
And though she didn't want to, she flinched. Still, as she turned she knew her smile would appear bright and determined. "I thought you were going to call me Leila."
Breath gusted from him, as if he'd been holding it in too long. "For God's sake, what are you doing here?"
But she could not answer. Suddenly she had no moisture in her mouth; she could not seem to move her tongue. Nor her eyes, either, for somehow they had become stuck to the naked masculine chest in front of her, and not even for her life could she tear them away. She did not understand—she had seen men's chests and torsos before.. .hadn't she? In pictures, at the very least. But if she had, it did not seem so. To her this felt like the first time she had ever laid eyes on such a sight.. .ever.
"Look...Leila—" He took a step toward her, face darkened, both hands upraised and fingers tensed, as though he wanted to grasp her with them.
Her breath caught and her heart gave a frightened leap. Even she could see that it was not a welcoming gesture. But not a violent one, either. She thought he seemed more distraught than angry, and her fear was not for her physical safety. He would not harm her, she was certain of that.
Just as she was certain now that she had made a terrible mistake in judgment. Somehow, because of the vast difference in their cultures, probably, she had misunderstood him. She knew that he had not meant what she had thought he meant. Not at all.
I shouldn 't have come.
All of that passed through Leila's mind in the time it took her to utter a single dismayed gasp. In the next moment, memory—sensual, visceral, overwhelming—slammed her with the force of a physical blow. Hard lips, smooth and gentle lips... liquid warmth, breath smelling of tobacco, trembling pressure and pounding pulse...
Her body felt cold, and her legs as if they would not support her weight. She heard a rushing sound in her ears. But I had to come...I had to. What else could I do?
She took one step forward.. .and into a void.
Swearing vehemently, Cade caught her as her knees buckled. Then, since there didn't seem to be anything else to do, he scooped her up in his arms. This is insane. Ludicrous.
While casting frantically about for a place to deposit his unconscious burden, he caught a glimpse of himself and her in the gilt-framed mirror above the tile and marble fireplace—heaving breasts in a filmy gown against the backdrop of his own naked, sweaty chest.. .her pale throat a taut and graceful curve.. .raven hair cascading over his arms like a waterfall.. .Damn, he thought with a snort that was part irony, part disgust and most of all dismay. Look like the cover of one of those romance novels women are always reading.
He'd about decided to lay his swooning princess on the sofa when he felt her arms come to twine around his neck. He barely had time to register that fact before her hair began to stir against his skin, an incredible, unimaginable softness.
He shivered involuntarily and felt his nipples harden. As if in response to that, she turned her face toward him and touched him just there in a series of tender and tiny kisses, rather like a kitten, he dimly thought, making tracks across his chest. His heart, already beating hard, gave a lurch.
"Princess..." His voice was faint and airless. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Her lips were working their way across his collarbone and upward along the side of his neck. His jaw muscles felt so rigid he half expected to hear them creak when he added almost desperately, "Hey—cut that out."
Poised to deposit her on the sofa, he halted, muscles quivering, beset by a new dilemma. If he put her down now, she would almost certainly pull him down with her, which would be nothing short of disastrous. If he went on holding her, with that unnerving weakness creeping through his body, he was afraid he might drop her. To head off that possibility, he brought one knee up under her bottom, braced his foot on the cushions, and tried to shift her to a more secure position in his arms.
Big mistake. Hadn't this happened to him once before?
Yes, and once again as on the terrace, he felt her body mold itself to his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose...an all-over body glove, silky-soft, supple as finest kid. Tiny puffs of her breath brought his sweat-damp skin alive with goose bumps. Her spicy, exotic scent made his head swim. The weakness in his arms oozed into his legs, while in the center of his body his heart was banging like an energetic and enthusiastic bass drummer, sending joyful, giddy impulses and inviting—no, compelling—the rest of his body to follow along.
His body's predictable response was, Oh, yeah. I'm there! And his heart chimed in with, Sure would like to.. .maybe it would be okay... don't you think I could?
To which the rational part of his brain emphatically replied, No way, Jose!
"Princess—" he began, but the rest was muffled. Leila's lovely and adventuresome mouth had reached its destination at last, and anything else he might have added was swallowed up in its sweet, intoxicating warmth.
For a moment.. just a moment, it seemed to Cade he was fighting a losing battle. He thought how easy it would be... what a relief it would be... to just say the hell with it and give in. He thought it would be a little like drowning, to let himself go wherever this might take him, and damn the consequences.
He might have been able to do that—just maybe—if it hadn't been for the strident and insistent clamor of his reason. Cade, you can't! She's a princess, most likely a virgin! You're a guest in her father's house! You have to stop this. Now!
He wasn't sure how much longer he might have resisted the voices of sanity inside his head, or if in fact he'd ever have found the strength to end it. What saved him was anger. It came suddenly and unexpectedly, a bright and savage flare of resentment. Foolish woman—what the hell does she think she's doing? Spoiled brat. ..she's going to ruin me—ruin everything!
He let go of her abruptly, and felt her round and firm little bottom come to rest on his drawn-up knee.
"No," he said hoarsely as, jerky and shell-shocked, he peeled her arms from around his neck and thrust her from him. The places where she'd touched him felt like fresh abrasions.
Little by little, in ungraceful adjustments, he managed to stand her on her own two feet, and himself as well. And all the while she said not a word, while her eyes gazed up at him, black as ink, glistening dangerously. Her lips, pink and soft and still glazed from his mouth, parted slowly. If she speaks, he thought...Or worse, if she cries...
He grasped at his anger like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver and spoke in a ragged and guttural voice. "I said no. Do you understand me?" He pulled himself away from her, raked a distraught hand through his hair and fought to get his breathing calmed down. "This isn't going to happen, okay? Not tonight, not ever. I'm sorry—you have to go. Come on—out."
Since she didn't appear able or willing to move on her own, he took hold of her arm and gave it a tug. Just a small one. Then he watched in horror as her gown slipped down over one creamy-smooth shoulder. He let go of her arm in a hurry. "Ah, hell—Princess..." He closed his eyes and said it with a groan, almost pleading.
Then, through the pounding of his own pulses he heard a sharp, heartbroken sob.. .felt the rush and flurry of her passing.. .and at last, the click of an opening door.
Regret pierced his heart without warning, pierced it like an arrow and sent it plummeting into his belly. Belatedly he was aware of how young, how innocent Leila really was, and how grievously his rejection must have hurt her. He felt as if he'd kicked a puppy, or trampled a lovely blossom into the mud.
Hoping to explain, to soften it for her somehow, he lunged after her as she hurled herself through the doorway, out into the hallway—straight into the arms of her father, the sheik.
* * *
Sheik Ahmed Kamal had been feeling quite pleased with himself, and enormously satisfied with the way the weekend's events had unfolded. The wedding ceremony had been as solemn and dignified as should be— in spite of the tendency on the part of young people nowadays to want to adopt certain deplorable Western customs instead of adhering faithfully to traditional ways. The groom's banquet had been enjoyable for all in attendance, sumptuous and generous as was appropriate for a royal couple yet neither excessive nor ostentatious. The exhibition polo matches had been enjoyed by the many guests in attendance, and'had resulted in gratifying wins for the Tamari team. Tonight's state dinner and reception honoring the king and the crown prince of Montebello had been a grand success.
Yes...and its aftermath even more so. Sheik Ahmed was, in fact, just returning from a most productive private meeting with his Montebellan counterpart, after having personally accompanied the royal contingent to their quarters in the guest palace on the other side of the gardens. He was in an expansive mood; his belly was full of good food and his mind full of plans for Tamir's future, plans that involved economic expansion in a number of areas near and dear to the sheik's heart.
Now, accompanied by his cadre of loyal bodyguards, he was making his way toward his private chambers at the end of a long, empty passageway adorned with mosaics and murals and softly lit by recessed lamps. He was looking forward to discussing the weekend's activities with Alima, his beloved wife, and afterward.. .a well-deserved rest.
And then—what was this? His youngest daughter, blinded by tears and with garments in disarray— garments, moreover, that would be appropriate only for a woman's chambers, or her husband's—his beloved child running headlong into his arms!
"Daughter, what is t
he meaning of this?" the sheik thundered, holding her at arm's length while he made hurried and necessary adjustments to her costume. He spared no thought at all for his contingent of bodyguards; being both well-trained and loyal, they had already turned their backs and averted their eyes from the deplorable spectacle.
Besides, if the truth were known, at that moment Sheik Ahmed's thoughts were in too much of a quandary to worry about what his bodyguards might or might not have witnessed. On the one hand, there was a father's understandable wrath at finding one of his offspring in a place and circumstances she had no business being at such an hour. On the other hand.. .the fact was, the sheik had a secret softness in his heart for his youngest child, and seeing her face so pale and frightened, her eyes overflowing with tears, gazing up into his...
"Leila, explain yourself!" he bellowed, but his anger was more show than substance.
Her lips opened, but she did not speak. He felt her arm tremble in his grasp. About to repeat the command a bit more gently, he hesitated. His focus wavered. A flash of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his gaze and jerked it away from his daughter's frozen face...and beyond. His eyes narrowed.
In the space of an instant his fatherly anger, mostly bombast, bluster and hot air, melted down and solidified into a rage as cold and deadly as any he'd ever known in his life.
Cade had never seen murder looking back at him from a man's eyes before, but he knew beyond any doubt he was seeing it now.
Strangely, faced with his worst nightmare, he felt all fear leave him. His body grew cold and his mind quiet. His eyes never left Sheik Ahmed's face as he waited for what would come.
Rotund and flushed with the effects of good food and good living, the Sheik was still an imposing presence. His snow-white hair and beard and magnificent hawk's beak of a nose gave him an almost biblical majesty, and even though he didn't speak loudly, his voice, welling from the depths of a barrel chest, sounded to Cade like the voice of doom.