by Heidi Rice
‘Of course,’ he said.
She nodded as Carstairs laid out the papers. ‘I’m happy to sign it now,’ she said, having skimmed through the details. Oddly she trusted him. The perfunctory nature of their relationship so far made it very clear he viewed her as nothing more than another of his employees. Bought and paid for. He hadn’t quibbled about any of her requirements and had actually been much more generous than he needed to be. Money was clearly no object for him. She needed to view this situation as a job. And nothing more. A job she wanted to do well—she couldn’t risk him changing his mind.
She could see she had pleased him when the wrinkle that had formed on his forehead when she reacted so violently to a simple hand buzz disappeared.
‘Excellent,’ he said.
‘We’ll have the contract couriered to your sister in Kildare to sign too. I understand she has already agreed to these terms as well?’ Carstairs said as he handed her a gold pen.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ Orla said, recalling Dervla’s joy at the news they would be able to stay in their home with no debts to pay.
Orla signed her name in bold fluid strokes. The nuns who had schooled her would be proud, she thought, grateful that her fingers had finally stopped shaking.
It wasn’t nearly as hard as she had assumed to sign away her heritage. The stud was just a business. It was the horses she loved, and her sister, and their home. The chance to get out of the shadow of debt that had been hanging over her for so long felt strangely liberating.
But then Carstairs laid out some more papers in both English and what looked like Arabic. ‘Would you like to read through these, Ms Calhoun?’ the solicitor asked. ‘This is the English translation of the traditional Zafari Engagement Contract. I’m afraid it’s a legal requirement in Mr Khan’s country of origin that the Crown Prince’s engagement must be accompanied by a binding contract, to ensure the cultural traditions as well as the economic interests of Zafar are observed and protected before the couple enter into a marriage.’
Orla nodded, then skimmed through the pages—the small type blurring before her eyes. She didn’t need to read them, because they weren’t ever going to get actually married. ‘Great,’ she said at last.
Khan’s hand rested on the small of her back, rubbing absently as he signed the original first. He handed her the pen, still warm from his fingers, and Carstairs pointed out the places where she needed to sign and initial the paperwork. She could feel Khan’s gaze focussed on her, the hand on her back like a heavy controlling weight. She doubted he was even aware of what he was doing, the caress as nonchalant as it was impersonal. But the sensation sprinting up her spine from his touch was anything but.
Her penmanship was forgotten this time as she dashed off each signature and initial as quickly as possible. She needed to get this over, before she lost her nerve—or, worse, reacted in a way that would give away, not just her lack of familiarity with Khan and their so-called whirlwind courtship, but also her complete lack of sophistication when it came to being touched with such easy familiarity by a man.
She’d shared kisses with Patrick, of course, when they’d been engaged. But she’d been a girl then—naïve and eager, sheltered and completely untried. And Patrick, although having a great deal more sexual experience than she had at the time, had been a boy, not a man like Khan, who could light bonfires across her back with a simple caress.
At last all the paperwork was done.
But then she heard Mr Carstairs laugh and murmur, ‘Perhaps you should kiss your new fiancée, Karim.’
‘Yes,’ the deep voice said beside her.
She tried to control her trembling, scared he might be able to feel it, as he turned her in his arms and rested his hands on her hips. He was studying her, the curiosity in his gaze both pragmatic and yet somehow exhilarating.
Could he see how inexperienced she was, and how much his nearness affected her? She hoped not, terrified he might annul the engagement before it had even begun.
He lifted his hand and placed it on her neck, holding her gently in place. The calluses on his palm, calluses she would not have expected, rasped across the sensitive skin, making her brutally aware of the light pressure. His thumb rubbed casually across the well in her collarbone, back and forth, as he watched her—the golden shards in the brown of his irises so vivid they mesmerised her. He lowered his head, gradually, allowing her to taste the toothpaste on his breath as it whispered across her lips. His thumb paused, and pressed into her collarbone, trapping the frantic butterfly flutters of her pulse.
She suddenly had the vision of one of Calhouns’ stable hands stroking their highly strung mare, Cliona, to quiet her for Aderyn to mount her. The thought turned the tremble into a violent shiver.
She stiffened. He had to have felt that now.
His other hand tightened on her hip, gentle, yet controlling, and even more overwhelming as he whispered for only her to hear, ‘Shh, Orla. Breathe.’
Then his lips finally settled on hers, firm, seeking, confident, commanding.
Electricity seemed to arch through her body, the yearning so swift and so strong, she forgot everything but the scent, the taste, the touch of his lips. The solid wall of his chest pressed against her aching breasts as he dragged her closer.
Her hands flattened against his waist, grasping his linen shirt in greedy fists, and holding on for dear life as the storm of sensation battered her body, while her heart thumped her ribcage and sank deep into her abdomen, throbbing painfully between her thighs.
His tongue slid across her mouth demanding entry and she opened instinctively. His guttural groan of conquest matched her sob of surrender as she melted against him, her body softening and swelling in its most intimate places as his tongue swept in.
He explored in demanding delicious strokes, and she made tentative licks back, the yearning so intense now, the longing so real and overpowering she knew that whatever it was she wanted from him, she needed it now.
He tore his lips free, and stared down at her. His hands lifted to cradle her cheeks, and tilt her face up. She saw surprise flicker in his dark eyes as he studied her, but knew it was nothing compared with the shock careering through her body. Her breathing was so ragged her lungs felt trapped in her ribcage.
The loud throat-clearing from beside them had them both swinging round.
‘Congratulations, you two,’ Phillip Carstairs said with an avuncular smile on his face. ‘I would suggest you start planning the wedding as soon as possible.’
The heat that still pounded between Orla’s thighs and burned on her lips exploded into her cheeks like a mushroom cloud.
Khan let go of her face at last as he turned to his solicitor. ‘Thanks, Phil, now perhaps you’d like to get lost, so my new fiancée and I can have some privacy.’
Carstairs gathered up the papers Orla had just signed, then sent them both a mocking bow. ‘I’d say enjoy your engagement, Karim,’ he said. ‘But I can see there is really no need.’ He held the papers up. ‘I’ll send the engagement contract through to the Zafari Ruling Council so they can inform your father of the good news.’
Orla felt Karim tense beside her, before Carstairs bid them both goodbye and left the room.
The door closed behind him.
‘I should go too,’ Orla murmured, brutally aware of the embarrassment scalding her cheeks and the heavy weight that had swollen to impossible proportions in her sex. Luckily Khan seemed a million miles away, his expression both strained and annoyed.
She had no idea what had caused his displeasure. But before she could make a quick getaway he snagged her wrist.
‘Not so fast,’ he said, drawing her to a halt. ‘That kiss was unexpected.’
‘I… I was just trying to be convincing,’ she said, not even convincing herself with the desperate lie.
She could see she hadn’t convinced him either,
when his brows drew together, the puzzled expression doing nothing to cool the passionate intensity in the golden brown of his irises.
‘You did an extremely thorough job,’ he said, the mocking tone making it very clear he knew her response had been entirely genuine.
She tried to look away to hide the mortification running riot on her cheeks now, but he tucked a knuckle under her chin and forced her gaze back to his.
‘Just tell me one thing—are you a virgin?’ he demanded.
Her eyes widened. How had he guessed?
‘Because if you are,’ he continued, the dark frown on his face accusing her, ‘we’ll have to call this off.’
‘I’m not a virgin,’ she lied, finally managing to gather her wits enough to shake her head. ‘I’ve had several lovers,’ she added. ‘Lots of lovers. I was… I was engaged five years ago,’ she continued, desperately trying to dispel the scepticism lurking in his eyes. She couldn’t lose this deal—the chance to stay at Calhouns, to secure a future free of debt, to continue to work with the horses she loved. But somehow those reasons seemed shallow and insignificant as the desire continued to spark and sizzle.
‘Do you really think I would have kissed you like that if I was?’ she finished.
Once upon a time, she’d been a terrible liar, but she’d had considerable practice in the last five years, convincing everyone from jockeys to trainers to racing managers that Calhouns wasn’t struggling to stay afloat. She drew on every last ounce of that experience now to convince him.
He continued to study her, the desire he was making no attempt to hide both disturbing and yet at the same time terrifyingly exciting.
‘No, I suppose not,’ he said finally.
He shook his head slightly, as if trying to jog something loose, then let go of her wrist abruptly.
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, he continued to stare at her, the penetrating gaze both intrusive and disturbingly intimate.
She folded her arms over her midriff, feeling exposed and desperately wary, far too aware of the stinging on her lips where their kiss had got so far out of control.
But she forced herself not to relinquish eye contact. If she was going to persuade him she wasn’t a virgin, she needed to be bold now, even if her hormones were still rampaging through her body like toddlers on a sugar rush… And she’d never felt more insecure or unstable in her entire life.
She didn’t know what the heck had happened to her. Maybe she didn’t have very much experience, but she’d never responded like that to any of Patrick’s kisses.
How had she forgotten so easily who he was, and that this ‘engagement’ was a charade? The minute his lips had claimed hers, even before that, the minute he had looked at her with that intense focus back at the stable yard, it was as if her body were no longer her own. That it belonged to him, and he could command it and destroy it at will.
She couldn’t let that happen again, or she would lose. Not just this deal, but also her sense of self.
This engagement was a means to an end for him. A means to an end he hadn’t even bothered to confide in her. She was bought and paid for, a fiancée in name only, until he no longer required her services, then she would be discarded.
He tugged his fingers through his hair, sending the expertly styled waves into disarray, still staring at her as if he were trying to decipher a particularly thorny problem.
At last he nodded. ‘I’ll see you tonight at seven,’ he said.
Her breath gushed out as she realised she’d got away with her lie. For now anyhow.
‘We’ll go through the story I’ve made up to explain our relationship en route to the ball,’ he added. ‘So you don’t trip up again.’
It was a reprimand. But she didn’t care as she nodded and left, just so relieved to be out of the room.
As she raced up the stairs back to her suite, though, she wasn’t sure any more if she was more concerned about Khan cancelling their contract, and leaving her sister and herself destitute, or her inexplicable and uncontrollable reaction to a simple kiss.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘YOUR HIGHNESS, YOUR fiancée is waiting for you in the vestibule.’
Karim glanced up from his phone to find Muhammed, his butler, standing in the doorway to his study.
Your fiancée.
The words reverberated in his skull… and, unfortunately, his groin, reminding him of their kiss that morning. A kiss that was supposed to have been as false as everything else about this arrangement, and had been anything but. Orla Calhoun’s artless eager reaction had been unexpected, but much more unexpected had been his own response. The fresh sweet taste of her lips, the sound of her stunned sob, the feel of her taut, trembling body softening against his, and her fingers gripping his shirt as if she were in a high wind and he were her only anchor. The combination had set fire to the heat already smouldering in his groin, ever since the day before.
All of which was a problem.
He had picked this woman precisely because he had expected his desire to die. Clearly that had been an error, because after that one taste of her he had not been able to forget the effect she’d had on him. Or the fact he wanted more of her. Desiring her could cause complications he did not need.
Thank God, at least she wasn’t inexperienced, as he had at first suspected. Ever since their kiss he had been considering the problem, and decided that perhaps they could change the terms of their contract. However he needed to be absolutely sure this attraction was not going to get any more out of control. Already he did not appreciate the fact his reaction had been almost as uncontrolled as hers.
‘Tell her I’ll be with her in a moment,’ he said, tucking the phone back into the breast pocket of his tuxedo.
Tonight’s event would be long and tedious. Her racing connections would come in handy to smooth his passage into this world. It would also present a good chance to gauge exactly how volatile his reaction was to this woman.
‘Yes, Your Highness,’ the butler said, but then his usually formal expression softened. ‘And can I congratulate you again on your engagement?’ he added, his craggy face flushing. ‘Your fiancée is indeed exquisite and so charming. I had no idea Michael Calhoun’s daughter was such a beauty. No wonder he hid her away.’
What?
Karim frowned as his usually close-mouthed and now clearly besotted butler bowed and left. Orla, whatever the strange spell she seemed to have cast over him, could hardly be described as a great beauty. Could she? And what did Muhammed mean by Calhoun hiding her away? Karim had never attended any racing events, waiting for the right opportunity to buy into a pastime that had captivated him as a boy but which he’d had no time to indulge properly until now. Perhaps he should have done more homework before suggesting this association? The truth was it wasn’t at all like him to make business decisions on the spur of the moment. That said, he always went with his gut instinct when opportunity arose, and Orla’s circumstances had seemed perfect for what he had in mind.
He rebuttoned his tuxedo jacket and spotted, on the edge of his desk, the velvet ring box that had been delivered earlier in the day. He scooped up the box and stared at it. He’d had the engagement ring selected by the stylist. He shoved it into his trouser pocket without opening it, annoyed by the moment of hesitation. It hardly mattered what the ring looked like, as long as it fitted.
He marched out of his study, down the hallway towards the front entrance and then stopped dead as he spotted the woman standing with her back to him. The silver backless gown shimmered in the light from the chandelier, the iridescent material draping over her slender curves like water. The vibrant red waves of her hair had been pinned up with a series of diamonds, which glittered like stars in a sunset. The chignon should have looked supremely elegant… But somehow, the tendrils falling down against her nape made him think of the wild, untamed way she had return
ed his kiss.
Karim’s breath backed up in his lungs, the shot of arousal so sudden it made him tense. He planted his hands in his pockets, the urge to slip the delicate straps off her shoulders and place his mouth on the smooth arch of her neck so strong he had to take a moment.
‘Orla,’ he murmured, and she spun round.
What the…?
Shock ricocheted through his system, swiftly followed by a need so sharp he couldn’t contain it, let alone control it.
‘What the hell are you wearing?’ he growled before he could stop himself as the shot of desire detonated in his groin.
His gaze devoured her high breasts, the neckline of the gown giving him a glimpse of her cleavage, which was as torturous as it was tantalising. She was not wearing a bra.
‘You don’t… You don’t like it?’ she asked as she crossed her arms over her waist, as if trying to shield herself from his view.
His gaze jerked away from her breasts to see the flush of embarrassment on her face. Smoky make-up had been deftly applied around her eyes and her full lips given a coating of something glossy, which only made the yearning to taste them again all the more compelling.
But beneath that, he could see the devastating combination of embarrassment and awareness in her expression.
He forced himself to move across the foyer, attempting to dial down his overreaction each step of the way. He’d seen other women wearing far less at the sort of society functions he attended. Hell, women he’d actually been dating had worn gowns that were a great deal more revealing, and he’d never had a problem with it.
Was this something to do with the fact she was his fiancée? But that was insane—this wasn’t a real engagement. And even if it were, since when had he ever been possessive about a woman?
In truth there was nothing wrong with the dress, he tried to tell himself, as his gaze lingered again on the shimmering material. No doubt it was the height of fashion, probably made by some much-sought-after designer who charged a fortune to display his new fiancée’s lush, coltish physique for everyone to see. In fact, it did exactly what he had asked the stylist to do: made the most of Orla’s assets. Unfortunately, he had not realised when he requested such an approach quite how many assets she had, or how much he would not want to allow everyone else to enjoy them.