by Charles, Eva
If all goes well and we’re allowed to continue to the palace, this little side trip will have been worth it. It’s allowed me to get accustomed to the eyes and ears that are everywhere. They mostly fade into the background, and it’s easy to develop a false sense of security if you let your guard down, but my antenna is up and fully attune.
The lock snicks, and I automatically reach for my gun, which of course is in Charleston, locked in a safe at Wildflower. But when the door opens, it’s Gray.
“I came to check on you,” he says, lying near me on the bed, on his side. “Maybe you can put this down, and give me your full attention.” He takes the Kindle out of my hand and tosses it on the nightstand behind him.
He smells of whiskey and cigars and white blossoms—jasmine, to be specific. I loathe jasmine, even on a good day. It smells like rotting flowers—and my mother…only she wore a cheap version.
I know entertaining the prince is part of the plan, and I shouldn’t be mad. But my emotions have taken me back to the plane, to the cabin where we shared not just our bodies, but our secrets, less than twenty-four hours ago. I’ll pull it together, but I’m not a robot that can be turned on and off easily.
My stomach churns as Gray’s lips meet mine. The floral perfume is overwhelming. He’s drenched in it, and I shove him away before I gag.
He grabs my wrists, holding them firmly above my head. “You want to fight me? Go ahead. But I warn you, I’m in the mood for a little demon.”
Oh, you’re going to get a little demon. But it might not be the kind you’re in the mood for, asshole. “You’re coming to me smelling like the woman you just laid, and you expect me to spread my legs for you? You didn’t even have the decency to take a shower and wash away the stench of sex before you came to my bed.”
When I pause, a sudden panic swarms, nearly crippling me—I’m not in role. I search Gray’s face. There’s no alarm anywhere. My response is legitimate and natural. It is in role. It’s exactly the reaction I should have to his indiscretion.
“Is that what you smell, Delilah? You smell sex? Another woman’s juices mixed with mine? Maybe there was more than one.”
He pulls my hair back, and I see something in his eyes—a glimmer that wouldn’t be there if he was being cruel.
No, I don’t smell sex. I smell god-awful perfume. Even though he’s practically on top of me and my nose is working overtime, I don’t smell anything resembling sex. Maybe you don’t want to smell it.
“I was planning to show you the respect of a shower, but since you haven’t shown me any respect, I’m just going to fuck you here and now. Have you suck my dick and taste another woman’s cunt on me. Would you like that?” he drawls.
My heart is pounding. I know we’re being watched. Now that I almost forgot my role, I can’t seem to forget about the hidden cameras.
“Take this off,” he says, tugging at my nightgown. “Don’t dally.”
I hesitate, before my fingers find the buttons on my nightgown. My anxiety grows, along with my anger at Gray, coiling tighter together with each button I untether. He undresses too, which makes me feel slightly more comfortable. But it does nothing to assuage the anger.
“Look how hard you make my cock when you fight me off. Look,” he demands, more roughly.
I glance quickly at the flare of the dusky crown, and then into his eyes. There’s a flicker of compassion in them, a modicum of empathy, even as he drags me to him.
“On your knees, Delilah, and suck it good, or you’ll spend all night on your knees practicing until you get it right.”
I reach for the compassion I saw in his eyes, clenching it to me while he weaves his hands into my hair.
His fingers have a firm hold on my scalp, but he doesn’t shove his cock down my throat. He lets me set the pace. My tongue laps at the taut skin, and I smell a faint muskiness—that’s him. I taste nothing on his cock but the salty bead forming at the tip.
He didn’t have sex. That’s what he was trying to tell me. Do you smell another woman’s juices mixed with mine? No. No, I don’t.
My pulse slows, and the cameras are a distant memory.
I gaze at him for a few seconds, before pulling his cock into my mouth, the way he likes. I’m rewarded with a loud hiss of air. He didn’t shower. Because if he did, he wouldn’t reek of that putrid perfume. Even if he cleaned himself with a washcloth, there would be a lingering telltale scent. I bury my nose into the well-groomed hair. Nothing—it smells only of Gray. My throat relaxes with little effort, and I swallow him deep, again and again, until he wrenches away from me.
“Are you wet?” he pants.
I sit back on my heels, softly gasping for breath, and nod.
He reaches down, his fingers exploring my needy pussy. “You are wet. You enjoyed swallowing my cock, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
He brings his fingers to my mouth, and I suckle until the ache between my legs is my most pressing concern.
“You know what I enjoy?” He pauses, as if waiting for a response. “Fingering you, Delilah, until you come hard. Until you’re shaking and pushing my hand away, and I have to tighten my grip on your throat to let you know that I decide when you’re done.”
I shiver at his words and harsh tone. It’s not the shudder of repulsion, but the tremble of desire.
He takes his cock in hand, pulling and jerking on the swollen shaft. My gaze flits between his busy hand and his eyes. There’s no warning, at least none that registers, when he erupts. I squeeze my eyes shut, while he sprays his cum all over me—in my hair, on my cheeks and arms, and across my breasts.
The signal is clear to anyone watching. He’s marked me. I’m his.
“Next time,” Gray warns in a scathing tone, “don’t question me about where I’ve been or who I’ve been with.” He pulls me to my feet. “Let’s go take that shower you were so concerned with, because I have no desire to sleep beside someone who smells like a filthy whore.”
35
Gray
Last night was a good test—for us both. Delilah was challenged, and she stayed in control, with her anger pushing at the edges, which made it all the more believable.
I was cruder with her than necessary, but I wanted Ahmad to love the show so much that he would crave more. That even if his good sense was telling him to turn us away, he wouldn’t listen.
We’re engaged in a dance. Letting our real emotions creep in just enough to create a realistic scenario, but not enough to shatter us and blow our cover to smithereens. I’m acutely aware of how difficult it is for Delilah, and I do what I can to help her. But that’s a dance too.
She needs me to respect her as an operative—as a deserving partner in this mission. If I coddle too much, it has the opposite effect. It implies, with all the subtlety of a blaring siren, that I don’t have confidence in her abilities.
None of this is easy on me, either. It weighs on my mind, and in my heart, more than it should. Certainly more than I can afford, right now. That’s for damn sure.
Ahmad and I are having breakfast on the upper deck with a trio of nearly naked women. Not one from Amidane, or from the United States, for that matter. One woman is Eastern European and the other two, Burmese. They appear to be just above the age of consent. Maybe. Are they here of their own accord? It appears that way, but appearances are deceiving. Although it doesn’t matter, because that’s not why I’m here.
My purpose is sealed with official orders, and I’m not allowed to veer off to save anyone. It doesn’t matter whether the scourge of the sex trade lurks nearby, or something equally as evil. I have to look the other way. It’s one of the most infuriating aspects of this life I chose. But like it or not, that’s how this business works. When the government climbs into the mud with pigs, they never come out smelling good.
One of the young women is sitting on Ahmad’s lap while he feeds her orange sections and grapes. The other two are flanking me. I have absolutely no interest in slipping anything into their mouths, so they’v
e taken to bringing bites of food to mine.
That’s when Delilah appears. Despite what Ahmad told her, she’s dressed modestly in a summery outfit that covers her arms and falls below her knees. Her conservative clothing sets her apart, and above, the women at the table. In the crudest terms, she’s a queen and they’re whores.
She approaches us with her head high and shoulders back. Delilah’s a hair below five feet five, but her presence is unmistakable, especially today.
Her sunglasses hide any disapproval in her eyes, but I see her body stiffen when one of the young women brushes a piece of croissant across my bottom lip, urging me to eat from her hand. I’m sure Ahmad saw Delilah’s reaction too, because he whispers something to the girl on his lap and when she gets up, he shoos the others away too.
“Good morning. I hope you slept well,” he says, standing to greet Delilah. The sign of respect, especially coming from him, is a bit of a surprise.
I stand too, because she certainly deserves my respect, and because this is her show, and she’s killing it.
“Come sit by me,” he says without a glance in my direction. “Leave that dog you brought along to his own devices.”
I scowl at him, hoping to send a silent message, but he ignores it.
“Coffee or tea?” he asks.
“Coffee would be wonderful,” Delilah replies. “Thank you.”
The waiter brings her coffee, along with some yogurt topped with drizzled honey and crushed pistachios. “Would you prefer something else?”
“This is perfect.”
Ahmad peels a fresh orange, carefully removing the bitter pith, and feeds her a section.
She laughs softly, before taking a bite.
I’m two seconds from tossing the table over, and grinding my heel into his neck. I clear my throat, and he smirks.
“As much as I would enjoy indulging you, I will stop. I think we’ve made your friend Gray jealous.” He glances at me, and then whispers to Delilah, “I suspect he prefers to indulge you himself.”
“Where did you say Noura was? The Riviera?” I grin at him, waiting for a response.
Ahmad narrows his eyes, and chuckles. It’s not a happy sound, more of a threat, or perhaps a promise. I don’t give a shit. But he doesn’t need to worry, I wouldn’t fuck Noura if he paid me to do it.
During breakfast, we chat about art, Brexit, and movies. Delilah holds her own. She doesn’t give herself enough credit, but despite her humble beginnings she’s well-educated and well read.
“I’m needed at home this evening,” Ahmad says soberly. “We’ll enjoy the last rays of sunshine and freedom before leaving the boat. We’ll disembark late afternoon, and travel the last leg by helicopter.” He turns to Delilah. “This suits you?”
She smiles shyly at him. “I spent the last few weeks reading about the palace and your customs. It would be an honor—and a delight—to visit there, if it suits you.”
Oh, baby. Delilah’s polish and deference is familiar to him. She’s not as sophisticated as Noura, who grew up in a palace herself, but that would be too studied anyway. Ahmad would be suspicious. Delilah’s a little nervous at the seams, like anyone meeting a prince for the first time, but she has the luster of the women he met in the Ivy League.
Either he has seen enough of Delilah to be swayed, or he’s decided being in her company is worth a small risk. Maybe both. I need to remind Trippi to stay close to her. Ahmad will have no qualms about helping himself if the urge becomes strong enough. We didn’t need Trippi and Baz to be as vigilant on the boat, but the palace is enormous and Ahmad knows all the hiding places.
Delilah finishes her coffee, and excuses herself to change and pack.
“I didn’t expect to leave for the palace so soon. If at all.” I want to know what he’s thinking.
“She was thoroughly vetted,” he says. “As you can imagine. I just wanted to see for myself that she wasn’t a threat.”
“And?”
“And I think she’s far too lovely for your ugly ass, but I have no concerns. Although, she’ll be observed closely, because a beautiful face hides a multitude of sins.”
I stare out over the ocean, while the waiter brushes the crumbs from the table. It’s inviting today—perfect for a swim off the boat. Although on the open sea, the calm surface can be deceiving. I glance at Ahmad when the waiter steps away. “Close observation doesn’t involve your hands—or your dick for that matter, Your Highness.”
“Be careful, Gray. Your weakness is showing.”
“Don’t be fooled. Every time I mention Noura, your eyes send poison darts in my direction. And I’m quite sure she’s not your weakness.”
He nods. “It’s a matter of respect, not just toward her, but toward me too. Noura is my queen, not to be sullied by another man.”
“Then we do understand each other.”
He nods curtly, and drinks some water. “It appears that way.”
The fucker can say whatever the hell he wants, but I don’t trust him for a single second. Especially with Delilah.
But there’s no turning back now.
36
Delilah
Italian marble floors, intricately carved ceilings, and gold embellishments adorning every piece of real estate, the sprawling palace is grand, dwarfing even the excess of Versailles. It’s an audacious display of vast wealth and power, especially callous in a country where people are starving. The Amadi royal family is estimated to be worth upward of twenty-one billion dollars.
This is real oil money.
When we arrive at the palace, Gray disappears with the crown prince, and I’m ferreted off to a winding tour that ends in the wing where honored guests stay. Baz remains with Gray, and like on the boat, Trippi shadows me. Our security seems primarily for show. We aren’t allowed to have weapons anywhere in the palace, and even if we were, the four of us would be no match for the small army of soldiers both inside and out.
As we tour, I keep an eye out for Princess Saher, but we don’t go anywhere near the private residences, and she’s nowhere to been found in the common areas. It’s disappointing, but not a surprise.
My room and Gray’s are connected by a sitting room, Fatima, the knowledgeable tour guide, explains. Trippi and Baz have rooms across the hall.
By the time we get into the suite, my belongings have been unpacked and stashed in drawers, cupboards, and a walk-in closet. It feels like a gross invasion of privacy, but because I haven’t brought an entourage of maids and assistants with me, not entirely unexpected.
“This,” Fatima explains, holding up an envelope with a raised seal, “is an invitation from King Khalid. He would like you to join him for light refreshments this evening in his private quarters.”
She doesn’t ask if I can attend, so I assume this is more of a summons than an invitation. Not that I had any intention of begging off. This mission was set in motion by the king. I suspect that he’ll make an effort to help us connect with Saher.
“Will Mr. Wilder also be attending?”
She tilts her head to the side, looking at me curiously. “Of course,” she says in perfect English.
For a moment, I wish Mira was here to answer the myriad questions I have about tonight’s protocol. I hadn’t anticipated refreshments with the king.
There’s a knock from the sitting room, and Fatima answers the door. She speaks to a woman in hushed tones, before shutting and locking the door.
“We have some tea and snacks in the sitting room, if you’d like to relax there.”
“Thank you.” I want to ask if Saher will be joining us this evening, but that wouldn’t be at all prudent.
Fatima hands me a card. “My office is in this wing. I will check with you regularly, but you can also reach me at this number, anytime, day or night. I’m available to answer any questions or concerns you might have while you are with us.”
Fatima is not just a tour guide—she’s our attaché for the trip. I’m sure she can answer questions, but unlike
Mira, I have no idea who she reports to, and I can’t trust her.
When I’m alone, I open the envelope and carefully take out the card. But before I’m finished reading, there’s another knock on the sitting room door. I assume it’s a maid, but when I open the door, Gray, in all his gorgeousness, is standing there.
I’m so relieved to see him that in the space of two seconds, I’ve launched myself into his arms and I’m holding on tight. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the uncharacteristic impulse, me or him.
But he recovers quickly, holding me tight against him for a few minutes while his lips graze my head tenderly.
When I finally pull away, he eyes me carefully. “I came to tell you that dinner will be brought to our room,” he says. “It’s already been a full day and the king would like to spend some time with us this evening.”
I hold up the invitation. “Fatima, our attaché, mentioned tonight. I was just opening the invitation and trying to decide what to wear. Although, to meet with the king, maybe an abaya and one of the chiffon headscarves I packed would be appropriate.”
Gray nods, still studying my mood. I’m sure he’s thinking about my leap into his arms. I still don’t know what got into me. Gray and all the comfort and safety he provides—that’s what’s gotten into me.
“You’re an American. The abaya isn’t required, but King Khalid will appreciate it. How about jewels? Did you pack some?”
Gray’s checking in with me, and his concern warms my heart. I smile. “Yes. I brought several pieces to choose from. I have a pair of emerald earrings that I think I’ll wear tonight.”
“Choose whatever feels right,” he says quietly, smoothing my hair with his hand. The ends slide between his fingers, while he gauges my reaction. “Why don’t you come sit with me, and we can relax a bit before we shower. Unless you’d like a nap.”
“A nap? Is that a euphemism for something more lively?”
A lecherous smile follows a small snicker. “Shower is a euphemism for something more lively. But I thought you might like to rest first.”