by Leslie North
“It’s a surprise.” They went out into a hallway lined with carpet of the deepest blue, shot through with a subtle gold pattern. In all her time at the palace—which, granted, wasn’t much—Laila had never seen so much as a speck of dirt on the carpet. Cream-colored walls soared high above them, decorated with pieces from famous artists. Laila had seen a Van Gogh and was sure there were more.
They turned to the right, moving down a long corridor. A private gym was down at this end, fitted out with exercise equipment she recognized from a luxury catalogue she’d seen on the plane ride over, all of it pristine. It also had a private pool. “Is it in the gym?”
“It’s not in the gym,” Maha said. “It’s here.” They stopped in front of a set of doors. “Go ahead.”
“Okay…” Laila turned the gilt handles and opened the doors. Her heart stopped, then raced, then settled into a happy rhythm. Her whole body relaxed at the sight in front of her. “Maha, you didn’t tell me there was a studio in the palace.”
And it was a studio indeed. There were two steps down into an airy, open space, with massive windows on the opposite wall—the same kinds of windows that were in the gym, from what she could remember of her tour. Light poured in on everything Laila could have dreamed of having in a pottery studio of her own. A top-of-the-line electric pottery wheel. A long table with a hefty wooden top. Shelves lined with glazes. A separate shelf for tools, and hooks on the walls for others. An arrangement of empty shelves, painted white, waited for her pieces. And more, and more, and more. And this was only half the room. The other half boasted another low workspace, this one with an entirely different set of tools and a classic foot-powered wheel.
Laila took two slow steps in. A low wall separated what looked like a brand-new kiln from the rest of the space.
“Prince Zayid had this room commissioned for you as a wedding gift. The construction was very involved—the room had to be added on to the palace. Most of the work was completed while you were on your honeymoon.” Maha said behind her. “As you can see, it’s been separated into two eras.”
“Modern and traditional,” Laila whispered.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Laila could hear the smile in Maha’s voice without turning around. “The crown prince wanted you to be able to access our country’s traditional pottery-making equipment for your mentorship.”
At that, Laila spun around. “Mentorship?” Her skin tingled the way it had when she was first accepted to college—like doors all around her were opening up. “What mentorship?”
“He has arranged for an expert skilled in Raihan’s traditional pottery arts to teach you the local craft and styles.”
Laila opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. She had come to Raihan to see her mother’s country and to steep herself in as much research as she could before she had to go back to London. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being in this situation. Experts from Raihan? Meeting with her? It was the kind of thing she could only have hoped for as part of her master’s program, but she’d never been able to find funding for it. Not like this.
If only it weren’t for the little pinprick of disappointment spearing through the back of her neck and making her jaw clench. Zayid had built her a breathtaking studio, stuffed to the brim with the finest supplies she might ever work with. The space would make the rest of her time in Raihan fly by...and it would advance her career when she began applying for teaching positions.
But why couldn’t he have shown her the gift himself? Did he not have the time to even pretend that the marriage was real?
“This is incredible,” Laila said softly. “Maha, do you know where Zayid is? Or do you know where I might find someone with his schedule on hand?”
“Right away, Your Highness.” Maha frowned at her. “You want to speak with him now?”
“On second thought, I am his wife.” Laila lifted her chin. “I’m going to go find him. I’ll return to his—our—rooms when I’m finished.”
8
Zayid sat at the huge mahogany desk in his office, trying to read through a draft of a trade agreement. His secretary had just been in with coffee, and he’d settled back in his chair when a shout came from outside the door.
He glared at the closed door. Who was shouting in the anteroom of his office, and why had his aide Makin, normally so good at corralling people, let things get out of hand?
A woman’s voice rose, getting louder, and there was Makin again. What—?
He hadn’t quite figured it out when the door to his office burst open to reveal Laila. She wore a tunic with a blue pattern on it, the fabric draping over her body in a way that made him want to lift it away from her skin and touch the curves underneath. But she wasn’t happy to see him.
Makin came in behind her, and then two of his bodyguards, all of them breathing hard. “I’m sorry, Your Highness,” said Makin, his face scarlet. “There was no reasoning with—” He caught himself. “Her Highness wished to see you. I could not convince her to wait.”
“Leave us.” His staff hesitated, and he hurried them out with a wave. Then he took a moment to consider his wife.
Her jaw was set, green eyes blazing. She dug her hands into her hips. “Why would you keep a secret like that?”
Zayid stood. It didn’t feel right to meet this energy sitting down. “I take it Maha showed you the pottery studio?”
“Yes.” Laila crossed her arms over her chest. “She is the one who took me down and—and presented it to me. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me about it.”
“It was a surprise. Telling you about it would have defeated the purpose.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Laila looked off to the side, then back at him. “I meant, why didn’t you tell me about it? Why have Maha do it? It’s rude, Zayid,” she burst out. “It’s rude! A wedding gift—any gift, but especially a wedding gift—should be given in person.” He couldn’t take in any of her words. Not when the full shape of her lips was so entrancing. The sound went over and around him, not settling in above the beating of his own heart. Pleasure. He felt pleasure at watching her talk, angry as she was.
“Are you listening?” Laila narrowed her eyes. “If we’re going to get through this together, you could at least pay attention when I’m trying to tell you that there’s a problem, and the problem—”
He wanted her.
He wanted her so badly that the attraction felt like an actual chain looping around his waist and pulling him toward her.
Zayid let it happen. He went to her, the air heating up between them. He slipped his hands up around her face and pulled her close. Her words stuttered and came to a halt.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“All right.”
And he did. She tasted sweet, like lemon candy, and after a few moments she melted against him. Laila slid her hands up the front of his shirt, palms gliding across the muscles underneath. Every nerve in his body sparked and flamed. What had he been thinking, all this time? Why had he bothered to keep her at arm’s length when he wanted her this badly? He had wanted her like this from the moment he first saw her in the garden. Brazen, just like now.
They broke apart, and she looked deeply into his eyes, hands still fisted in the front of his shirt. “It would have been nice, that’s all, if you’d been there,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her again, giving in to the impulse he’d been shoving deep down for the entirety of their honeymoon, and since they’d returned. He’d wanted to be with her. But that wasn’t the arrangement, and if he let himself fall any further... “My schedule is full, after being unavailable for two weeks. And if you’d been here when I finally got a spare fifteen minutes, I would have shown you myself.”
Laila narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure I believe that you’re sorry. Kiss me again so I can decide.”
He laughed and swept her around in his arms, lifting her up onto the desk so he could dip her back, the hem of her tunic rising. “Is t
his what you meant?”
“No,” she teased. “Now I’m just sitting on your desk, in your arms, and you’re still not kissing me.” She brushed her fingertips along the back of his neck. “It’s almost like you can’t hear me. How many times do I need to say it, Zayid? I want another—”
He silenced her, devouring her laughter and turning it into a moan. His own body strained against the prison of his clothes. Her curves underneath the tunic were exactly as luscious as he’d imagined for all those days of their honeymoon. Zayid had supplied her with a full wardrobe for the trip, since the American clothes she’d brought with her wouldn’t do—not when they were going to be photographed by any paparazzi who could find the new royal couple. His mistake had been purchasing the softest, most pliable fabrics, the fabrics that lifted in the breeze and wrapped around her and begged him to put his hands around her waist.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “For not being there. I’ll try to rearrange my schedule.”
She rested her forehead against his. “You don’t have to do that. I know this isn’t...you know. It’s not—”
“Whatever it is or isn’t, the rest of Raihan will notice if I’m never with my wife.” A knock at the door pulled his attention away from the sandalwood and rose scent of her. “What is it?”
“Sir, it’s time for your next meeting.” Makin sounded like he wanted to be interrupting Zayid as much as Zayid wanted to be interrupted.
“All right.” Zayid waited for the door to close, then eased Laila off the desk. He bent and pressed a kiss to the curve of her neck, just where it met the fabric of her tunic. “I’ll be home for dinner. I promise.”
9
Talif, the pottery expert Zayid had hired to mentor her, rubbed his hands together to rid them of dried clay. Laila had only been working in the studio about a week, but it was already broken in, with clay dust everywhere. “So, it’s not so different from the modern style,” he finished. “But with earthenware, you don’t add a glaze.”
“That’s right.”
“The distinctive thing about Raihan’s traditional pottery, as you know, is in the shape of the pots themselves.” Talif’s eyes twinkled.
“The wide mouth,” Laila added. “Inclined outward.”
“That, along with the—”
“Etched decorations.” Laila grinned at him.
Talif laughed, the wrinkles in his face deepening. “Why did His Highness think you needed a mentor?”
Laila shrugged. “I’m always happy to learn. Besides, it’s not every day I get to work with experts like you.”
Talif pressed a hand to his chest. “The pleasure is all mine. I’ll see you next week, Your Highness.”
“I look forward to it.” Laila walked him to the door of the studio. “How will you fill your time until we meet again?”
“I meant to tell you.” Talif’s eyes lit up. “There’s a pottery center in the main market. I volunteer there several times a week. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d ever like to.”
“For a class?”
“Oh, yes. We have quite a number who come to learn.”
“I would love that.” As wonderful as her studio in the palace was, Laila missed the hustle and bustle of other students—of being in a classroom together. And more than that, she missed being with people who saw her as something more than an accessory.
Zayid might think she was an appealing accessory, but an accessory nonetheless. Still, she did wish she could get more of those kisses. Maybe run her fingernails over his abs again. Mm, he was delicious. But this was a conversation about Talif’s pottery studio, not the crown prince.
“Leave the address with my assistant, would you? I’ll find a way to come. Especially if I can meet the famous secret potter of Raihan.” Laila studied Talif’s face carefully and caught the way he glanced away from her at the mention of the potter. “Oh, I see. You know her.”
“I’m sure nobody knows the identity of the secret potter.” Talif gave a little shrug.
“I’m sure—”
“Your Highness?” Maha’s voice saved Talif from the questions Laila was about to ask. She turned to see her aide standing in the doorway of the studio, an apologetic smile on her face. “Excuse me for interrupting. It’s time to get ready for tonight’s dinner. Would you come along with me?”
Laila let Talif squeeze her hands in farewell and followed Maha back to the suite. The closer they got, the faster Maha walked, with Laila keeping pace.
“Maha, slow down.” Laila stopped in the hall for a beat, laughing. “Why are we rushing? The event is hours away. It’s a party, isn’t it?”
Maha fixed her with an incredulous look. “Your Highness, a state event isn’t just a party. I’ve already pushed back your scheduled time with your prep team to accommodate the lesson with Talif. We need to be there now. I should say they need you to be in that chair as fast as you can.”
Goosebumps rose on Laila’s arms to match the cold wash of nervousness in her gut. “Of course. That’s right.”
Maha whisked her into Zayid’s apartment and down a quiet hallway that had several doors branching off. Laila’s palms slicked, and she pressed them against the leggings she’d worn to work in the pottery studio. A makeover—it was only an amped-up makeover. Nothing to be nervous about. Maha hurried ahead of her and into a large dressing room Laila hadn’t had reason to use yet.
Six people waited there, all for her. One of them brandished a curling iron. On the other side of the room, a changing screen waited. “Your Highness,” the first one said, coming forward with a luxuriously soft salon cape. “If you’d step behind the screen, take off your outermost layer, and put this on, we’ll be able to get started.”
“I’d better shower first,” Laila said, brushing at the dried clay and dust on her hands. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”
Three hours later, the first stylist spun Laila’s chair around to face the mirror, surrounded by bright lights. “There. Take a look.”
Laila gasped. She had never seen herself this way before, not in all her years of drugstore makeup and messy buns in the pottery studio. “Is that me?” She fluttered a hand near her chest, only half-kidding. Her dark hair looked shinier than it ever had, and her own green eyes, the eyes she’d taken for granted all her life, stared brightly out at her with a mischievous shine. The blush on her cheeks was flawless. Everything was flawless.
“That’s you, Your Highness.” Maha smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “And you look radiant.”
Zayid strode through his rooms, the tuxedo moving effortlessly along with him. Once, when he was a teenager, he’d tried on an off-the-rack suit for the fun of it. Never again. Today, a meeting had gone long, as they always did, and he’d been left with not enough time to get ready. His team had hustled him through it.
“Is she ready?” he called ahead to Maha, who stood outside the dressing room doors. Zayid almost never used the room, but it had finally come in handy.
“Yes, Your Highness.” Maha dipped her head, a grin playing around the corners of her mouth.
“Good, because we need to get down in order to greet—” Maha opened the door, and there she was. His bride. A dark beauty beyond his imagination. All his words twisted up in his mouth. “Incredible,” he managed. Heat roared to life at the center of him, breaking out of the bonds of his self-control. “You look incredible.”
“Why, thank you.” Laila pretended to fluff her hair, her eyes alight. “I spent all day on it.” She laughed, and the sound filled him with a pure, strong want. “No, that’s not true. These amazing people did it all.” She gestured into the room at the prep team, and they gave him a familiar nod. He had used all of them at one time or another for various events, and they’d brought their best every time.
He offered Laila his arm, and she stepped close to take it, the light scent of hairspray and perfume drawing him close. Zayid wanted to take her to his bedroom, not out to the state dinner. He wanted to slip her gown, a gorgeous
fitted thing in silk that ran like water under his palm, to the floor and guide her out of it. He wanted to ravish that hairstyle, that makeup, until she was tousled and pink-cheeked and—
He couldn’t. Zayid wrenched his mind away from those thoughts. He had a duty to Raihan. They both did. It was time to attend the dinner.
Zayid spent five minutes wishing fervently that they didn’t have to stand in the ballroom, wasting precious time that he could spend with her away from prying eyes. And then they met King Fahd.
King Fahd was the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, and the set of his mouth was as hard as his leadership style. But Laila wasn’t bothered by this—not in the slightest. Zayid made the necessary introductions, senses on high alert for any sign that things might go awry.
The other man, with silver streaks in his hair and eyes so dark they were nearly black, frowned down at Laila. “I’ve heard rumors that you’re an artist. Do you paint?”
“I’ve dabbled.” Laila wore an easy smile, and Zayid wanted to rub the pad of his thumb over her lip. He held himself back. “My main focus is pottery. But painting—” The expression on her face became conspiratorial. “Your country is home to Mahmoud Al-Khahat, isn’t it?” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes as if she could summon one of the painter’s works from the empty air between them. “His scenes are exquisite. I can see why some people have compared him to Van Gogh.” The frown on King Fahd’s face deepened, and Zayid opened his mouth to intervene. But Laila got there first. She took a tiny step closer to King Fahd and lowered her voice. “But if you ask me, I think Van Gogh could have learned a few things from Al-Khahat.”
King Fahd’s face broke into a surprised smile, and he let out a deep, rich laugh. “That’s exactly right. All the comparisons to Vincent, but no one is willing to admit there are several areas where Al-Khahat is superior.”