The Prince of Pleasure (10 page)

They fell asleep in each other's arms.

When Laurel awoke, she could see the night sky through the windows.

And she could see Khan, his back to her, his iPhone at his ear. He was wearing a dark suit, and he must have showered—his hair was still damp, droplets of water caught among the dark curls glittered like diamonds on black velvet.

Her heart lifted.

He was so beautiful. So incredibly masculine. 

And he was hers.

Hers, but only for a little while…

"Finally," he said.

She blinked. He'd ended his call; he was coming toward her, smiling. She tried to smile in return but there was a sudden lump in her throat. 

"Sweetheart?" He sat down next to her on the bed. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she said quickly, "only that you're all dressed and I'm not."

"Mmm." He drew down the duvet, pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. "I like you that way. Undressed. Naked. Waiting for me."

She wrapped her arms around him.

"But it isn't fair. I haven't even combed my hair, but you—"

He grinned. "And? What do you think?"

"I think you're looking for compliments." She grinned back at him. "And you deserve one. You are one fine-looking man, Lord Khan."

He laughed. "Thank you—I think."

 "Seriously, I didn't mean to sleep so long. You should have woken me."

"Another five minutes, I intended to do exactly that. Otherwise, think of how foolish I'd look at a table for two at the French Room."

Laurel drew back in his arms. "The French Room? You can't get reservations there unless you make them weeks ahead of…"

Khan raised his eyebrows.

"There are times," he said solemnly, "when it pays to be a sheikh."

She laughed, dug her hands into his damp hair, dragged his head down to hers, and gave him a smacking kiss.

"Emperor of the Universe," she said, "and no matter what you claim, I'll bet you really do ride a big white stallion over the desert sands!"

"Only on special occasions," he said, laughing. He gave her what began as a light, teasing kiss but it grew deeper as her lips warmed and softened beneath his, until finally he groaned and lifted his head. "If I keep doing this, we're never going to get to the restaurant. And I want to show you off."

"Show me…" Laurel's eyes widened. "But you can't! I mean, you're wearing a suit—" 

"And you're wearing nothing." She felt her skin heat under his gaze. "It's a beautiful outfit, sweetheart," he said softly, "but I suspect I'd have to bloody far too many noses if I permitted you to wear only that."

"Permitted me?" She fluttered her lashes at him. "Now I'm certain about that white horse."

"There are some things that are more than tradition," he said, his voice rough. "When a woman belongs to a man—"

The idea thrilled her. The words upset her.

"People belong to themselves," she said.

He nodded. "Yes. Of course. I only meant…"

"I know what you meant," Laurel whispered, lifting her face for his kiss.

After a long moment, he sighed and gathered her into his arms.

"I could hold you this way all night," he said softly. He drew back a little and flashed the smile she loved. "But then, we'd miss dinner."

"Dinner at the French Room! There's no way. Don't shake your head! I can't possibly wear jeans to—"

"All taken care of."

"What do you mean?"

He rose from the bed, stood with his arms folded, looking not just gorgeous but extremely pleased with himself.

"I think you'll find something more suitable in the dressing room."

She stared at him. Then she rose from the bed, too, snagged a hotel robe from the chair, slipped it on…

"Ohmygod," she whispered, as she stepped into the adjoining room. "Khan? What…?"

"I had to guess at the sizes. Well, not exactly. I checked your clothes. Your shoes. But I did have to guess at the style and color and… "Damn. He had paid for women's clothes and jewels before; it was what a man did for his mistresses—but he had never actually chosen those things for them. The women did that themselves. 

Or his P.A. did.

No doubt, the woman needed more than a raise.

He would have to double her salary. 

The point was, this was completely unknown  territory and after a twenty minute consultation over the phone with the concierge, he'd thought he'd made the correct choices, but Laurel was staring at the dress he'd chosen, the shoes, the bits of silk and lace, the sapphire jewels he'd bought because he wanted them to be the color of her eyes, as if she'd never seen anything like them before…

"No good?" he said, as the silence lengthened. "Well." He cleared his throat. "That is not a problem. I will ask the concierge to come up and you can talk to her and—"

Laurel flung herself into his arms.

"You're the most wonderful man in the world!"

"Perhaps not the most wonderful but…" He wrapped his arms around her. Somehow, this wasn't a moment for even the simplest joke. "No," he said, "I'm not. I'm only a man fortunate enough to have found the light of my life."

And he knew, as he said the words, they were true.

********

Dinner was perfect.

An elegant meal in an elegant setting, everything absolutely delicious, from the onion soup to the broiled lobster, straight through to the banana pecan cake.

Unfortunately, Khan ate without tasting any of it.

All he could think about was Laurel.

She was wearing her hair up, gathered in a loose topknot, soft tendrils framing her face. The sapphires sparkled at her throat.

"I'll be very careful with them," she'd assured him, as he stood behind her and clasped the necklace at the nape of her neck. 

"Because?"

"Because we mustn't let anything happen to them." She'd turned in his arms and smiled up at him. "Only the Emperor of the Universe could sweet-talk a jeweler into lending him such a beautiful necklace for the evening."

Nobody had lent him the necklace.

He'd bought it for her, knowing it would be just right against her skin, against the blue of her eyes. But he knew better than to tell her that until later.

Until he had told her something else, something he had not imagined he would tell any woman…

"A penny," she said, smiling at him across the rim of her wine glass.

Khan reached for her free hand.

"You undervalue my thoughts.""  

She gave a soft laugh. "Such certainty, my lord Khan?"

"Yes," he said, looking into her eyes.

Her brows rose. "That's it? You're going to leave me in the dark?"

His smile was slow and so filled with promise it made her breathless.

"I cannot imagine leaving you at all."

Her heart thudded. She felt the same about him, but everything was happening so fast…

"Sir? Miss? Would you like to see the dessert menu?"

A muscle knotted in Khan's jaw. 

"No, thank you," he said politely." He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, dropped a handful of bills on the table, and held out his hand to Laurel. "At least," he said his lips at her ear, "not the kind that is on the menu here."

He led her out of the restaurant, to where Jamal waited in the black Mercedes, and drew up the privacy screen as soon as they were inside. 

Then he took her in his arms.

"I have a surprise."

"Another one?" she smiled. "It can't be as good as this dress, or the necklace, or that amazing meal."

"Well," he said, solemnly, "that all depends on your point of view." He paused. "Do you remember, I told Adele I wanted the house immediately?"

Laurel's face lit. "I didn't think she'd be able to do it!'

"I told you," he said, and grinned, "there truly are times it's good to be a sheikh."

'So, we're heading for all those bisque shepherdesses? The cherubs? The drapes that would have done Scarlett O'Hara proud?"

"All of that, yes."

Her lips curved. "And no reporters."

"No."

"No photographers?"

"Not a one."

 "If I'm relieved," she said, sighing, "I can only imagine how you must feel."

"Happy," he said, and it occurred to him how remarkable that was. He had been too busy these past months even to consider being happy.

"Mmm." She snuggled against him, put her face into the curve of his shoulder, inhaled the delicious scents of man and soap. "Just you and me."

"Well, you and me—and a housekeeping staff and half a dozen security men."

"But no loopy groupies, knocking on the door."

"Loopy groupies," Khan repeated, grinning. "Sounds like a rock band."

"A garage band, you mean." When he laughed, she traced the outline of his lips with the tip of her finger. "I'm glad we're not going to the hotel. I know the woman was just an annoyance but—but every now and then, you hear about a stalker going off the wall."

She was right, but all he could think of was getting rid of the sudden shadows in her eyes. Khan leaned forward, depressed the button that lowered the privacy screen.

"Jamal? What do we do with loopy groupies who become serious problems?"

Jamal looked into the mirror. Laurel could see his eyebrows drawn together into what was almost a knot.

"I beg your pardon, Sheikh Khan? Loopy—"

"—groupies. You know. Unwanted visitors. Stalkers. How do we deal with them when we know that sending them away, warning them off, is not enough?"

"Ah. Well, we contact the police. And we press criminal charges."

"Thank you," Khan said. He put the screen up again. "Satisfied?"

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," Laurel said softly.

"Trust me, sweetheart. Nothing will."

********

The White Bedroom—that was how Laurel thought of it—was destined to be their oasis, their very private retreat from the world.

They went straight  to it, Khan's arm curved tightly, possessively around her waist.

He undressed her slowly, so slowly that she was moaning with need before he'd finished.

He made love to her the same way. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. With his mouth. His hands. His body. Her caressed her nipples, tasted them, tasted the hidden bud that bloomed behind the dark curls of her womanhood.

Her cries almost undid him, and when she said, "My turn," and pushed him back against the pillows of the big, king-sized bed, he faced his own version of torment as she kissed her way down his body, kissed the tip of his engorged penis, took him into the honeyed sweetness of her mouth.

"No more," he growled, when he felt himself on the knife-edge of reason. In one quick motion he rolled her beneath him, knelt between her thighs, and thrust home.

They came together, she sobbing his name, he groaning hers.

He held her for a long time, kissing her hair, her mouth. Then he pushed back the covers, told her to wait for him, and went into the adjoining bathroom where he ran the water into a marble tub that looked big enough to swim in, selected a tiny packet of scent from a glass bowl and poured in the beads.

Bubbles rose in the foaming water; the delicate smell of sandalwood filled the room.

Then he went back to the bedroom, gathered Laurel in his arms, and carried her to the bathroom. He went down the three marble steps that led into the tub, lowered her into the water, and climbed in after her.

"Lovely," she murmured, as he drew her back into the cradle of his arms and legs.

"Lovely," he agreed softly, as he felt her relax in his embrace.

They soaked until the water began to cool. Then Khan wrapped her in a huge towel, draped a second one around his hips, and phoned down to the kitchen for Brie, water biscuits and a chilled bottle of Krug.

The efficient Ms. Simpson had seen to it that the kitchen cupboards and refrigerators had been filled—a call to his P.A. had informed her as to his particular tastes in wines and food.

And, of course, there was staff available day and night.

While they waited for the wine and cheese, Laurel put on a simple, strapless nightgown.

"You kept the concierge busy," she said, with a smile. She turned in a quick circle. "What do you think?"

"I think the gown isn't half as beautiful as you are."

She laughed.

"You look pretty good yourself, Lord Khan, " she said teasingly—but he really did, in lightweight sweatpants and a lightweight shirt.

He opened the terrace doors to the night and the garden, below. A scented breeze sighed through a stand of graceful willows, stippling the carpet with touches of ivory lace. Somewhere on the vast grounds, a bird gave a sleepy cry.

"Oh, it's such a perfect night," Laurel said softly.

Khan looked at her.

Perfect, indeed.

The night.

The setting.

The woman.

Words were forming in his mind. In his mouth.

In his heart.

"Laurel," he said, " sweetheart…"

A knock sounded at the door. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or annoyed by the intrusion. Surely, it was too soon for what he was thinking…

A  bottle of Champagne would be an excellent thing to open right now.

He smiled at Laurel, reached for her hand, and they went to the door together.

"Yes," he said, as he opened it, "thank you for being so prompt—"

The words froze on his tongue. He had expected to see a polite stranger. What he saw, instead, was his stalker. She wore a grey dress and a white apron—and a smile as brilliant as it was insane.

Khan let go of Laurel's hand.

"Laurel," he said, quietly. "I want you to go into the bedroom."

The stalker shook her head from side to side.

"No, no, no! The woman stays right where she is!"

Laurel moved closer to Khan. "Khan?" she murmured. "What—who is this?"

"She is—she is an old friend," he said carefully. "And she's come to visit me. That is why I want you to leave us alo—"

"Stay where you are!" the woman snarled. Her hand snaked into the pocket of her apron and emerged, clutching a gun.