by YoBro
She, who had never run from a fight in her life, was running, and from what? He was just a man, despite all those foolish titles. That he'd humiliated her didn't mean she had to turn tail and run.
If anything, she should have stood her ground, just as she had all her life.
Growing up in south Dallas she'd learned, early, how to face down bigger, tougher kids. Anybody who thought only boys had to deal with bullies and beatings and intimidation was living in another century.
Even school had been a battleground.
You went to a place where acceptance or, at least getting through from day to day meant blending in and sometimes even dumbing down when you already knew you wanted out of these mean streets, you learned to ignore the taunts of others and keep your eye on your goal.
College.
Not just college.
A top-rated place where she'd learned how to stop being a girl with a mountain-sized chip on her shoulder, although her street creds had come in handy in law school. It turned out that assertiveness, even a touch of aggression, were handy when you were dealing with a tough witness, an uncooperative attorney, or a take-no-prisoners judge.
And she was running from a man who specialized in intimidating those he believed were beneath him?
"To hell with that," she said, and came to a dead stop.
A guy who'd been coming toward her, smiling, a glass of wine in each hand, raised his eyebrows.
"Hey," he said, "I was only going to ask if you—"
She swung around.
There he was.
The Great Khan. The Emperor of the Universe. Approaching fast, dark brows drawn together, green eyes flashing, dressed down in a T-shirt and jeans for Partying with the Peasants.
Still gorgeous.
All male.
All powerful.
And what did any of that matter when he was an arrogant, self-centered bully and she would sooner die than let him get the better of her again?
"Keep away from me," she said, but it was too late.
He was directly in front of her now, standing so close that she had to tilt her head back a little to make eye contact, so close that she could feel the heat coming off him.
"I want to talk to you," he said in a low voice.
"That's unfortunate, because I have no desire to talk to you."
"Laurel. Just give me a minute."
"We're not on a first-name basis."
One corner of his mouth lifted. Was the SOB laughing at her?
"Forgive me. Ms. Cruz. I wish to speak with you."
He had an accent. She knew that from last time. It was irritating, the way he put a different spin on words because of that accent.
That sexy accent. Assuming you were the kind of woman who thought accents like his were sexy, which she, most assuredly, was not.
"I have nothing I wish to say to you."
"Oh, I'm sure you have many things you'd like to say to me, Ms. Cruz."
Dammit. He was laughing. Or he was close to it. All it proved was what she already knew. There were huge cultural differences between people of his country and hers, and if his culture permitted him to find something amusing in this unpleasant scene, it was one strange culture indeed.
"I've already said them," Laurel replied coldly. "Or is your memory as bad as your behavior?"
There were, at most, two inches separating them. He took a step, eliminated that small barrier.
"Do you really want to discuss this here?"
"I told you, there's nothing to discuss. Anywhere. Or do you have difficulty understanding English?"
His eyes narrowed.
She couldn't blame him.
That had been a low blow. What on earth had made her say such a thing? His English was as good as hers. The man brought out the absolute worst in her.
"I told you. I wish to speak with you."
"You've already done that."
"I have not." He glanced around them. His mouth tightened. "And I would prefer to have our talk without an audience."
An audience? Laurel looked to one side, then the other. He was right. People were watching them. Actually, they were staring, faces bright with interest. The sheikh, even dressed in jeans, was probably recognizable to half those here, and she wasn't exactly anonymous.
Another five minutes, their confrontation would be all over the city.
"Look, Mr. al Hassad—"
"That is not how you should address me."
Laurel slapped her hands on her hips. Audience or not, this had to stop.
"If you think I'm going to curtsy and call you king or prince or your highness or something equally ridiculous, you know what you can do with that thought."
His hand closed on her wrist.
"What are you doing?
"You're a bright woman," he said grimly. "Figure it out."
He started walking. She didn't. His hand closed more tightly around hers. He might as well have had her on a leash.
"Hey!"
He didn't answer.
"Hey," she said again, "let go!"
She might as well have been talking to herself.
"Coming through," he said briskly. "Sorry. Excuse me."
He didn't hesitate, didn't pause, didn't stop. The crowd parted without protest and why wouldn't it, given his imperious tone?
Laurel dug her heels in. Or tried to, but the marble floor and her spike-heeled boots weren't a good combination for a woman trying to defeat the forward motion of a determined man.
She cursed and sputtered words learned growing up in the barrio, words she'd truly believed were long forgotten. Frustrated and furious, she swung toward him, balled her fist and punched in in the shoulder.
Somebody laughed.
It probably looked like some kind of game, a man, and a woman fooling around, the man ignoring the woman's protests as he pretended to carry her off.
But it wasn't a game. It was insulting, demeaning, a show of pure brute strength, and she wasn't going to take it, goddammit, she absolutely was not, and she wound up again and slugged him harder.
She might as well have been a gnat trying to terrorize an elephant.
He tugged her straight through the room.
She thought he was heading for the front door.
He wasn't.
Instead, he turned a corner, marched the length of a wide hall, turned another corner and, finally, pulled her through an open door and slammed it shut behind them.
Then he let go of her wrist, leaned back against the door and folded his arms over his chest.
Laurel was almost incoherent with rage.
"You," she said, "you—you—you—"
He unfolded his arms, tucked his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, and crossed his feet at the ankles.
The only thing he didn't do was yawn.
Was there an emotion that went beyond fury? She wanted to launch herself at him and scratch his eyes out but she had enough sanity left to know he'd fend her off before she touched him.
"Are you crazy?" she demanded. No answer. Just that expression of absolute tedium. "Dammit, am I boring you?"
He laughed. Laughed! Jesus, she wanted to kill him.
"You think that's funny? You think any of this is funny?"
He shrugged, his broad shoulders lifting and falling with what she could only think of as insouciant ease.
"I was laughing at your question. You are many things, Ms. Cruz, but you are never boring."
"How dare you? How dare you do such a thing to me?"
Khan lifted one eyebrow. "This would all be much easier if you calmed down."
"Calm down?" Her voice slid up the scale. "I'm not the one who needs to calm down!"
"Only one of us is shouting," he said calmly. "And it isn't me."
She took a quick step forward, eyes blazing with fury. He wanted to tell her she was even more beautiful when she was angry but it was such a cliché that he figured it would only make her grab the first thing at hand and hurl it a
t him.
"Making that—that awful scene in front of half of Dallas."
"Yes." He shrugged. "This must be my day for making scenes."
"What's that supposed to mean? Not that I care!"
"It means I'm going to have to work on controlling my temper." His gaze fell to her hand. He reached for it. She jerked it back. They tugged back and forth for a few seconds and then he rolled his eyes, tightened his grip and raised her hand so he could examine her wrist. "Good. No finger marks."
"Not good," she snarled, wrenching her hand free. "It means I can't file a police report charging you with assault."
He laughed. Again. Her eyes narrowed.
"How can you possibly think this is funny?"
He gave her a long, searching look. Then his smile faded.
"You're right. It isn't."
He could tell that wasn’t the answer she'd expected but then, nothing that had happened since they'd met was anything he'd expected. She was a world apart from the women he dealt with, in business and certainly in his private life.
Women invariably deferred to him.
The truth was, everybody did.
He could count those who didn't on the fingers of one hand.
His prime minister and his head of security, both boyhood pals he'd chosen for their jobs precisely because neither had a deferential bone in his body. The Wilde brothers.
And now, Laurel Cruz.
Amazing.
"You know, of course, that someone in that crowd back there might have caught all of this on a cellphone camera."
She was still furious, he could tell by the ice in her voice, but she was calmer.
And she was right.
"If they did, it'll be everywhere by tomorrow."
He nodded. "I know."
"And that doesn't bother you? Because it sure bothers me! I'm an associate in a well-respected law firm. I have serious responsibilities—"
"I have some responsibilities myself."
His voice had turned as cool as hers. It was all that kept her from saying, Like what?
"Just don't respond."
"Huh?"
"When reporters show up at your door. Or call you. All you have to keep repeating is 'No comment' and, eventually, they'll give up."
She blinked. "That's the best you can do?"
"It's the best anyone in the public eye can do. Trust me, Ms. Cruz. I've had my lawyers look at this kind of problem from every legal angle. It's called—"
"Freedom of speech," Laurel said. Her shoulders slumped. "I know."
Khan frowned and moved away from the door. He paced to one end of the room—a library, he saw now—and back to the other.
Hell.
He had met this woman twice. And lost control of himself with her twice. He wanted to write it off as her fault but he knew better. No matter what she'd said to insult him the first time, no matter what she'd done to turn this second meeting into a media event, it was his fault.
She wasn't accustomed to being in the eye of the storm. He was. You grew up with cameras and microphones trained on you, you learned—fast—how maintain self-control.
When had he lost that ability?
"Mr. al Hassad…"
He turned toward her.
"Do not call me that."
She lifted her chin. She'd done the same thing the other night. Then, he'd thought it was pugilistic. Now, it struck him as defensive.
And sexy.
"Forgive me," she said, with a smile sweet enough to add calories to the air. "What, precisely, is the title you prefer? King? Prince? Sheikh? Your highness, your lordship, your worship—"
"My name is Khan."
She blinked. He'd noticed her doing that before, too. It reminded him of a cat he'd owned as a boy, feline and graceful and with enormous, bright blue eyes that would close with pleasure under the stroke of his hand.
"Khan?"
He nodded. "And please, spare us both the Genghis Khan jokes. I was not named for him. 'Khan' is an old family name. My father wanted something Arabic and probably unpronounceable. My mother wanted something short and American. 'Khan' was their idea of a compromise, and I cannot be held responsible for it."
He was smiling.
Smiling.
Laurel's heart seemed to bang against her ribs.
He was horrid and hateful, but he had a smile to kill for and every now and then, he sounded like a man instead of a dictator.
"My name is Khan," he said in a low voice as he walked slowly toward her. "And I wish I could tell you that all I've thought about for the last two days is that I owe you an apology."
You're—you're apologizing?"
"I know it flies in the face of everything you think you know about me. And I know I should have done it sooner."
He came to a stop, barely a breath away. She had to tilt her head again to look at him, and he tried not to think about how much he liked it when she did that, how it made him think about lowering his head and claiming her lips, or kissing her neck, or measuring the race of her pulse by putting his mouth to the delicate hollow in her throat.
"What's that American saying?" he murmured. "Something about better late than never?"
Laurel stared up at him. Why was she having trouble breathing? Why was he looking at her like that? Why did she want to reach out and touch her hands to his face where a light, end-of-day stubble shadowed his skin?
"Yes." Dammit, she sounded breathless. "That's right. Better late than—"
His hand rose. Cupped her cheek. She fought the desire to turn her face into his palm and taste his skin.
"I should not have kissed you."
His voice was soft. Husky. His fingers caressed her face. For an instant, only for an instant, Laurel gave in to desire, closed her eyes, let herself feel the gentle strength of his touch.
"A man should never kiss a woman in anger."
He stroked the hair back from her face. His arm slid around her. Their bodies brushed, lightly, lightly, but, oh, in all the right places. Her breasts against his chest. Her belly against his…
Against his erection.
She could feel him, through the denim of his jeans.
Hard. Full. Male. Exciting. So exciting.
"Khan." She swallowed. "Khan. I don't think—"
"Don't think. Thinking is what we both did that night, and it was a mistake."
How had his hand gone from stroking her cheek to touching her mouth? How had her lips parted, how had the tip of his thumb slid between them?
"Laurel." His breath was warm, lightly spiced with coffee. "I should not have kissed you in anger." He drew her closer. "I should have kissed you as you deserve to be kissed."
"No," she whispered, but when his mouth found hers, she was waiting for him.
Her arms rose, wound around his neck.
He groaned, brought her fully against his long, powerful body.
She went up on her toes and he changed the angle of the kiss, changed it so that when he parted her lips with his, she sighed with pleasure and he could taste that pleasure, the honeyed sweetness of it on his tongue.
He said her name. Slipped one hand into her hair, felt the spill of silken curls over his fingers.
She whimpered, moved her hips lightly against his.
His hand cupped her breast. She moaned. His fingers danced over her nipple, hard and eager beneath the silk of her blouse.
His hand moved again. Down, down, down. Following the curve of her waist, of her hip. Along her thigh.
"Laurel."
His voice was thick. Urgent. His hand slid over her jeans. Between her legs. She cried out. He spread his palm over her. He could feel her heat straight through the denim.
All that heat, just for him.
She whispered something.
He looked at her face.
Her eyes were closed. Her skin was flushed. Her lips were parted.
He said her name again. Undid her zipper. Her panties were silk. They were no barrier to wha
t he wanted. To touch her. Cup her. Feel, God, yes, feel the fire burning between her thighs, the slick wetness.
No, he thought. Not here. Not like this. Not where anyone could find them…
She was panting. Sobbing.
And, suddenly, he was blind to everything but the need pulsing within him.
He unzipped. Lifted her, one arm around her waist, the other under her backside
She wrapped her legs around his waist. He backed her against the door. Tore away her panties.
And then he was inside her.
She cried out.
He caught the sound with his mouth.
And drove into her. Deep. Hard.
She was sobbing. Her hands fisted in his hair. "Please," she said, "please, please, please…"
She came hard and fast, her cry of release muffled by his kiss, and he came right after her, his head thrown back, pleasure more intense than any he'd ever known erupting through him like lava bursting from a volcano.
A moment went by.
An eternity went by.
Laurel sighed. It was the kind of sigh a man wanted to hear at a time like this, and Khan brushed his lips lightly over hers.
"Are you all right?" he whispered.
She nodded.
Reality began its slow return.
"Laurel. I didn't use—"
"It's all right. I'm on the pill."
He nodded, tried to recall a time that he had not thought of protection even in the hottest encounters, and came up empty. Surely, that had some meaning but if it did, it was slipping away because he was still inside her, still inside her…
He kissed her again. Her lips clung to his. He lowered his head, buried his face against her throat, nipped lightly at her skin.
She tasted of salt and sex and just the smell of her, the feel of her still tight around him, made him hard again.
"Khan?" she said, her voice soft and surprised, but he was already moving inside her.
She moaned.
He raised his head and kissed her mouth again. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and he thought he was going to lose everything far too soon but she was with him; her soft, fierce sob of pleasure told him all he needed to know.
"Now," he said, and he drove deep one final time. Light exploded behind his closed eyelids as he emptied himself into her.
He would have stayed that way forever, holding her, feeling her breath against his throat, feeling her heart race against his.
