The Prince of Pleasure

by YoBro

  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.

  Khan felt every muscle in his body knot.

  "Listen to me," he said. "If you leave now, we can forget this ever happened—"

  "Oh, you'll forget, I promise you that." The woman's smile grew wider until it seemed to consume her face; her eyes glittered with a madness Khan knew was rushing to a terrible, inevitable conclusion. "Because I'll have you all to myself."

  She smiled. Calmly raised the gun. Pointed the dull black barrel at Laurel's heart.

  "Nooo," Khan shouted, and then everything happened at once.

  He lunged at the woman.

  The gun roared.

  Laurel screamed.

  And Khan crumpled to the floor, a crimson flower blooming on his chest.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  There were moments, people said, when time stood still, when things seemed to happen in slow motion.

  Laurel had experienced that years ago, when the police came to tell her and her mother that her father had been killed.

  She'd never forgotten the feeling, the sudden cessation of everything that made up her world, as if it had been drained of sound and color and meaning.

  The same thing happened now.

  She saw the woman in the doorway. Heard her words, and Khan's. Saw the woman pull a gun from her pocket, heard Khan's shout, felt the strength in him as he pushed her out of the line of fire…

  The deafening roar of the pistol filled the room.

  Khan grunted. In pain. In surprise. He looked down at his chest.

  Laurel looked, too, and the world turned grey.

  "Khan?" she whispered.

  A spot of crimson bloomed on his chest, a scarlet bud that rapidly turned into a petaled flower.

  "Khan?" she said again, her voice rising.

  He looked at her. Said her name. And crumpled to the floor.

  She screamed in horror and flung herself over him.

  "No," she said, "no, no, no…"

  Blood frothed on his lips. Frantic, she wiped it away with her hand, and then put her palm over the wound in his chest. She could feel the race of his heart, knew that every beat pumped more blood from his lips and from the gunshot wound.

  The woman in the doorway was shrieking incoherently.

  The room filled with people. Jamal. The bodyguards. They fell on the woman, knocked her over. One grabbed the gun. Another wrenched her arms behind her back.

  She was still screaming as they dragged her away.

  Jamal fell to his knees beside Khan, who lay as still as death.

  Laurel was wild with fear.

  The man she loved—and yes, oh yes, she loved him, she adored him—was coughing, gasping for breath.

  He was struggling to live and she was helpless.

  Helpless…

  And then she thought, to hell with that. She had never been helpless in her life. She was a survivor. Ghetto girl to hotshot attorney.

  No way was she going to let the man she loved die.

  He needed air. And she knew CPR.

  She'd taken a course years ago, in college, but the procedure was burned into her brain. She clasped his jaw. Tilted his head back. Opened his mouth, cleared it, covered it with hers.

  His blood tasted of him, of salt, of a life rapidly draining away.

  CPR didn't help. He was choking, even as she tried to fill his lungs with her breath. His big body shuddered as she raised her head, tears pouring down her face.

  "Damn you," she said, "I will not lose you! Do you hear me, Khan? I will not let you die!"

  Jamal, who had been trying to stop the blood flow from the chest wound, snarled at her.

  "You are not helping him!"

  "Then tell me what to do! Please. Tell me. She shot him in the heart!"

  "No. If she had, my lord would be dead. The bullet must have entered his lung. That is why he is having such difficulty breathing." His voice broke. "I can feel the air coming out of the wound. And the way he is coughing… He is drowning in his own blood."

  Laurel sat back on her heels.

  "We need a doctor. An ambulance."

  "An ambulance is coming."

  "Now! We need it now. By the time it gets here…"

  Khan coughed again. The sound was hard and desperate. Laurel leaned forward. He looked at her, his eyes the color of the winter sea, and held out his hand as his lips silently formed her name.

  "Yes," she said, "yes, sweetheart." She took his hand. It was icy-cold. She brought it to her lips, kissed his palm, his knuckles. There had to be something she could do…

  Her eyes widened.

  "Jamal! I saw something a long time ago. A movie."

  The head of security looked at her as if she'd lost her sanity, but that would only happen if she let her lover die.

  She bent quickly, pressed her lips to Khan's forehead.

  "I'll be right back," she whispered. "Don't you dare leave me!"

  She flew from the room, through a knot of bodyguards at the bedroom door, through two others on the stairs. She ran past the dining room, where two burly men stood guard over the woman who'd shot Khan, down the endless back hall and into the kitchen where she stopped, heart racing with fear and desperation.

  The room was the size of a banquet hall. There were dozens of cupboards and drawers and cabinets. Where in hell was she going to find what she needed?

  Where did she keep it at home?"

  Near where it would be used. The counter nearest the refrigerator.

  A million doors. A million drawers. Was she going to have to open them all? Luck was with her. She found what she needed on her third try, retraced her route to the bedroom, and dropped to her knees next to Jamal

  "Plastic wrap?"

  "Move your hand," she said, as she tore off a length.

  "Woman, what are you thinking? If I move my hand—"

  Jamal was strong but Laurel's determination
to save her lover was stronger. She pushed his hand aside and pressed the sheet of plastic against Khan's chest.

  It had worked in the movie. Would it work in real life?

  Hands trembling, she smoothed the wrap over the bubbling hole, felt the hole seem to suck at it…

  The blood flow eased.

  So did Khan's labored breathing. He whispered her name. She lifted her head, clasped his hand in hers.

  "I'm right here."

  "Laurel. A'lanai'imata."

  "I don't understand."

  "A'lanai'imata, sweetheart."

  Whatever he said seemed important to him so she smiled through her tears and kissed him as the wail of sirens filled the night. The sound grew louder, then stopped. Doors slammed, people shouted, feet sounded heavily on the stairs. Two medics burst into the room and went directly to Khan.

  "What happened here?"

  "This is Prince Khan," Jamal said, as he stood. "He is the king of—"

  "Gunshot wound," one medic told the other. "Looks like it got a lung. Ma'am. You have to get out of the way."

  Laurel rose to her feet.

  "Who thought of the plastic wrap?"

  She didn't answer.

  "The woman," Jamal said, without looking at her.

  "Good thinking."

  The medics got busy, one talking to Khan, the other checking his vital signs, then starting an IV in a vein in his arm.

  Within minutes, they had him lifted onto a gurney. Khan turned his head, his eyes seeking Laurel's. He held out his hand and she grasped it, clung to it as the medics carried him from the bedroom, down the stairs and out the double front doors.

  Khan squeezed her hand.

  "I won't leave you," she promised.

  The circular drive was filled with police cars and emergency vehicles. Khan's hand fell from Laurel's as the medics loaded him into the ambulance. She asked no questions, grabbed the handrail and climbed in, too.

  "Ma'am? Are you family?"

  "Yes," she said, looking straight at Jamal, eyes snapping as she dared him to challenge her.

  He held her gaze, then gave a little jerk of the head and stepped back.

  "I will meet you at the hospital, Ms. Cruz."

  The medic sat on one bench, Laurel across from him on the other, Khan's hand once again in hers through the seemingly endless ride.