by YoBro
"You're not healed and healthy. Not yet."
Khan raised an eyebrow. "How nice. You have a medical degree?"
"She's right," said one of the doctors. "You're not entirely healed, Prince Khan."
"A minor quibble."
"A reality—but it looks as if you're determined to do this."
"I am doing it, if you will all get out of my way."
The physician looked at his companion. They exchanged mutual shrugs.
"Very well," he said, "you can leave. But—"
"But," the other doctor said, picking up where the first had left off, "you'll need someone to clean the wound, change the dressing, see to it you take your meds. Mostly, you'll need someone to ride herd on you because you're the type who will—excuse my language—bullshit anybody who tries to slow you down or give you orders."
Khan laughed.
"Trust me. I'm not a complete fool. I know I'll have to take it easy for a while."
"Okay. Let us figure out what RN will do the best job of keeping you in line—"
"Does he need an RN?" Laurel said. "Or somebody to wield a whip? Because he already has somebody to do that."
The doctors looked at her. There was a steely glint in her eye.
"He has me."
********
They went back to the house Khan had rented.
Jamal had seen to it that they'd been moved into a different suite.
This one was not a white oasis.
The walls were papered with cabbage roses. The carpet carried the same theme. There were more roses on the drapes and the bedspread, and the furniture was brightly lacquered in gold.
The bathroom décor was pretty much the same, with the addition of gilt cherubs that hung on the mirrored walls.
But the tub was big enough for two, and the bed was wide and high and strewn with pillows. Sunlight poured through a pair of French doors, and the balcony outside those doors overlooked a private garden.
"Not too bad," Laurel said.
Khan thought about the big tub and those mirrored walls.
"Not too bad at all," he said, taking her in his arms.
"None of that," she said primly. "I'm in charge, remember? And you're going straight to bed."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good," she said briskly, as she pulled back the comforter and the top sheet. "Get undressed."
"Role reversal. Could be interesting."
She swung toward him, laughing.
"Pure thoughts make for a pure heart," she said, or started to say, but he'd already unbuttoned his shirt and she could see the dressing over his wound.
She'd seen it endless times in the hospital but somehow, seeing it here, in a real room, with Khan wearing real clothes…
Her heart ached at the sight.
The gauze. The tape. The skin around it, black and blue from the impact of the bullet.
Her eyes filled
"I could have lost you," she whispered.
Khan reached for her and drew her into his arms. She burrowed against him, careful not to put pressure against the wound, marveling at the depth of her feelings for a man she'd only met a couple of weeks ago.
"We could have lost each other," he said softly.
She looked up at him. He bent his head and kissed her. His hand slid to her breast.
"No. We can't."
"I need you, and you need me. It has been much, much too long since I was inside you."
His words were simple, and honest, and true. She needed the fullness of him deep within her.
"Your wound," she whispered.
"Mmm." He wrapped a hand around the nape of her neck, lifted her face to his. Kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her mouth. "My wound." His hand clasped hers. He brought her palm against him, over the hard, hot fullness behind the straining denim of his jeans. "What wound is that?" Her breath caught; she made a little hum of pleasure and it went straight through him. "It is this wound that needs your attention."
"Khan. I could hurt you—"
"Only by denying me the one thing I need to convince me I am no longer at death's door."
He kissed her. Deeply. Tenderly. She sighed, rose to him, wound her arms around his neck, and kissed him back.
He undressed her slowly, wanting to prolong these moments. Her cotton blouse fell to the carpet. Her bra fell beside it.
Was she as beautiful as he remembered? It seemed much longer than a handful of days since he'd made love to her.
Yes.
God, yes.
She was beautiful. Soft. Lovely.
Elegant.
He cupped her breasts, luxuriated in the little moan that escaped her lips, watched her face as he feathered his fingertips across her nipples.
"Oh," she whispered, "oh, ohhh…"
He bent his head. Kissed the creamy slopes. Licked the pink crests, drew them into the heat of his mouth, sucked them, and her cries grew in intensity.
She was wearing a skirt.
He slid his hand under the waistband. Felt the smoothness of her belly, the delicate lace edge of her panties, slid his hand further down and cupped her.
She moaned.
He whispered her name.
She was hot. Wet. Hot and wet for him, only for him.
And, God, if he wasn't careful, it would be over before it even began. .
Where was his self-control? He was good at this. At sex. No immodesty about it; it was the simple truth. He prided himself on giving pleasure, on knowing how to make it last but it was different with Laurel, different, so different…
He put his hand between their bodies.
Unzipped himself.
Pushed her skirt up, her panties down. .
This was like the first time, when all sanity had fled his brain, when all he could think of was burying himself inside her, when finesse hadn't meant a damn…
He stroked her. She trembled. He parted her. She cried out. He stroked her again, and again, and she said his name, said it, said it, said it…
He held her while she climaxed. Then he brought her to the bed and undressed her, tore off his clothes, and then he was inside her, deep inside her, moving, moving, claiming her, taking her…
She sobbed his name.
He came as she did, his release endless, endless, until, finally, he groaned and collapsed against her.
She shuddered and buried her face in his shoulder, and as the muscles of her womb pulsed around him, he grew hard again, still inside her, and he caught her hands in one of his, drew them high over her head and thrust again and again, over and over until she screamed in ecstasy.
He tumbled over the edge of the world with her.
When he could think again, he murmured her name. She sighed and opened her eyes…
"Are you happy with me, sweetheart?"
Happy? The word didn't come close to what she felt.
"I've never been happier."
Khan smiled, rolled onto his side, drew her close against him.
And knew that his plans for her, for him, for their future, were absolutely going to work.
********
The first step—actually, the only step that mattered—was the hardest.
He waited until morning. Breakfast, on the terrace, flowers in the garden scenting the air, sun warm on their faces. It was a perfect setting.
At least, he hoped it was.
"I've been thinking," he said, as she poured coffee into his cup and hers. "About R and R. Rest and relaxation. So I can be sure I heal properly."
She flashed a relieved smile. What a clever soul he was!
"I know that I'm not 100% yet."
"But you will be," she said, so earnestly that he felt a flash of guilt, "if you do the right things."
"Exactly." He paused. "But I can't do the right things here."
"No," she said, after a minute, "I guess not. I was thinking…"
"And?"
"And, I'm sure the Wildes would let you move into El Sueño while you recuper
ate."
"I'm sure they would—but I would feel better in my own place, among my own things." He paused again. "What I'm saying is that it is time I returned home."
Hell, what an SOB he was! Her lovely face fell; he didn't know whether to applaud his cleverness or fall to his knees in apology.
"You're probably—you're probably right."
He nodded. "I can be among familiar things. And I can do a little work—just a little," he added quickly, at the look that flashed into her eyes. "In fact, it will be much less wearing to keep up with my duties at home than it could possibly be if I were to remain in the States."
Ah, God, he hated himself! She was trying to smile but she wasn't doing a good job of it. She was upset at the thought of his leaving, which was precisely what he wanted.
It was proof, absolute proof that she would acquiesce to his plan.
"When would you leave?"
"The day after tomorrow." He reached across the table and clasped her hand. "The flight is long but I have a private plane. You know, bedroom, bathroom…"
She didn't know but then, of course he would have a private plan, one fit for a king.
And, of course, he would want to go home. He would leave her. She'd always known that.
"I have an office at home. Well, a suite of offices. Faxes. Computers. Printers." He turned her hand palm up, traced her lifeline with the tip of his index finger. "Everything I'd need, to keep in touch with Caleb as he finalizes arrangements with the oil companies I've been dealing with." He gave it a long thirty seconds. "I have Skype, as well."
Skype. He was telling her they could phone each other and see each other as they did. Was that supposed to make her happy?
Apparently, he thought it would.
And she was too proud to let him think otherwise.
"Skype," she said brightly. "That's nice."
"Well, I do not require it, but you might."
She managed a smile.
"Yes. I guess being able to—to see you when you call will be—"
"Being able to see the people in your office. And your clients. I'm assuming you'd find it helpful."
She looked at him. He looked back. Calmly. Collectedly—though what he wanted to do was shoot to his feet and take her in his arms.
"Khan. What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about you going with me," he said softly. "To Altara."
A dozen emotions swept over her face. Joy. Confusion. Concern. Doubt. But the only one that mattered was joy.
"Laurel." He pushed back his chair, rose from it, then squatted down beside her. "Come with me. Let me show you my country. The grasslands. The deserts. The mountains. And the sea that is the color of your eyes." He brought her hand to his lips. "Say yes, that you will come."
"Why?" Her gaze was direct and full of questions. "Why do you want me with you?"
He thought of half a dozen things to say, some clever, some sexy, some that would surely make her smile.
Later, he would remember that he'd thought, too, of telling her the true depth of what he felt for her, but how could he do that without telling her the rest? That a bride had been chosen for him?
No. He couldn't tell her that.
Who knew how she would react?
He already knew her feelings about traditions, especially antiquated ones, and this one would surely upset her.
Still, he could tell her the one truth that mattered.
"I want you with me," he said simply, "because I cannot imagine being parted from you."
Her smile filled lifted his heart.
"In that case," she said, "how could my answer be anything other than 'yes'?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Three days until they left Dallas?
That was hardly enough time to decide what to pack, to tie up loose ends at the office—
To try and figure out whether what she'd agreed to was sane.
Laurel had gone back to her apartment, to collect her things.
"What things?" Khan had asked.
"Things," she'd replied. "Clothes. Odds and ends. Shampoo and makeup and—"
"You don't need anything. We have a brand new mall full of shops I know you'll enjoy." He'd rattled off a dozen designer names she would have loved, if she could have afforded them, but she never had the chance to tell him that because he read her mind, gathered her to him and said that whatever she wanted would be gifts from him.
Did he really think she'd let him pay for her clothes and cosmetics? Bad enough he'd bought her the beautiful dress, the shoes, all the rest—and they were still arguing over the sapphire necklace, once he'd told her it belonged to her.
"I can't let you buy me such expensive things," she'd said, and he'd smiled and said yes, of course, she could.
She knew he meant well, that he was generous to a fault, but she had always provided for herself. Having a man take that role made her uncomfortable.
She was an independent woman.
Surely, he understood that.
Or did he?
Back in her own apartment, among her own things, away from Khan's strong presence, logic began a slow but steady return.
She was going halfway across the world. What about her job? Her life? What, exactly, did I cannot imagine being parted from you mean?
Did he want her with him until he was fully healed?
Did he want her with him until he came back to the States?
She hadn’t asked, but she should have.
There were simpler questions, too. For instance, how would he introduce her to his people?
Somehow, she didn't think a prince of a kingdom steeped in tradition could simply do what he'd done with Adele Simpson. Putting his arm around her, drawing her forward, saying, "This is Ms. Cruz," wasn't going to work.
Or was he going to avoid the problem by not introducing her at all?
Dammit!
Laurel tugged a suitcase from her closet, tossed it on the bed and opened it. She hadn't thought things through, and that was completely unlike her. She'd never made an impetuous decision in her life.
All the way back in middle school, she'd started researching what she'd have to do to win a scholarship to a really good university. She'd made a list of courses successful scholarship applicants took, noted all their extra-curricular activities, and she'd taken those courses and more, volunteered for all those extra-curricular activities and more.
She'd meticulously planned her life.
Then, she met Khan. And all her deliberate weighing of this against that had flown out the window.
She took two pairs of jeans from her closet, folded them neatly and put them in the suitcase.
Had she let her hormones rule her head?
Maybe, at the beginning. But her hormones weren't in charge any more.
Now, it was her heart.
She'd fallen in love.
And Khan… And Khan…
And Khan, what?
Laurel sank down on the edge of the bed. He hadn't mentioned love. To be fair, neither had she but if he loved her, shouldn't he say it first? Wasn’t that traditional when it came to declarations of love?
She almost laughed.
After all she'd said about tradition, she was hiding behind it but, really, some traditions made sense. For her, anyway.. How could she possibly say 'I love you' to him if she didn't know that he loved her, too?
She was going away with him, and she had no idea what lay ahead.
How was she going to explain that to the senator? He was her boss; she had to tell him something. The last time they'd talked had been the morning after the shooting. He'd been wonderful, asking her if there was anything he could do, assuring her to take as long as she needed away from the office.
And now, she was going to Altara.
Laurel rubbed her hand over her forehead. She had to think.
Was she really going to change her mind? Despite Khan's insistence that he felt fine, she knew he was still recovering. He needed her with
him. More than that, he didn't want to be parted from her. And she…
She didn't want to be parted from him.
She took a steadying breath, then let it out. Okay. The thing to do was behave logically from this point on. First step? Call the senator. Explain that she was going with his suggestion to take as much time as she needed.
A week. Maybe two.
Quickly, before she could think about it too much, she reached for her cell phone and hit the senator's direct number on speed dial.
"Laurel. I was just going to call you."
"Hello, Senator. I'm sorry I've been out of touch but—"
"No need to explain. Khan's told me how quickly things have been moving."
"You spoke to him?"
"A little while ago. I gave your decision my official blessing."
"What decision?"
"Why, your decision to accompany him home. Frankly, my dear, I'm happy to see you carve some time in your life for—" He chuckled. "Well, for a life. An existence separate from your work. And don't worry about keeping in touch. You're long overdue for a vacation."
They made a minute or two of small talk and then she ended the call.
What was she walking into?
She should have been the one who contacted her boss, not Khan.
She didn't want anyone to speak for her.
That he'd done so made her angry—and, in some remote, female way that was damned near humiliating, it also thrilled her, but how could that be? She wasn't into the 'me Tarzan, you Jane' kind of thing.
After a couple of minutes, she rose, finished packing, closed the suitcase, and went briskly down to the lobby where one of Jamal's men waited. He shot to his feet, all but clicked his heels, and reached for the piece of luggage.
"I'm perfectly capable of carrying it myself," she almost said.
But she didn't.
This was a new world for her, but its traditions were old and important to Khan. And he was—she had to remember this—he was only a handful of days away from an all-too-close encounter with a crazy that could have taken him from her.
Surely, she could swallow her concerns over what were, after all, minor differences between them, until he was fully himself again.
So she smiled at Jamal's man, handed over her suitcase and thanked him, politely, for his help.
