by YoBro
It was difficult to believe such pageantry still existed in the world.
The delegation awaiting him had cheered when he came down the stairs from the 747, a wild kind of ululation that had sent chills dancing along her spine, and they'd waved what she only then realized were rifles while their horses danced with excitement.
Khan had stood straight and unmoving, accepting the ancient welcome as easily as she'd seen him accept handshakes from Texas oilmen.
Half a dozen of the men had dismounted, walked forward, and dropped to their knees, heads so deeply bowed that their foreheads almost touched the sand.
Khan had motioned them to their feet. He'd gone to each man and embraced him, after which he'd made a short speech that had been followed by more cheering.
When that was ended, a boy had come forward, leading a while stallion. Khan had taken the animal's gold and silver reins, swung up into the saddle, and the other horsemen had fallen in behind him.
I don't spend all my time riding across the desert on a white stallion.
He'd made the words sound like a joke but there was nothing amusing about what she'd observed. The greeting was, Laurel was sure, an ancient display of respect for the ruler of the kingdom of Altara.
Or a display of subservience.
Either way, the spectacle was magnificent, exotic…
And unsettling.
Even more unsettling was the nagging realization that she'd made this journey to another time, another place, without asking any questions about what her role would be here, among such tradition-bound people?
More to the point, what would it be in Khan's life?
I need you, he'd said, I don't want to be parted from you—and a little while ago, he'd said he loved her.
Surely, all of that was enough….
"Ms. Cruz?"
Laurel blinked. Jamal's tone was still polite, his expression respectful, but when she took a good look at him, she saw that his eyes were flat and cold.
Eyes, her mother had always said, were windows to the soul.
Maybe.
They were certainly windows to what someone was really thinking. You learned that fast, when you practiced law. Witnesses, even clients, lied all the time; they pretended to like you when, in reality, they despised you.
Successful attorneys learned to deal with it—as she would learn to deal with Jamal. She knew he didn't like her or approve of her. Well, she wasn't too fond of him, either, but he was Khan's head of security, and fiercely loyal. And Khan trusted him, enough to have made him responsible for taking her to a place called the summer palace, while he rode away and never looked back.
Damn.
She was being ridiculous. Khan was her love. Her lover. But he was also a king. He had duties, responsibilities, and she would simply have to learn to accept that part of him.
"Are you ready to leave, Ms. Cruz? The prince wants you secreted at the summer palace as soon as possible."
"Secreted?"
His smile was thin.
"The wrong word, I am sure. You must forgive me. English is not my first language."
He spoke English as well as she did. If he'd said 'secreted,' that was what he meant. It was an interesting choice of words. There'd been an edge of command in his voice, too, one she recognized as the age old 'me male, you female' tone of supremacy.
She almost laughed.
Did he really think he could take her on?
She had overcome the gender bias of the barrio, been selected as the first female editor of her university's Law Review, made a name for herself in the toughest annals of domestic violence litigation.
No way would she let the outmoded traditions of an old culture shove her back into the 15th century.
If Jamal wanted to play this game, he would find her a formidable opponent.
"I am quite ready," she said, as politely as he. Her practiced smile was the one she used on opposing attorneys.
Holding out her suitcase to him was deliberate.
Every female instinct told her that he would see carrying her luggage as subservient, and that was exactly what she wanted. When he didn't move, she raised her eyebrows. "Jamal? My suitcase."
For an instant, hatred blazed like flame in his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers. One of his men stepped forward and took the case from her.
"Thank you," she said politely, but she spoke to the man he surely saw as an underling, not to him.
Round one was hers.
********
The mountains were further away than they seemed.
Jamal drove the Jeep in which Laurel was a passenger. One of the younger bodyguards sat beside him. Though Jamal made no attempt at small talk, the one she thought of as a boy was eager to explain the countryside as they bumped along a narrow road shared with an occasional truck or car, and a far more frequent horse or ox drawn cart.
When they passed a small herd of goats, he explained that they were Pashminas; others in the herd were Cashmeres. Did Ms. Cruz know that they were raised for their wool? That Altaran cashmere and pashmina wools were prized for their softness and strength the world over?
"Ms. Cruz is not interested in such nonsense," Jamal said sharply.
Laurel assured the boy that she was.
"Until Prince Khan took over, the wools were not shipped out of the kingdom. Now, they are. My uncle is a merchant in the capital. He tells me that he has difficulty keeping up with demand."
When the fields on either side of the road began to fill with flowers instead of goats, Laurel asked if the flowers were being cultivated for the market, too.
"Yes," the boy said proudly. "Prince Khan says we have become true competition for the Dutch, who ship their flowers all over the world."
Different flowers grew in the foothills. They were beautiful and grew in wild profusion. The boy said they were shalal. Laurel smiled, remembering Khan's words.
There were vineyards, too. Unasked, the young bodyguard told her that his country had produced excellent wines in the time of the Romans. Now, thanks to Prince Khan, new rootstock varieties were being introduced.
"The prince is sure that there will come a time when Altaran wines will rival those of France, California and Argentina."
Jamal cut him off in mid-sentence.
"Enough! You bore me with your chatter."
"He's not talking to you, Jamal," Lauren said pleasantly, "he's talking to me. And I'm grateful that someone is interested in helping a newcomer learn about this beautiful country."
The young bodyguard looked over his shoulder at her and risked a quick smile.
Jamal looked at her in the mirror, his face expressionless.
Round two. Oh, the sweet scent of victory!
********
The summer palace stood on the highest peak of the mountains. Forested slopes of pine and oak marched like sentries to a deep green valley far, far below.
The palace itself was… Laurel could only think of one word.
Magnificent.
High ceilings and soaring arches. Persian carpets and marble floors. Priceless art, everything from da Vinci to de Kooning. The de Koonings made her smile. Those 20th century modernist works were surely Khan's choices, not his father's.
The palace staff greeted her warmly.
"My lady," they said, inclining their heads, dipping their knees.
What was the proper response? She thought of asking them not to bow or curtsy but she didn't want to risk embarrassing them. She considered telling them they had no reason to call her 'lady' but that made her think of a bunch of truly awful old jokes.
In the end, she smiled, said 'hello', asked the name of each person she dealt with—and asked herself how was she supposed to think of them? Were they servants? She hated the word. Her mother had been a 'servant', a woman who cleaned the homes of the wealthy, but she'd always said that being a 'servant' was nothing to be ashamed of.
And what did all that intellectual game-playing have to do with anything?
She was
getting lost in nonsense rather than face the truth.
She was living in Khan's palace, without Khan.
Her quarters—his, really—were like something out of the Arabian Nights. He had a private apartment, six huge rooms that included a bedroom that housed a bed that looked as if it could sleep a family of six, a sitting room, a formal living room, a dining room, a sunroom where she had breakfast each morning, and two huge bathrooms with step-down tubs, glass-walled showers, and gold fixtures that could have been melted into ingots sufficient to pay the national debt.
It was a lot of space for one woman…
One lonely woman who was counting off the days until she would again see the man who had brought her here.
What did the staff think? What did they know? What did they say about her? They were charming to her face but who knew what they said behind her back? Did they know she was their prince's lover? Stupid question. Surely, they did.
Then, where was he? Why wasn't he here?
Back to question one.
What did they think?
Better still, what was she to think? About Khan? About herself? About exactly how long she'd put up with whatever in hell was going on?
She'd tried calling him.
His phone rang and rang. He didn't answer but at least now she knew that her cell, and his, worked. Considering the height of the mountains, the endless forest, she'd been half-certain they wouldn't.
The call went to voice mail.
Leave a message.
That was it. Brusque. Brief. Khan's voice, three words, nothing more.
The first time, she said, 'It's me. I miss you.'
The second time, she said, 'Where are you? When will you be here?'
The third time, she was less polite. 'You'd better phone,' she said, 'because I'm verging on a hissy fit of truly epic preparations."
She'd deliberately made the message light but he wasn't a fool. He phoned her a few minutes later.
"Sweetheart."
How could she be angry and still melt at the sound of his voice? And why would she be foolish enough to let him know that?
"Hello, Khan."
"Forgive me for neglecting you."
"Where," she said, as coolly as possible, "are you?"
"First tell me that you miss me."
"Why would I miss you? Just because I haven't heard for you in more than two days—"
"Two days, sixteen hours and twenty-two minutes."
"Twenty-three minutes," she said, as the fight drained out of her. "What am I supposed to think? You brought me to your country, and then you left me."
She could almost see him nodding in agreement. "I know. Will you forgive me? I have been enmeshed in—in resolving a difficult problem."
"That doesn't mean you can simply forget all about me." Hell. She didn't want to sound petulant. "I mean—"
"I would never forget you," he said fiercely. "But things piled up in my absence and I need to attend to them."
"You're the one who talked about how easy it would be for me to keep in touch with people back home, remember? Now it turns out you can't even keep in touch with me here."
"You are right," he said, his tone crestfallen. "I should have called."
"Yes. You should have."
His sigh was long and deep. "Laurel. I have almost finished resolving a—a complicated situation. Once that is done, I will come to you."
"Complicated, how?"
Silence. Then, he cleared his throat.
"It would take me a long time to explain but I will, once I see you again."
"And when will that be?"
"Soon, I promise."
"Tomorrow?"
"Please try to understand. These are—these are matters of state. I must deal with them in person. Do you see?"
No. She didn't 'see', but asking him the same questions over and over made her feel as if she were pleading for his attention. She had never pleaded for anyone's attention, especially not for a man's, and she wasn't going to start now.
"Is Jamal taking good care of you?"
She had not seen Jamal since he'd brought her here and that was fine, but why burden Khan with that information?
"Everyone is being very kind."
"Good. If there is anything you need from outside, you have only to tell him."
Laurel laughed. "From outside?"
"That's how I've always thought of the world beyond the summer palace." She could hear the smile in his voice. "It was one of the few things my father and I agreed on. The summer palace was always his haven from reality."
"Khan? What did you tell the staff here about me?"
"I told them you were of great importance to me, and that they were to do all they could to please you."
"Yes, but—"
"But?"
But what? What more could he possibly have told them? That he and she were lovers? That was hardly an announcement a man would make to people who worked for him, especially if he was their prince.
And, really, what else was there to tell them, or anyone, about her?
They'd talked of love, of being together—but nothing more than that. They hadn't mentioned the future, or permanency, or what would happen next week, let alone next month.
Her fault, as much as his.
She'd acted precipitously, not pragmatically, and now she was paying the price.
"But," she said, "when I see you, we have to talk."
"About?"
"Us."
"I agree. And we shall."
"When?"
"Soon."
A quick, hot rush of anger rose within her.
"Is that the best you can do?"
"Sweetheart. I wish, with all my heart, I could be with you. My arms ache for you. You must know that."
Laurel pressed her fingers to her forehead. She did know that; she believed he wanted to be here, that he couldn't be—but he was closing her out. Was this how things would have to be between them? If she became a part of his life, would the man who made love to her lead an existence separate from that of the man who led this kingdom?
"Laurel. Imagine I am there, with you." His voice sank to a rough whisper. "Where are you right now?"
"I'm on the terrace, outside my bedroom."
"Our bedroom," he said softly. "It will always belong to the two of us. And you are alone."
"Yes.
"What are you wearing? Is it my shirt? The one that hangs to your thighs? I love how you look in that shirt."
She looked down at herself. She was wearing jeans and a cotton blouse.
"As a matter of fact," she said softly, "your shirt is exactly what I'm wearing."
"Unbutton it for me, sweetheart. One button at a time. Will you do that?"
Her breathing quickened. "Yes," she whispered.
"Ah. I see it now. The open shirt. Your breasts. Your beautiful breasts. I see you cupping them. Offering them to me. Do you feel my hands on you? My mouth?"
She felt her throat constrict; her lashes fell to her cheeks.
"Lay back, Laurel. Like that. Yes. You are naked. No panties. No thong. Can you feel my fingers brushing against you? Against your wet heat?" His voice was a growl in her ear. "All that heat. For me. Only for me."
His whispered words were like flame. She could almost imagine he was in her arms, his body hot against hers.
"Goodnight, beloved," he said softly. "Think of me, of this, when you climb into bed tonight."
Laurel gave a choked laugh. "You're a wicked, wicked man."
He laughed, too. "And you will be mine, forever."
His what?
She almost asked, but he'd already broken the connection.
The question crept into her mind again, late that night as she balanced on the edge of sleep.
It was a question that needed an answer. Why hadn't she asked it sooner? And how, why, in what possible way could she have put herself in a situation where she needed to ask such a question?
Sleep rose up, o
vertook her, and she sought oblivion in its black depths.
********
He didn’t come to her the next day, or the one after that.
He called, but only once, and this call wasn't sexy and hot, it was quick, almost formal. How was she feeling? Did she have everything she needed? He would be with her as soon as he possibly could.
But he didn’t speak of love, or even of passion.
"I am not alone," he said.
What did that mean? She pictured him surrounded by men in flowing robes and told him so. That, at least, made him laugh.
"I'm wearing jeans," he said, "and a cotton sweater."
"Good."
And it really was good. It meant, at the very least, she could think of him as she had always known him. As Khan, the man who said he loved her, not as a sheikh removed from the reality of her life.
At the end of her fifth day at the summer palace, Laurel's patience had worn thin. She missed him but she told herself that she could have handled that.
It was being kept in the dark that fed her growing anger.
She thought of the things she'd said to him when they'd first met. That he was trapped in an earlier time. That he saw women as lesser beings. That his polite talk of 'tradition' was simply a way of maintaining the status quo. .
When he did phone, that night, she let all those accusations fly.
Whatever affairs of state he was enmeshed in, she said, could surely be shared with her. Was she only good for pillow talk? As arm candy? She made accusations she didn't truly believe but by then, she was beyond reason.
She half-expected him to tell her that or, at the least, to say things to soothe her.
Instead, he spoke with anger. He told her that yes, she was a woman, and yes, there were definitely times women had to step back, and yes, he was trapped in an earlier time.
"And for better or worse, so are you."
The words were cold. Blunt. A warning, but one that came too late.
She stood in his opulent bedroom, the phone to her ear. Their bedroom, he had said, but what did that mean? Would he want her, need her, was the time they spent together going to be only in a room like this?
"Laurel?"
His voice was thin; it faded in and out. Reception was not good tonight but then, neither was whatever was happening between them.
