The Prince of Pleasure

by YoBro

  "Laurel? Do you hear me? Dammit, answer me!"

  She disconnected.

  Outside, on the balcony, the night air chilled her flesh. Not even the beauty of the sky, the big ivory moon a pendant over the dark valley, pierced her growing sense of despair.

  Had she come thousands upon thousands of miles for this? To be what she had always despised, a woman dependent upon a man's largesse, to come alive when he wished it and stay out of sight when he didn't? To tolerate whatever he dished out?

  Her phone was ringing.

  Let it ring.

  She finally knew what she had to do.

  She went through the rooms of her silk prison quickly, stuffing a change of clothes, her toothbrush, her passport, and her wallet into an oversized shoulder bag. Then she clattered down the marble stairs, flew past the da Vincis and the de Koonings, and ran out the front door.

  The garage was a couple of hundred yards away. It was a big, low-slung building; she knew the Jeeps were parked inside it, along with a Bentley, a motorcycle, and a Mercedes convertible.

  "Good evening, Ms. Cruz."

  Jamal stepped out of the dark and blocked her way. Was it deliberate?

  "May I be of assistance?"

  So polite. So false. At least, she didn't have to play games with him anymore.

  "You may get out of my way," she said.

  "Are you going to the garage, Ms. Cruz?"

  "Yes. I'm going to the garage. I'm going to take one of the Jeeps. And if you try to stop me—"

  "The road is steep. You will never make it down the mountain."

  "Dammit, get the hell out of—"

  "I will drive you."

  That stopped her. "Why would you do anything to accommodate me?"

  "My lord Khan ordered me to obey your wishes. If you want to leave, I will take you wherever you wish to go."

  His voice was soft, a velvety purr from a serpent asking if she really wanted that apple. The moonlight made it bright enough for her to see that he was smiling.

  "What I wish," she said, "is to leave Altara."

  "The airport is two hours away. It is small, but it is international. I am sure you will have no difficulty getting a flight to the States."

  Laurel stared at him. "You knew I'd leave."

  He shrugged. "I do not like you, Ms. Cruz, but I never doubted your intelligence. I knew you would not choose to remain with my prince, once you understood the situation."

  A night breeze ruffled her hair. She shoved the strands away from her face. There was more coming, a truth that she knew, in her bones, would give her all the answers Khan had avoided.

  "And what," she said, trying not to let Jamal see or hear her fear, "what, precisely, is the 'situation,' Jamal? I'm certain you know all the details."

  "Everyone knows the details. Well, not you, of course—"

  "Dammit, tell me!"

  "It is simple, madam. This, the summer palace, is where our princes and kings have traditionally kept their mistresses."

  "I am not—"

  "The only thing that made the arrangement complicated this time was that Lord Khan's bride had just been chosen for him."

  Lauren felt everything inside her still.

  "His bride?"

  "The negotiations began before he left for your country—they went, I think, much more quickly that he had anticipated."

  "I don't understand. Are you saying—are you saying that Khan—?"

  "She is lovely, from a fine family, and the people will approve his choice."

  "His choice," she whispered.

  "You can see the problem, I am sure." Jamal's voice was calm. Steady. He might have been discussing Khan's intention to purchase a new car. "My lord could not very well leave her at the start of their relationship—surely even you, a liberated woman, can see that." He sighed. "You should have shown patience, Ms. Cruz. After the requisite week of celebration, he would surely have come to you."

  Impossible. What Jamal had just told her…

  "Let me be sure I understand this." She sounded breathless and she paused, told herself it was vital she give nothing away. "Khan is getting married. And once he has, he'll come to me?"

  Jamal shrugged. "Having a mistress, having a wife… It is tradition."

  Laurel laughed. Or maybe she sobbed. Really, what did it matter?

  "Tell me something," she said. "The night Khan was shot... He said something to me. I asked you what it meant. Do you remember?"

  "A'lanai'imata. Yes. I remember."

  "You said—you said it mean he was grateful for all I had done."

  Jamal folded his arms. "And?"

  "And, is that really what it means?"

  "I know you do not like me, Ms. Cruz, that you believe me to be your enemy. But I was kind to you that night. What the prince said was that you were his mistress, and he hoped you would stay with him. I strongly suspected that was not what you wished to hear."

  Bile rose in Laurel's throat.

  Lies, all of it. Lies from the Emperor of the Universe to a woman who'd been foolish enough to believe he was the man who would love her, as she would have loved him, for the rest of their lives.

  ********

  .

  The trip to the airport took a little more than two hours. Her phone rang and rang; finally, she shut it off

  She was out of the car before it had come to a full stop; she ran into the terminal, arrived breathless at the United Trans Air ticket counter.

  Yes, they flew to the States. Yes, she could certainly get a seat on the next flight out…

  In three hours.

  Three hours. It might as well have been a lifetime, but there were no other options. British Airlines' next flight to London wasn't until the following morning, and she had no better luck at Air France.

  She bought a ticket on Trans Air, settled in the farthest corner of the waiting area. Time crept by.

  When would Khan find out that she'd left him?

  What would he do?

  Would he come after her?

  Not that it mattered. She didn't want him to come after her. Nothing he could say would change anything.

  At last, after what seemed an eternity, a disembodied voice announced boarding for the United Trans Air flight to New York.

  Laurel was one of only a dozen or so passengers. The boarding procedure was quick; she took her seat, folded her hands in her lap, and tried not to think about the last time she'd been on a plane, just a few days ago, with a man she'd loved…

  No.

  She had never loved him. She'd been infatuated. By his charm. His wealth. His beauty. His sexuality. All those things she'd always thought women were stupid to fall for, she had fallen for.

  She wanted to laugh but she feared she might cry, instead.

  So she knitted her fingers even more tightly together, stared out into the night as the engines roared. The plane taxied down the runway, gained speed, made a graceful leap into the air.

  Within seconds, the mountains and valleys of Altara were far below.

  Laurel put her head back and started to breathe again.

  Half an hour later, the pilot came on. She assumed he was going to say they'd reached cruising altitude.

  He didn't.

  Instead, he made what he called an important announcement.

  In Altaran. In Arabic. In French. In English.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, sorry, but we're returning to the terminal on a diplomatic issue. Please be assured the delay will be brief."

  "What diplomatic issue?" Laurel heard a man say.

  The answer came moments later.

  The big jet touched down, taxied to a stop. The doors opened and two men boarded, marched down the aisle, and paused beside her.

  "Laurel Cruz?"

  She looked at the men. They were big and expressionless, and everything about them spelled trouble.

  "Yes?"

  "You will come with us."

  "Why?"

  "You will come with us, M
s. Cruz."

  "Listen to me. I'm a United States citi—"

  One man undid her seat belt. The other took her suitcase from the overhead bin.

  "You will come with us," he said.

  They marched her off the plane, into the terminal; bookending her with their impressive size and dangerous attitude. The coppery taste of fear was on her tongue. Did they think she was a terrorist? She thought of the stories she'd read, of innocent people being swallowed up in the dark recesses of overly-zealous governments.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  No answer.

  "I demand to know where you are taking me!"

  She stopped walking, dug her heels in. The men gripped her elbows, lifted her off her feet, strode down a corridor, and stopped before a metal door.

  "Dammit," Laurel said, "you cannot do this! I have legal rights—"

  The door swung open. Khan stood facing her, arms folded, feet apart, his face like stone.

  The men set her on her feet.

  "The only rights you have," he said coldly, "are those I may see fit to grant you."

  He jerked his head at her guards. They stepped back, the door swung shut after them, and the lock clicked home.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The man confronting her was not the man who had been her lover.

  He was His Royal Highness, Sheikh Khan ibn Zain al Hassad, Defender of the Ancient and Honorable Throne of Altara, Protector of All His People, Leopard of the Finarian Hills.

  He was the dictator she'd despised, the barbarian she'd hated. And he was furious. Everything about him said so.

  His eyes, narrow and cold as polar ice.

  His mouth, grimly flattened to a thin line.

  His posture, straight and unyielding, arms folded over his chest.

  Even the way he was dressed, the flowing robes, the white headgear…

  A tiny shudder swept through her.

  This wasn't the man who'd been her lover, it was a man who owned the world—and thought he'd owned her.

  The realization was terrifying but it was also liberating. Nobody owned her; nobody ever would. The Great Khan was in for a learning experience of monumental proportions.

  "What in hell did you think you were doing?"

  His voice was low and chill; it rang with imperial command. It was unsettling, probably deliberately so, but surely he knew that but she wouldn't bend to it.

  He had power but she had rights, no matter how he tried to pretend that she didn't.

  "I asked you a question."

  "I heard you."

  Her voice was as cool and steady as his. Her heart was thumping but he didn't have to know that.

  Damn.

  He looked angrier, if that was possible, and he'd moved closer. That wasn't good at all. She knew about stance and posture and positioning; one of her law professors, a savvy, sharp woman, had given a weekend seminar she'd called Trial Theater: Going for the High Ground.

  Literally.

  The bottom line was that men were often taller than women. And bigger. You had to find ways to overcome those disadvantages.

  You wore high heels. Expensive ones. You stood tall. You wore the costliest-you-could-afford female version of the ubiquitous, well-tailored navy or gray suit. You made sure your hair and makeup were impeccable.

  Right.

  And here she was in jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, her hair in a ponytail, her makeup non-existent, facing six foot two of tightly-coiled and unquestionably furious masculinity.

  How come anger only made him more beautiful? Not that she gave a damn.

  "I am waiting for an answer."

  Laurel raised her chin, managed what she hoped was a smug smile.

  "Wait all you like. We have nothing to say to each other."

  Bad choice of words. Those amazing eyes went from emerald to the green of the darkest depths of the ocean. He took a step forward.

  That left her with no choice except to take one back.

  Her shoulders hit the closed door.

  "Do not play games with me, Laurel. I am not in the mood."

  "And I am not in the mood to be harassed."

  "Harassed."

  "Yes. Harassed."

  His lips drew back from his teeth in a thin smile. "Such a charming word." His smile vanished. "Preparing for a lawsuit?"

  "If necessary."

  He laughed. She felt her face heat.

  "Do not laugh at me, Lord Khan! I'll sue you within an inch of your—"

  "Where will you do this suing, hmm?"

  "What do you mean, where? Where suits are brought. In a courtroom."

  "Not in Altara." His tone had taken a silken edge. "You cannot sue your king."

  "You are not 'my' anything I'll sue you in an American—"

  "You'd have to be in America first," he said coldly. "And, just in case you haven't noticed, that is not where you are."

  "I'm not staying here."

  "Have I offered you a choice?"

  "You can't frighten me! I know my rights, and—"

  She gasped as his hands closed on her shoulders.

  "I told you," he growled, "you have only the rights I am willing to grant you."

  "I'm a citizen of the United States!"

  He laughed. She didn't blame him. She was in a place forgotten by time, except as he permitted it. It sounded like the worst kind of cliché but the simple truth was, she was at his mercy. Okay. Time for Law School Lesson Number Two: when your gut told you that you were losing, it was time to negotiate for the best deal you could get.

  "Khan. Look, I know you're angry—"

  "Angry?" The silken tone was back. "Why would I be angry? You came to Altara with me. I went away on business, you got bored—no movies, no television, no internet—and you decided to leave me." His voice remained soft but his fingers dug sharply into her flesh. "No note. No phone call. Nothing to tell me you had changed your mind about—about what you had claimed to feel for me."

  "What I claimed to feel was—wasn't real."

  "You admit that you lied about caring for me."

  "I didn’t lie. I just got carried away. The shooting. Spending so much time together—"

  "You mean, in my bed."

  His words were low. Rough. As hot with sex as with rage. Memories raced through her mind. Khan, his hands on her breasts. His mouth between her thighs. His swollen sex buried deep, deep inside her.

  "That's all it was," she said, trying to drive the images away. "Sex. Just sex. Well, I got over it. Why wouldn't I? It wasn't special, it was just—"

  He cursed, hauled her to her toes and captured her mouth with his.

  No, she told herself, no, no, no.

  "Kiss me back," he said, against her mouth, and pathetic creature that she was, she felt her lips soften, felt herself melting into him.

  No. She wasn't going to let it happen. She was not weak. She was strong. She was…

  He kissed her again.

  Softly. Tenderly. His lips were silken against hers, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.

  "Don't," she whispered, "don't, please, oh please, don't do this."

  "Shalal."

  The soft, sweet nickname caught at her heart. He cupped her face. Lifted it to his; she told herself not to meet his gaze.

  "Laurel. Look at me."

  "Khan, I beg you, if you cared for me at all—"

  "If?" His laugh was soft and bittersweet. "I love you, sweetheart. I adore you. You know this is true. How could you have left me?"

  Against all the warnings of her head and heart, she looked into his eyes. What she saw there made her want to believe he was still the man she'd known, but she couldn't let herself believe that, couldn't let herself be hurt all over again.

  "Laurel," he said softly, "how could you leave me?"

  Her lips trembled. "You lied to me."

  "I never lied to you!"

  "You did. You still are."

  "Never!"

  "You see? You're still lying!
"

  "I told you that I loved you. And I do. With all my heart."

  "But you went to—to her."

  "Ah." His mouth twisted. "That."

  "That?" Laurel pulled back. "That?" she said, trying to bat his hands away but he caught them, imprisoned them against his chest. "You brought me here, thousands and thousands of miles away from the world I know, and as soon as we got here, you left me to—to go to another woman."

  "I had no choice. It is—"

  "Tradition. God, how I despise that word!

  "I know it was a mistake. I should have explained everything, but I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

  "And you were right. How could I ever understand that—that you were going to marry another woman?"

  "What?"

  "Don't," she whispered, "please, no more lies. I know everything, don't you see? Jamal told me—"

  Khan became dangerously still. "What did he tell you?"

  "All of it. That a bride was waiting for you. That—that your marriage plans had moved more quickly than you'd anticipated."

  She hesitated. Could she go on without breaking down? A little while ago, she'd been sure she hated this man, that she never wanted to see him gain. But now…

  Now, things weren't as clear.

  His body was warm and hard against hers. His scent—clean, masculine, real—was in her nostrils. His heart was thudding under her hands. And the awful, humiliating truth was that nothing had changed inside her. She still loved him. She would always love him. She would leave here but the memory of him, of how it had been to love him, would go with her.

  "Laurel. Beloved. What, exactly, did Jamal tell you?"

  She drew a shuddering breath.

  "That a bride had been chosen for you. That you would marry her but that—that you would return to me and I would be—I would be your mistress and—and—and—" Sobs tore from her throat. "I can't do it! I can't lie in your arms at night and know that there are times another woman lies in them, that when you leave me, you return to her, that she will bear you the sons and daughters I wanted to bear you—"

  Khan cursed.

  Then he bent his head to Laurel's and took her mouth in a long, deep kiss.

  She tried to resist but how could she, when his arms were around her? When he held her this way, as if she were all that mattered in the universe?

  Because he was all that mattered, to her. He was her love, her lover, he was the man she'd waited a lifetime to find.