The Secret Kept From The King (Mills & Boon Modern)

by Clare Connelly

  ‘I didn’t know it could be like this,’ she whispered, unable to hold his eyes at the admission. She heard him approaching her, then felt his hands reaching for hers, pulling her to a sitting position first then to stand in front of him.

  ‘No?’ A gravelled question, his eyes roaming her face. She kept her gaze focussed to the right of his shoulder.

  She didn’t feel any need to obfuscate the truth with this man, even when the difference in their experience level might have rationally caused her to feel a little immature and embarrassed. ‘My ex...my ex-husband...and I weren’t exactly...we never...it wasn’t like this.’ She finished with a frustrated shake of her head. ‘Now I get what all the fuss is about.’

  He was very still, his Adam’s apple jerking in his throat. ‘You were married?’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘You’re twenty-four years old. It can’t have been that long...’

  ‘I left him a week after my twenty-first birthday.’ Some present. Finding that her bank accounts had been emptied, and a mortgage taken out on her mother’s home. All the security she’d thought she’d had, after her mother’s death, had evaporated alongside the marriage she’d believed to be a decent one.

  He lifted his hands, cupping her cheeks, and now when she looked at him he was staring at her in that magical way of his, as though he could read her mind when she wasn’t speaking.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled to soften the blunt refusal. ‘He took enough from me. I don’t want to let him into this, with you.’

  Curiosity flared in his gaze, and anger too, but not directed at her. It was the opposite. She felt his anger directed at Max and it was somehow bonding and reassuring—in that the whole ‘enemy of my enemy is my friend’ kind of way.

  ‘He was a bastard,’ she said, the small elaboration a courtesy, more than anything. ‘I’m better off without him.’

  His nod was short. ‘The food will be cold. Are you hungry?’

  ‘I have no objection to cold food,’ she assured him quickly. ‘Besides, I’d rather not be interrupted.’

  He expelled a slow breath, a sound of relief. ‘I’m glad you’re not planning on running away again.’

  She lifted a brow. ‘I think you’ve given me incentive to stick around. At least for a little while.’

  His laugh was husky. He weaved his fingers through hers and drew her towards the door of the bedroom but she stopped walking. ‘My clothes.’ He was, after all, wearing a towel around his hips.

  He paused, turning to face her thoughtfully before dropping her hand and pacing to the pile of fabric on the floor. He liberated her silk underpants, crossing to her and crouching at her feet, holding them for her to step into. She pressed a hand to his shoulder to steady herself, and he eased the underwear up her legs. But at her thighs, he paused, bringing his head forward and pressing a kiss to the top, so she trembled against him and might have lost her balance were it not for the grip on his shoulder. She felt his smile against her flesh.

  Another kiss, nearer her womanhood, and then his mouth was there, his tongue pressing against her sex until he found her most sensitive cluster of nerves and tormented it with his ministrations, tasting her, teasing her, sucking her until she exploded in a blinding explosion. She dug her nails into his skin and she cried into the room, pleasure making her incoherent.

  He lifted his head, his eyes on hers, his expression impossible to discern, and then he lifted her underpants into place, standing as he did so.

  ‘No more clothes.’

  Her heart was racing too fast to permit her to speak.

  ‘I like looking at you.’

  The words were delivered with the power that she knew came instinctively to him, and even when there was a part of her that might have felt self-conscious, his obvious admiration drove that away, so she shrugged, incapable of speaking.

  ‘Good.’ His approval warmed her. ‘Come and eat.’

  She was surprisingly hungry, so the feast he’d ordered was a welcome surprise. She hadn’t seen it being delivered and unpacked, but it looked as though he’d had a feast of foods prepared, their exotic fragrance making her mouth water.

  ‘Delicacies from the RKH,’ he explained. ‘Fish with okra and spice.’ He pointed to one dish. ‘Lamb with olives and couscous, chicken and pomegranate, spinach and raisin flat bread, and aubergine and citrus tagine.’

  ‘Wow.’ She stared at the banquet. ‘This was just for you?’

  ‘I suspected you’d join me.’

  She laughed softly. ‘Am I that predictable?’

  ‘I’m that determined,’ he corrected softly, running a finger over her arm so she trembled with sensations. ‘I wanted you from the moment I saw you.’

  ‘And you always get what you want?’

  Darkness coloured his expression for a moment and she could have kicked herself. He was grieving his father’s premature death—obviously that wasn’t the case.

  ‘Not always, no.’

  She nodded, glad he didn’t elaborate. ‘What should I try first?’

  ‘The lamb is a favourite of mine.’ He gestured towards the plate. She moved towards it, inhaling the heady mix of fragrances the table conveyed. Contrary to his prediction, the food was only warm, not cold, which made it easier to taste. She scooped a small heaping of each onto her plate, only remembering she was naked when she sat down and her breasts pressed against the edge of the table. Heat flushed through her and she jerked her gaze to his to find him watching her intently.

  She shovelled some food into her mouth to hide the flush of self-consciousness, and sharply forgot to feel anything except admiration for this meal. ‘It’s delicious,’ she murmured, as soon as she’d swallowed.

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  ‘I don’t know much about your country,’ she apologised. ‘And I had no idea the food was so good.’

  ‘There are two RKH restaurants in Manhattan,’ he said with a lift of one brow.

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded. ‘One off Wall Street and one in mid-town. This food came from the latter.’

  ‘It wasn’t prepared here?’

  ‘No offence to your hotel staff, but RKH cooking is a slow process. Much done in the tagine, which takes hours. There are also a range of spices used that don’t tend to be readily available in your kitchens.’

  ‘Still, if we know in advance we can generally arrange anything.’

  ‘RKH food cannot be easily faked.’ He winked. ‘Better to stick to chefs who prepare it as a matter of course, rather than try to imitate it.’

  ‘You sound incredibly patriotic,’ she murmured with a small grin.

  ‘I’m the King—that’s my job.’

  ‘Right.’ The King. A curse filled her brain as the enormity of what she’d done flooded her.

  ‘Don’t run away.’ He spoke quietly, but with that same tone of command she’d heard from him a few times now. It was instinctive to him—a man who’d been born to rule.

  ‘I’m...not.’

  ‘You were thinking about it.’

  She didn’t bother denying it. ‘It’s just...you’re a king. I can’t...even imagine what your life is like.’ She looked around the apartment, a small frown on her face. ‘I guess it’s like this, but on crack.’

  ‘On crack?’

  ‘You know, to the nth degree.’

  He followed her gaze thoughtfully. ‘My palace bears little resemblance to this apartment.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘For one thing, there is not a ceiling in the palace that is so low.’

  A smile quirked his lips and her heart stammered. He was teasing her. She took another bite of the dinner, this time sampling the fish and okra. He was right. Now that she paid a little more attention, she could taste the difference. The spi
ces were unusual—unlike anything she’d ever known. She doubted even the kitchens in this prestigious hotel could replicate these flavours.

  ‘What is it like?’

  ‘The palace?’

  ‘The palace, the country. I know very little about where you’re from,’ she confessed. ‘Only the basics I researched prior to your arrival.’

  ‘Is this a normal part of your job?’

  She nodded. ‘I research what I think might be necessary before any guest’s arrival. Sometimes that’s just their favourite foods or hotel habits, other times it’s who they have restraining orders against.’ She smiled. ‘It depends.’

  ‘And for me?’

  Her stomach squeezed as she remembered looking at his photo on the Internet. Even then, she’d desired him. ‘The basics,’ she said vaguely. ‘But nothing that told me of your country or your duties.’

  He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘The RKH is one of the most beautiful places you could ever see. Ancient, but in a way that is visible everywhere you look. Our cities are built on the foundations of our past and we honour that. Ruins are left where they stand, surrounded by the modernity that is our life now. High-rise office buildings mingle with stone relics, ancient tapestries hang proudly in these new constructions—a reminder that we are of our past.’

  A shiver ran down her spine, his language evocative. ‘We are of our land, shaped by the trials of our deserts and the faraway ocean. Our people were nomadic for generations and our desert life is still a large pull, culturally. It is not unusual to take months out of your routine to go into the desert and live nomadically for a time.’

  ‘Do you do this?’

  ‘I cannot,’ he admitted. ‘Not for months at a time, but yes, Daisy, for days I will escape the palace and move into the wild, untamed desert. There is something energising about pitting myself against its organic tests. Out there, I am just a man; my rank counts for nothing.’

  His eyes dropped to her breasts and she felt, very strongly, that he was a man—all man. Desire slicked through her, and her knees trembled beneath the tabletop. She pushed some more food into her mouth, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘Our people were peaceful for centuries, but globalisation and trade brought a new value to resources we took for granted. The RKH stands on one of the greatest oil sources in the world, and there are caves to the west that abound with diamonds and other rare and precious gems. The world’s interest in these resources carried a toll, and took a long time to adapt to. We were mired in civil war for a hundred years, and that war led to hostilities with the west.’ His face was tense; she felt the weight of his worries, the strength of his concern.

  ‘My father was instrumental in bringing peace to my people. He worked tirelessly to contain our armed forces, to unify our military under his banner, to bring about loyalty from the most powerful families who had historically tilted for the rule of the country. He commanded loyalty.’ He paused, sipping his water. ‘He was...irreplaceable.’

  She considered that. ‘But peace has been long-established in the RKH. Surely you don’t feel that there’s a risk of war now?’

  ‘There is always a risk of war,’ he responded quickly, with a quiet edge to his voice. And she felt the weight of responsibility he carried on his shoulders. ‘But I was raised to avert it. My whole life has been geared towards a peacemaking process, both within the borders of my land and on the world stage.’

  ‘How does one man do that?’

  He was reflective and, when he spoke, there was a grim setting to his handsome features. ‘In many different ways.’ He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Why didn’t you become a concert pianist?’

  The change of subject was swift but she allowed it. ‘Reality intervened.’ She said it with a smile, careful to keep the crushing disappointment from her voice—a disappointment that still had the power to rob her of breath.

  ‘Oh?’

  She took another bite of her meal—the last on her plate—and waited until she’d finished before answering. ‘The Juilliard is expensive. Even on the partial scholarship I was offered, there’s New York’s cost of living.’

  ‘And you couldn’t afford it?’

  Before Max, she could have. Easily. Her mother’s inheritance had made sure of that. ‘No.’ A smile that cost her to dredge up. ‘It was a pipe dream, in the end.’

  He nodded, frowning, then stood. ‘I asked you here tonight because I wanted to show you something.’

  ‘Not because you wanted to drag me to bed?’ She teased, glad to move the conversation to a more level ground.

  ‘Well, that too.’ He held a hand out to her. ‘Come.’

  It didn’t even occur to her not to do as he said. She stood, putting her hand in his, aware of how well they fitted together, moving behind him, her near-nakedness only adding to her awareness of him. The Presidential suite was, as you might expect, enormous. In addition to the main living and dining area, there was a saloon and bar, furnished with the finest alcohol, a wall of classic literature titles, several in German and Japanese to cater to the international guests and now, a baby grand piano in its centre. Her heart began to speed for an entirely different reason now. Anxiety, longing, remorse. She lifted her gaze to him to find that he was watching her.

  ‘That’s a Kleshnër.’

  He lifted a brow.

  ‘The type of piano.’ She moved towards it, as if drawn by an invisible piece of string. ‘They’re made in Berlin, only forty or so a year. They’re considered to be the gold standard.’ She ran her finger over the lid, the wood smooth and glossy. Her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Play something for me.’

  She jolted her eyes to his.

  ‘I want to hear you.’

  She bit down on her lip, letting her finger touch the keys. How long had it been? Too long. Her insides ached to do as he said, to make music from ivory and ebony, to create sound in this room. But the legacy of her past held her where she was, the pain that was so intrinsic to her piano playing all bound together.

  ‘You are afraid.’

  The words inspired a complex response. She shook her head a little. ‘Not really. It’s just...been a very long time.’

  His eyes narrowed speculatively, laced with an unspoken question. ‘Play for me.’

  She moved around behind the piano, staring first at the keys and then at his face, and it was the speculation she saw there that had her taking a seat behind the piano, her fingers hovering above the keys for several seconds.

  ‘What would you like to hear?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  She nodded again, and then, a small smile curved her mouth. ‘This will be a first.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Playing in only my underwear.’

  His smile set flames alight inside her body. ‘I could get you something, if you’re cold, though I should tell you it is likely to decrease my enjoyment of your playing.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ She winked. ‘Just for you.’

  He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting. She ran through a catalogue of songs, each of them embedded in her brain like speech and movement. Her fingers found the keys and she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, straightening her spine, centring herself to the instrument, and then she began to play. Slowly at first, her interpretation of the Beethoven piece more tempered and gentle than many others. She kept her eyes closed as she played, the strength of the piece building inside her, and as she reached the midpoint and the tempo crescendoed, she tilted her head back, lost completely to the beauty of this form of communication.

  The piece was not long—a little over four minutes. She played and when she hit the last notes, both hands pressed to the keys, she opened her eyes to find that the Sheikh had moved closer. He stood right in front of her, his eyes boring through her.

  When he spoke, his voice was husky.
‘Play something else.’

  She lifted a brow, a teasing smile on her lips, but the look was somewhat undermined by the film of tears that had moistened her eyes.

  ‘It’s a beautiful instrument.’ She ran her fingers over the keys. ‘Did you have this brought up today?’

  ‘I wanted to hear you.’

  ‘A keyboard would have done.’

  He shook his head. ‘Show me something else.’

  She did, this time, her favourite Liszt piece, the étude one she’d mastered only a week before her father had left home. She vividly recalled because she’d never got a chance to play it for him, and she had been practising so hard, preparing to surprise him with how she’d mastered the difficult finger movements.

  ‘You play as well as you breathe,’ he said softly, after she’d finished.

  She blinked up at him, her eyes still suspiciously moist. When he pulled her to standing, she went willingly, and when he lifted her against his chest, carrying her back to bed, she felt only intense relief.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘YOUR HIGHNESS.’

  The voice was coming to Daisy from a long way away. She shifted in bed a little, lifting a hand to run through her hair and connecting with something warm and firm. And it all came flooding back to her, so her eyes burst open and landed on a man she’d only ever seen in a professional capacity. Malik.

  Oh, no!

  She’d fallen asleep in the Sheikh’s bed—she must have—and now it was morning and his suite was teeming with staff. It wasn’t a particularly mature thing to do but she dragged the sheet up higher, covering her face, hiding from the servant.

  ‘Privacy, Malik.’ Sariq’s voice was firm, and, yes, there was irritation there too.

  ‘Yes, sir. Only you have a breakfast meeting with the President. The helicopter is ready to take you to Washington.’

  ‘It will wait for me.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A moment later, the door clipped shut.

  ‘You can come out now.’ His voice, so stern a moment ago, showed amusement now.