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She shivered.
He would kill her.
‘Of course I was listening,’ she defended.
His black eyes narrowed. ‘So I was saying...what?’
Leila swallowed as she searched around in the fog of her memory for something to remind her. ‘Something about the banquet you’re holding tonight.’
‘Very good, Leila.’ He nodded. ‘It seems you were paying attention, after all. A banquet in honour of my English guest, Gabe Steel.’
The sudden tremble of her knees at the mention of his name made Leila glad that she was sitting down. ‘Gabe Steel?’ she echoed and his name tasted nearly as sweet on her lips as his kisses had done.
Murat gave an impatient click of his tongue. ‘He is coming here tonight. You knew that, Leila.’
Leila forced a smile, acknowledging the power of the human mind to deny something which made you feel uncomfortable. It was the same as going for a ride in the desert—you knew that in the sand lurked snakes and scorpions, but if you thought about them for too long you’d never get on a horse again.
Of course she had known that Gabe was coming here tonight but—as with all the Sultan’s formal banquets—she hadn’t been invited. If she had, then there would have been no need to have gone to the advertising executive’s room in secret to make her doomed job application. And then to have acted like some kind of...
Briefly, she closed her eyes. She mustn’t think about him. She mustn’t.
Yet try as she might, it was impossible to stem the flashbacks which plagued her, as if someone were playing a forbidden and erotic movie inside her head on an endless loop. She couldn’t seem to stop remembering the way he’d made love to her and the way he had made her feel.
She knew that what she had done today had been wrong. It had flown in the face of everything she had been brought up to believe in. In Qurhah, women who were ‘good’ saved themselves until marriage. Especially royal princesses. There was simply no other option and up until today she had never questioned it. Yet she had seized the opportunity to let the powerful tycoon take her to his bed without a second thought. She had wanted him with a hunger which had taken her by surprise, and he had wanted her just as much, it seemed. For the first time in her life, she had behaved in a way which was truly liberated.
She remembered the gleam of his dark golden hair against the white of the pillow after he’d made that strange low cry and shuddered deep inside her. The way he had fallen asleep almost immediately—a sleep so deep that for a moment she’d had to check he was still breathing. He hadn’t even stirred when she’d slipped from the bed—her body still warm and aching and her skin suffused with a soft, warm glow.
Silently, she had crept around the hotel suite— gathering up her discarded clothes, which she’d put on in the bathroom with trembling fingers, terrified that he would hear. And she hadn’t wanted him to hear. She had known that her only option was to slip away before he awoke because she couldn’t face saying goodbye, Not when she was feeling in such a volatile emotional state and she wanted nothing more than to snuggle into his warm embrace and kiss those sensual lips of his again.
Because that was simply not on the cards. There was no future for them. She knew that. Not now and not ever—and she sensed that in her vulnerable post-orgasm state she might have been tempted to overlook that simple fact.
She sucked in a deep breath, telling herself that what was done was done and she wasn’t going to feel ashamed about something she had enjoyed so much. Not when for the first time in her life she had behaved like a free-thinking woman instead of a puppet whose strings were constantly being pulled by her powerful brother, the Sultan.
But she could also see now that her thinking had been skewed. She had been foolishly naive to approach the Englishman in the first place. Had she really imagined that Gabe Steel—no matter how powerful he was in his own country—could persuade her brother to let her work with him? Did she really think she could go from pampered princess to Westerner’s aide in one easy transition?
She could feel Murat’s eyes on her and knew he was waiting for some kind of response. He might be her brother, but he was first and foremost the Sultan—and, as such, the world always revolved around Murat.
‘There is no need for me to express my hope that your banquet will be successful, Murat,’ she said formally. ‘For that is a given.’
There was a pause as he inclined his head, silently acknowledging her praise.
‘I thought you might wish to attend,’ he said.
For the second time, Leila was glad she was sitting down. She narrowed her eyes, thinking she must have misheard him. ‘The banquet?’
The Sultan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not?’ She laughed. ‘Is that a serious question? Because it’s “business” and these affairs are traditionally men only.’
Murat gave a little shake of his shoulders and Leila thought he seemed a little unsettled tonight. Which wasn’t like her brother at all. Maybe the cancellation of his arranged marriage had affected him more than it had appeared to do at the time.
‘Then perhaps it is time that Qurhah embraced the untraditional for a change,’ he said.
Leila stared at him in growing disbelief. ‘What on earth has brought all this on?’
Murat glowered. ‘Does there have to be a reason for everything? You have harangued me for many years for a more inclusive role in state affairs, Leila—’
‘And you always ignore everything I say!’
‘And now that I am actually proposing a break in tradition,’ he continued implacably, ‘I am being subjected to some sort of inquisition!’
Leila didn’t answer because her heart had grown disconcertingly light. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach and the rush of blood to her cheeks, but she couldn’t ignore the glorious words which were circling round and round in her mind. She had been invited to the banquet! She was going to see Gabe again!
Her heart pounded. How would it feel to face him again at a formal palace dinner? And how would he react to seeing her in the last place he would ever expect to see her?
She felt the sudden rush of nerves and sternly she told herself not to get carried away. It didn’t matter how he reacted because that was irrelevant. Yes, he had been the kind of lover that every woman dreamt of, but Gabe was just a man. And she knew about men. She knew about the pain and heartbreak they caused women. The muffled sound of her mother’s tears had characterised her childhood and she reminded herself not to weave any foolish dreams about Gabe Steel.
‘You are very quiet, Leila,’ observed the Sultan softly. ‘I had imagined you would be delighted to meet my Western guest.’
Leila gave a cautious smile. ‘Forgive me for my somewhat muted response,’ she said. ‘For I was a little taken off-guard by your unexpected generosity. Naturally, I shall be delighted to meet Mr Steel.’
‘Good. And you will wear the veil, of course. I like the thought of our Western visitor observing the quiet decorum of the traditional Qurhahian woman.’ Murat frowned. ‘Though I hope you’re not coming down with a fever, Leila—for your complexion has suddenly grown very flushed.’
* * *
Gabe barely registered the gleaming golden gates which had opened to allow his bulletproof car through. Just as he had failed to register the colourful and bustling streets of Simdahab on his way to the palace. The journey through the city had been slower than he had anticipated—mainly, he suspected, because the car was so heavily armoured. He guessed that was one of the drawbacks to being a fabulously powerful sultan—that the risk of assassination was never far from the surface.
Yet instead of focusing on the task ahead or reflecting on the cultural differences between the two countries, as he usually would have done, he had spent the entire journey thinking about the woman it was probably safer to forget.
Leila.
When he’d woken from a deep sleep in that sex-rumpled bed, he had known a moment of complete and utter peace—before disjointed memories had come flooding back. For a moment he’d thought that he must have dreamt the whole bizarre incident. And then he had seen the faint red spots of blood on the sheet—not knowing if it had sprung from her broken hymen or when her fingernails had clawed deep into the flesh of his shoulders at the moment of orgasm.
He stared out of the car window at the vast splendour of the palace gardens, but this faint feeling of disorientation would not leave him.
He had always been successful with women—and not just because of his hard body and what the press had once described as his ‘fallen angel’ looks. He had quickly learnt how best to handle the opposite sex, because he could see that it was in his best interests to do so. To take what he wanted without giving any false hope. He’d learnt that guaranteeing pleasure was the most effective way of having someone overlook your shortcomings—the main one being his aversion to emotion. He knew that he couldn’t give love—but he could certainly give great orgasms.
He’d seen it all and done it all—or so he’d thought—though he’d avoided any situation involving cameras or threesomes. But he had never had a beautiful, virginal stranger turning up at his hotel room and allowing him to seduce her within minutes of meeting.
He felt his heart miss a beat as he recalled the way she had made him feel. That initial hard thrust against her tight hymen. Who was she? And why had she chosen to give her innocence to a man she didn’t know?
He thought about the photographs she’d shown him. Nobody could deny that she was talented. Did she think that her sexual generosity would guarantee her the offer of a job? Yet if that was the case, then surely she would have left him her card—or some number scribbled down on a sheet of hotel notepaper, so that he could contact her again. But she hadn’t. There had been nothing to mark the fact that she’d been there. Only her very feminine fragrance lingering with the unmistakeable scent of sex when he’d woken to find an empty space beside him and silence in the adjoining suite of rooms.
Gabe shook his head as the limousine drew to a halt and a robed servant opened the door for him. He must put her out of his mind and concentrate on the evening ahead. It didn’t matter who his mystery virgin was. It had happened and it was over. He could shut the door on it, just as he did with every other aspect of his past. He was here at the palace to meet formally with the Sultan and none of the other stuff mattered.
Buttoning up the jacket of his suit, he stepped out onto the honey-coloured gravel of the forecourt and in the distance he could see a long line of similar limousines already parked. The turreted palace gleamed red-gold in the light of the setting sun, like something out of an upmarket Disney film. Gabe wondered how long it had taken to build this impressive citadel—an unmistakeable symbol of beauty and power, set in an oasis of formal and surprisingly green gardens.
The evening air was thick with the scent of roses and soft with the sound of running water from the stream which traversed the palace grounds. In the distance, he could see soaring mountain peaks topped with snow and, closer, the circular and steady flight of what looked like a bird of prey.
That was what he should be thinking about, he reminded himself grimly. Not a woman who had made him feel slightly...
He frowned.
Used?
Had she?
‘Gabe! Here you are at last. May I welcome you to my home?’
An accented voice broke into his thoughts. Gabe turned to find the Sultan standing on the steps to greet him. A tall and imposing figure, he was framed by the dramatic arches of the palace entrance behind him. His robes and headdress were pure white and the starkness of his appearance was broken only by the luminosity of his olive skin. For a moment, a distant memory floated across Gabe’s mind before it disappeared again, like a butterfly on a summer’s day.
Gabe smiled. ‘Your Most Imperial Highness,’ he said. ‘I am most honoured to be invited to your palace.’
‘The honour is all mine,’ said the Sultan, stepping forward to shake him warmly by the hand. ‘How was London when you left?’
‘Rainy,’ said Gabe.
‘Of course it was.’ The two men exchanged a wry look.
Gabe had first met the Sultan at the marriage of one of his own employees. At the time, Sara Williams had been working as a ‘creative’ at his advertising agency before she’d ruffled a few feathers by bringing her rather complicated love-life into the office.
During that rather surreal wedding day in the nearby country of Dhi’ban, the Sultan had told Gabe that he knew of his formidable reputation and asked if he would help bring Qurhah into the twenty-first century by helping change its image. Initially, Gabe had been reluctant to accept such a potentially tricky commission, but it had provided a challenge, in a life where fresh challenges were rare.
And he had timed it to coincide with an anniversary which always filled him with guilt and regret.
‘You are comfortable at your hotel?’ asked the Sultan.
For a moment, Gabe felt erotic recall trickle down his spine. ‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘One of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever stayed in.’
‘Thank you. But you will find our royal palace more beautiful still.’ The Sultan made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Now come inside and let me show you a little Qurhahian hospitality.’
Gabe followed the monarch through the long corridors of the palace, made cool by the soft breeze which floated in from the central courtyard. Past bowing ranks of servants, they walked—overlooked by portraits of hawk-faced kings from ages gone by, all of whom bore a striking resemblance to his host.
It was more than a little dazzling but the room which they entered defied all expectation. Tall and as impressive as a cathedral, the high-ceilinged chamber was vaulted with the soft gleam of gold and the glitter of precious gems. People stood chatting and sipping their drinks, but the moment the Sultan entered everyone grew silent and bowed their heads in homage.
What must it be like to have that kind of power over people? wondered Gabe as he was introduced first to the Sultan’s emissary and then to a whole stream of officials—all of them men. Some of them—mainly the older generation—were clearly suspicious of a foreigner who had been brought in to tamper with the image of a country which had always fiercely prided itself on its national identity. But Gabe knew that change inevitably brought with it pain, and so he listened patiently to some of the reservations which were being voiced before the bell rang for dinner.
He accompanied Sultan into a vast dining room, where lavishly laid tables were decorated with fragrant roses coloured deep crimson. Inexplicably, he found his eyes flickering towards their dark petals and wondering why the sight of them unsettled him so. Like the blood on his sheets, he thought suddenly—and a whisper of apprehension iced his skin.
‘I have seated you next to the Ambassador of Maraban, who is one of the most influential men in the region,’ said the Sultan. ‘With my sister on the other side. Her English is excellent and she is eager to meet with you, for she meets few Westerners. Ah, here she comes now. Leila!’
But Gabe didn’t need to hear his host say her name to know the woman’s identity. He knew that from the moment she entered the banqueting hall. Even though her body was swathed in flowing silk and even though a matching veil of palest silver was covering half her face, there could be no mistaking her. No amount of camouflage could disguise that sexy sway of her body—or maybe it was because in some primeval and physical way, he still felt connected to her.
He could still smell her on his skin.
He could still taste her in his mouth.
He could still remember the exact moment when he had broken through her tightness and claimed her for his own.
Why the hell had she kept her identity hidden from him?
The Sultan was saying something, and Gabe had to force himself to listen and to pray that the sudden clamour of his senses would settle.
‘Leila.’ The hawk-faced leader smiled. ‘This is Gabe Steel—the advertising genius from London of whom you have heard me speak. Gabe, I’d like you to meet Princess Leila Scheherazade of Qurhah—my only sister.’
For a moment Gabe was so angry he could barely get a word out in response, but he quickly asserted the self-possession which was second nature to him. He had worked all his life in an industry which traded on illusion and knew only too well how to wear whichever mask the occasion demanded. And so he produced the slightly deferential smile he knew was expected of him on meeting the royal princess. He even inclined his head towards her, before catching a peep of a crystal-encrusted sandal which was poking out from beneath the folds of her gown. And the sight of those beautiful toes sent a surge of anger and lust shooting through him.
‘I am honoured to meet you, Your Royal Highness,’ he said, but as he straightened up he saw the sudden colour which flushed over the upper part of her face. He saw the brief flicker of distress which flared in the depths of her blue eyes. And that distress pleased him. His mouth hardened. It pleased him very much.
‘The pleasure is also mine, Mr Steel,’ she said softly.
‘Leila, please show our guest to his place.’ The Sultan clapped his hands loudly, and once again the room grew silent. ‘And let us all be seated.’
Silently, Gabe followed Leila across the dining room and took his place beside her. In the murmured moments as two hundred guests sat down, he seized the opportunity to move his head close to hers. ‘So. Are you going to give me some kind of explanation?’
‘Not now,’ she said calmly.
‘I want some sort of explanation, Your Royal Highness.’
‘Not now,’ she repeated, and then she lifted her fingers and began to remove her veil.
And despite the anger still simmering away inside him, Gabe held his breath as her features were slowly revealed to him. Because in a world where nudity was as ubiquitous as the cell phone, this was the most erotic striptease he had ever witnessed.
First he saw the curve of her chin and, above that, those sensual lips, which looked so startlingly pink against her luminous skin. He remembered how those lips had felt beneath the hard crush of his own and he felt himself harden instantly. He tried to tell himself that her nose was too strong and aquiline for conventional beauty and that there were women far more lovely than her. But he was lying—because in that moment she looked like the most exquisite creature he had ever seen.
And she had deceived him. She had lied to him as women always lied.
Taking a long draught of wine in an effort to steady his nerves, somehow he hung on to his temper for as long as it took to charm the ambassador during the first course, which he had no desire to eat.
He wondered if it was rude to completely ignore Leila, but he didn’t care—because he still didn’t trust himself to speak to her again. It wouldn’t look good if he exploded with anger at the exalted banqueting table of the Sultan, would it? Yet he found his gaze drawn inexorably to the way her fingers toyed with the heavy golden cutlery as she pushed food around her plate.
The ambassador had turned away to talk to the person on his left and Gabe took the opportunity to lean towards her, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. ‘So is there some kind of power game going on that I should know about, Leila?’ he said. ‘Some political intrigue which will slowly be revealed to me as the evening progresses?’
Her heavy golden fork clattered to her plate and he saw the apprehension on her face as she turned to face him.
‘There’s no intrigue,’ she answered, her voice as low as his.
‘No? Then why all the mystery? Why not just tell your brother that we’ve already met. Unless he doesn’t know, of course.’
‘I—’
‘Maybe he has no idea that his sister came to my hotel today,’ he continued remorselessly. ‘And let me—’
‘Please.’ Her interruption sounded anguished. ‘We can’t talk here.’
‘Then where do you suggest?’ he questioned. ‘Same time, same place tomorrow? Maybe you’d already planned to return for a repeat performance, wearing a different kind of disguise. Maybe the masquerade aspect turns you on. I don’t know.’ His eyes bored into her. ‘Had you?’
‘Mr Steel—’
