скачать книгу бесплатно
That anyone would dare oppose him was a staggering thought. And a woman? Almost unthinkable. But of course, this was America, a country of strange customs.
“Why do you pose yourself as a boy?” Sharif asked as he begun unbuttoning his shirt.
Her gaze settled on his right hand, turning increasingly wary with each button he unfastened. Apprehension darkened her eyes and gave him enormous satisfaction. Without the smug look she was even prettier.
“For your information, lots of girls dress like this here. We don’t go prancing around in stuff that looks like night clothes and flimsy veils for your benefit.” She briefly looked from his hand to his face and back again. “What are you doing?”
“Ah, so you do know who I am and where I come from.” He shrugged off the shirt.
She took a step back. “I don’t know who you are.” Her gaze leveled on his bare chest, and she blinked. “What are you, some kind of sheikh or prince?”
He tossed the shirt over the side of the stall, mostly to distance himself from the slight odor, and advanced toward her.
She ducked behind the horse. “We have laws here, you know. Just because you’re some sheikh, or whatever, you can’t just do what you want.”
He moved around to the front of the horse.
She scurried toward its left flank. “You don’t intimidate me, so don’t even try.”
He stopped and focused on the horse, virtually ignoring her except to ask, “What is this animal’s name?”
“Quit calling him an animal. This is Khalid.”
Sharif nearly smiled at the relief she could not keep from softening her voice. And when she stepped around to reverently stroke Khalid’s side, Sharif felt a swell of admiration edging out his irritation with her. In his experience, women seldom found animals so captivating.
“And I bet he comes from more royal stock than you do,” she added with a sidelong glance that did not make it higher than his chest.
Her obvious appreciation of him should have inspired satisfaction, but her remark stung. All his life he had known exactly who he was. Or thought he had. In minutes everything had changed. His mother was American. Rich but not of royal blood.
He did not want to think about this dilemma now. He had come looking for distraction. His gaze drew back to the woman. “And you? What are you called?”
“Olivia Smith.” She lifted her chin. “You may call me Ms. Smith.”
A smile breached Sharif’s lips. She was a most unusual woman. “Well, Ms. Smith, tell me about Khalid.”
She gave him a sour look and mumbled, “Livy. Everyone calls me Livy.” Adjusting her hat, she turned to remove the horse’s bit. More light brown strands floated around her face. Chopped, uneven strands. He detested short hair on women. Another American and European custom with which he did not agree.
“In this country, when someone tells you their name you’re supposed to return the favor,” she said, her attention entirely focused on removing Khalid’s bridle.
Sharif hesitated, unfamiliar with her phrasing. Having been educated in London, he had excellent command of the English language, but this woman bewildered him. In many ways.
She continued to concentrate on Khalid, unbuckling the throatlatch and noseband with a firm but loving hand even though Sharif could tell she was annoyed with him. Another puzzle. In his country, even in London and Monte Carlo, women sought him out. Beautiful women. Accomplished women. They strove to please him in every way.
He thought again about what she had said. Return the favor. “I am Sharif Asad Al Farid,” he said proudly, guessing, not wishing to ask her to explain.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Huh?”
He grunted his impatience. Did she really not know who he was? Back in his country, the entire palace staff would have been advised of an important arrival. Of course King Zak and Rose were concerned about reporters. Sharif himself was not anxious to be their prey as he had been in the past.
“That’s a whole lot of names. What am I supposed to call you?” She looked utterly perplexed. And charming. “And don’t say, Your Royal Highness. That’s too big a mouthful…besides being weird.”
“Then just Your Highness will do fine.” The teasing words left his lips before Sharif realized he had the capacity to jest. The result was pleasing, however, when Livy stared at him in openmouthed surprise.
She had a fine mouth. Straight white teeth, lush pink lips that needed no artificial color. Lips that suddenly curved.
“I thought you were serious for a minute,” she said, “until I saw that little twinkle in your eye.”
His good humor fled and he straightened. “My eyes do not twinkle.”
“Sure they do.” She slowly eased the bit out of Khalid’s mouth, then stopped to study Sharif a moment. “But right now you look like a mean old grizzly bear. You really ought to smile and twinkle more. You look so much more handsome. Of course you already know how beautiful you are.”
Her frank, unguarded expression startled him almost as much as her heartfelt words. Judging by the pink color seeping into her cheeks, they had surprised her, as well. Quickly she averted her gaze and tended to the tack, her movements slightly awkward.
Since he was a child he had been lavished with compliments and flattery, but none he could remember that affected him more. Her earnestness touched a place deep inside him, buried beneath the artifice privilege and wealth often fostered. Unlike many others, she did not use her honeyed words to curry favor. She spoke impulsively with the openness of a child.
After she made sure Khalid was secure in his stall, she eyed the barn door. She was about to flee, Sharif was sure of it, but he did not want her to go. When she made a sudden move, he reached for her arm. It was so small and fragile, he immediately loosened his grip, afraid he would hurt her.
“What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”
She tried to twist out of his grasp, but she was no match for him.
“I do not intend to hurt you. I only want—” Sharif stared into her anxious eyes. What did he want? To erase the past week when his entire life had changed? This girl could not help him. No one could. His demons were his alone to battle. “I want you to take off your hat.”
“Excuse me?”
He raised his free hand to accomplish the task himself, but she ducked away. “It is you who are beautiful. You should not dress like a boy.”
“I’m not dressed like a—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “What did you say?” Anger tinged her voice and she stared at him as though he were the devil himself.
Her unexpected reaction caught him off guard, so when she jerked away, he lost his grip and she used her freed hand to jam her hat more securely on her head. “Never mind. Don’t you dare repeat it,” she said, her voice breaking. “That was low, really low. Even for someone like you.”
“Wait.” He blocked her path, then when she tried to get around him, he held her by the shoulders. “I do not understand.”
“I know I don’t act or look like other girls, but I don’t need you pointing it out, buster.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “And for your information, not every girl wants to be beautiful. I’m fine just the way I am.”
He fisted a hand around hers before she jabbed him again. Her nails were short, but they were ragged and chafed his skin. She tensed under his touch. “I will not hurt you,” he repeated.
“You already have,” she muttered, and he promptly released her. “I have to get back to work.” She briefly glanced over her shoulder. “I can clean your shirt, if you want. I feel partly responsible.”
He waved a dismissive hand. He had many more like them. “I want to understand why I have angered you. In my country, women like to be told they are beautiful.”
She sighed. “Here, they like to be told the truth.” One side of her mouth lifted. “Most of them.” She shrugged. “Okay, most of the time we do.”
She sighed again and looked at him with an odd longing in her eyes. This was not a woman who tried to hide her feelings. A new experience for him that was both refreshing and unsettling.
“Olivia Smith, take off your hat.” She scowled at his command, and he grudgingly added, “Please.” Not a word he used often, it rolled gruffly off his tongue.
She touched the rim uncertainly. “Why?”
“It hides your face and hair.”
“That could be a good thing. Trust me.”
“No.” He slowly moved his hand toward the hat. “Trust me.”
Livy froze, closing her eyes, barely able to breathe as he gently lifted the hat off her head. His movement was so smooth and unhurried, it seemed sensual somehow, and for one glorious moment, she did feel beautiful and feminine. Which was ridiculous, except Livy never wasted the opportunity for a good fantasy. She wondered if this was the way Cinderella had felt when her prince slipped on the glass slipper.
Of course a gorgeous, sparkling glass slipper was a far cry from a stained secondhand Stetson. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, forcing herself to give up the brief daydream.
His smile stole her breath again. Her chest tightened until it hurt. And then she saw her hand, as though it were no longer a part of her body, lying against his bare skin, his hardening nipple pressing into the center of her palm.
She gasped, snatched her hand back and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Humiliation burned in her cheeks. How had this happened? How had she gotten so carried away? How could she ever look at him again?
She couldn’t. That’s all there was to it. Taking a blind step back, she felt around for her hat, ready to yank it out of his hand and run. She found a belt buckle instead. And it wasn’t hers.
“Oh, my God.” Her eyes flew open and she pulled back her hand as if she’d just touched a red-hot burner. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—I—” The heck with the hat. She started to turn to sprint for the door.
He stopped her with a firm hand. “Stay.”
“Not a chance.”
He hooked a finger under her chin and, when she tried to jerk away, he forced her head up. She closed her eyes and refused to meet the dark, steely blue of his gaze. If he laughed at her, sheikh or no sheikh, she’d slug him. She swore she would.
Warm breath tickled her cheek and her lids involuntarily lifted. “What are you doing?”
He lowered his mouth to hers and pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. When he pulled back, her throat closed at the look she saw in his eyes. She’d never seen a man look like that before, his pupils dilated so much that his eyes looked more black than blue. Maybe in the movies she’d seen it, but not in person, and certainly not directed at her. It made her feel all funny and squishy inside.
When his hold on her arm tightened she should have been frightened, but she was too fascinated by the way his jaw clenched, like Mickey’s did when he was really angry or excited and was trying to hold back from popping someone or doing something crazy. But this man wasn’t angry. He was…
She wasn’t quite sure what, but just watching him look at her made her embarrassingly damp in a place she didn’t expect.
“I didn’t say you could kiss me,” she said without the slightest hint of conviction, and wondered what it would take for him to do it again. She’d only kissed three boys before today, and none of those times seemed to count anymore.
His mouth lifted in a slight curve. “Had I asked, what would you have said?”
“No way.”
“May I kiss you again?”
“Okay.”
His smile broadened a little and Livy swallowed, not sure what she should do. Was she supposed to pucker up, or wait until he lowered his head again? Was it all right to lay her hand on his chest? She liked the feel of his smooth taut skin, and figured if she was going to let him kiss her again, what difference did it make where her hand landed.
He relieved her of the decision by placing her arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened against him and her head got a little fuzzy. The sudden shocking wish that they were bare skin to bare skin sobered her a little and she stiffened.
Stroking her back, he whispered something in a strange language. When she tilted her head back to look at him, he said, “You have the most magnificent eyes.”
And then his gaze fell to her lips and she didn’t think she’d ever wanted anyone to kiss her more than she did at this very moment. A few feet away Khalid whinnied, and she vaguely recalled where she was, that she was supposed to be working, that Mickey or any of the others could walk in at any time. But she just couldn’t pull herself away.
This was her dream come to life—a handsome Prince Charming, words and looks that made her feel wanted and beautiful, and her need was so great, she brazenly stretched up to meet her fantasy.
His lips weren’t so gentle this time. Her breath caught at the almost savage way he crushed her to him, as though he were being driven by some unknown force. The intensity both frightened and thrilled her. It was like something out of the movies, or in those romance books she sometimes read.
When his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, slowly applying pressure, looking for entry, she tensed again. Long enough for sanity to surface, and she pulled her arms from around his neck and shoved him back.
He looked dazed for a moment, and then he frowned. “You did not want my kiss?”
She rubbed her arms. “I’m not sure.” She did, and she didn’t. Mostly it was her own reaction that upset her. But the look of shock on his face eased her tension and she chuckled.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I’m not very—” She clamped her mouth shut. The truth about her lack of experience was far more than he needed to know.
“I think I’d better go get that stain out of your shirt.” She turned to leave, but stopped when he touched her hair.
Her hair!
Flattening her palms against her scalp, she groaned. She knew darn well how her hair looked after removing her hat. What in the world was she thinking?
She wasn’t thinking. That was the problem. This man had her all tied up in knots. She liked living and working at the Desert Rose. Finally she’d found a place where she felt she belonged, where she was truly one of the team. But if anyone walked in and found them, in a second it could all be over.
Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her hands away from her head. “Why do you hide?” he asked, rubbing some strands of hair between his fingers. “Your hair is the color of honey. It could be very beautiful.”
She didn’t miss the “could be.” In a last-ditch effort not to look like a total hag, she fluffed out her bangs, ran her fingers through the crown as she took a couple of steps back.
“I still don’t know what to call you,” she mumbled.
He stared at her in that intense way she found so fascinating. As if no one else existed in the entire state of Texas. “Sharif.”
“Is that your first name?”
He nodded and reached for her hair again.
She ducked and patted it down. What in the heck did he find so interesting about a ratty clump of squashed hair? Given the chance, she’d trade her new pocketknife for a mirror about now. “Does everyone call you Sharif? Or do you have a nickname?”
He frowned and absently scratched his chest, a movement she found so ridiculously exciting that she had to take a deep breath. “Why do you Americans have this obsession with nicknames? Is it not enough to be called the name given you by your mother?”
She made a face. “Sometimes a shorter name sounds more friendly, I suppose.”
“Your mother, did she call you Livy?”
“I don’t have a mother.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Everyone has a mother.”
“Not if she gives you away.” Livy blinked at how pathetic she sounded. She really hadn’t meant to, she was more concerned with the way he was inching closer again. But her words stopped him.
“And your father?”
“I have to get back to work now.” She rubbed her palms down the front of her jeans and moved toward the door.
