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“Yes, she is, but…” Joaquin shrugged one massive shoulder. “A new costume isn’t working and she’s temperamental tonight. Who knows what her performance will hold.”
“Pilar only dances better when she’s upset,” Lazhar said with amusement. “And temperamental is Pilar’s normal mood.”
“Si.” Joaquin grinned, his teeth flashing whitely against his coal-black mustache. “My Pilar is a woman of strong emotions, not a woman of calm and serenity—which only makes the flamenco more passionate, eh?” Without waiting for a response, he gestured at a waiter. When the young man quickly approached, Joaquin issued orders in a spate of Spanish and the waiter bustled off. “Now,” Joaquin continued, giving them his full attention once more, “your usual table is being prepared. If you’ll come with me?”
He led them through an archway at the end of the entry hall and into a large, low-ceilinged room. They wound between crowded tables arranged in a semicircle around an open space of bare hardwood floor.
Lazhar was greeted with familiarity by more than one person as they crossed the room and each time, he acknowledged them with a smile and a greeting that included their name.
Emily wondered if Lazhar was a regular visitor at the club for his arrival didn’t cause the speculation and exclamations from the crowd that she’d seen at the casino.
“Do you have time to join us for a drink?” Lazhar asked Joaquin as he seated Emily at a horse-shoe-shaped booth, upholstered in burgundy leather, on the far side of the room.
“Let me check on the kitchen staff and if all is well, I’ll be back to catch Pilar’s performance with you,” he promised, taking Emily’s hand in his. He bent and kissed her fingers with an old world courtesy that was entirely natural. “It is a pleasure to have met you, Emily.” He released her and grinned at Lazhar. “Emily will make a beautiful bride.”
“Yes, she will.”
Startled, Emily couldn’t gather her wits to ask Joaquin what he meant by his parting comment until he was gone. Before she could call him back, he was intercepted by a waiter. Their brief conversation ended with the young man nodding and hurrying away. Joaquin had gone barely three steps more before a customer caught his attention and he paused to chat with the two couples seated at the table.
“I don’t think he’s going to make it to the kitchen very quickly,” she commented.
“Not likely,” Lazhar agreed. “He treats every customer as if they’re a family friend and they love him for it.”
“What did he mean by saying that I’d make a beautiful bride?” she asked Lazhar, half-turning to face him on the leather seat. He sat beside her, one arm resting along the top of the booth, his fingers within touching distance of her nape. A candle flickered in the center of their table, adding its faint glow to the dimly lit room, but still, his face seemed shadowed, his gaze enigmatic.
“I think he was stating the obvious,” he said smoothly. “You’re a beautiful woman. It follows that you’ll make a beautiful bride when you marry.” He glanced away from her at Joaquin, who was now three-quarters of the way across the room, still chatting with customers. “Joaquin is part-Spanish, part-Danizian, and he tends to assume that all young, beautiful women will marry someday.”
“And you think that’s all he meant?” Emily was distracted by Lazhar’s matter-of-fact, almost casual observation that he thought her beautiful, but she remained uncertain about Joaquin. Still, she couldn’t imagine what other meaning could be attached to the club owner’s parting comment.
“What else could he have meant?” Lazhar’s dark gaze returned to her, sweeping over her hair and face before lingering on her mouth. He lifted his wineglass and gestured at hers. “This is another Spanish wine that I wanted you to try.”
Emily allowed herself to be diverted by the abrupt change of subject and lifted her glass to her lips. The cool, slightly tart white wine was delicious. “It’s very good,” she agreed, wondering how much of it she dared drink since she’d already indulged in two glasses of champagne at the casino.
The soft thrum of guitars suddenly crescendoed and the crowd burst into applause.
“Ah, this will be Pilar.” Lazhar bent closer to make himself heard over the crowd noise, his lips brushing her ear. “Have you seen flamenco dancing before?”
His deep voice shivered up her spine. She told herself to ignore the sensual pull he effortlessly exerted, but it was a losing battle and she knew it. The most she could hope was that she could remain outwardly unaffected so that he didn’t know what his slightest touch and the sound of his voice did to her.
“No.” She shook her head. “Jane had tickets to the touring company of the Madrid Dance Ensemble’s performance at the San Francisco Playhouse last summer, but I had to cancel at the last minute. A section of the program was to be flamenco…I was very disappointed to have missed it.”
“The Madrid Ensemble has performed here in Daniz. I thought they were quite good,” Lazhar said. “But Pilar is a star in her own right. I think you’ll enjoy this.” He looked up as the guitars strummed faster, louder. “Here she is.”
The woman who swirled onto the spotlit wooden floor between the guitarists and audience made an instant impact. The crowd cheered and whistles echoed through the room as she spun slowly, heels rapping the floor in a counterpoint to the guitars’ beat. She was tiny, with exotic features topped by braided ebony hair pinned in a heavy, intricately wound knot at her nape. A single, perfectly shaped red rose nestled against her black hair, echoing the scarlet of her classic Spanish dress. She whisked her skirts above her knees and the ruffled underskirt framed shapely legs clad in sheer black stockings. Her small feet were encased in black leather heels with a strap that accentuated the delicate bones of her ankles. She was a visual feast, beautiful and exotic. Energy poured from her, charging the air with electricity, crackling throughout the room as her passion for the dance infected the audience.
She whirled and dipped, her feet stamping out the rhythm with blurred speed, her castanets clicking as the guitars increased their tempo, luring her ever faster.
Emily couldn’t take her eyes off the dancer and when the music crashed to a halt and she struck a pose, the entire audience burst into spontaneous applause, including Emily.
Before she had time to catch her breath and analyze the performance, however, Pilar was joined by a man. Dressed all in black, he was much taller than the petite Pilar and he radiated the same intensity and emotion. Once again the music began and Emily quickly realized that Pilar and her partner were acting out a classic male-female courtship with their dance, advancing, retreating in a pattern that stirred her and had her breathless.
“Flamenco is all sex and emotion—primal and haunting.” Lazhar murmured in her ear. Emily tore her gaze away from the pair dancing in the spotlight, her gaze meeting his. Sexual attraction pulsed between them, stealing what was left of her breath. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his and the need to lean forward, to cross the short space separating them and taste his mouth, was nearly overwhelming. She was hardly aware that the dance ended, the guitars going silent. The crowd roared their approval.
“You liked it.” Lazhar’s voice held quiet satisfaction.
Emily licked her lips, her throat gone dry. “Yes, very much,” she murmured, barely able to think. She struggled to find a safe, innocuous conversational subject. The heat in his eyes told her that he knew what she was feeling and Emily’s heart raced faster, the room much too warm. “She’s wonderful. Is she a local woman, someone you and Joaquin grew up with?”
“No, she’s Spanish.” His voice was deeper, rougher than normal. “Her agent booked her into the club about five years ago and Joaquin took one look at her and fell in love. When it was time to go, the rest of the troupe left but Pilar stayed. They were married within a few months and she’s been dancing here ever since. She tours Europe for two or three months out of the year but hates to leave home and Joaquin for longer.”
“She’s so tiny and he’s so big, they must make an interesting looking couple.” Emily was grateful that Lazhar had followed her lead but despite their carefully polite conversation, tension and heightened awareness crackled between them.
Lazhar grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the lines of his face softening with amusement. “He can pick her up with one hand, but trust me, Pilar may be tiny, but Joaquin has to fight for his share of influence in their family.”
The guitarists began a set of mellow music. Lazhar glanced at the polished dance floor, quickly filling with couples moving to the music.
“Dance with me.” He caught Emily’s hand, drawing her with him out of the booth.
Chapter Five
It was a mistake. He knew it the moment she turned into his arms and lifted her hand to his shoulder. He’d been taking advantage of any excuse to touch her all evening with a guiding hand on her arm or her waist. All of the contact was socially acceptable between a man and a woman spending an evening together.
But even that small physical connection had been enough to set his blood simmering. He’d forced himself to rein in the growing urge to thread his fingers through her thick sweep of goldenbrown hair, slick his tongue over the plush fullness of her lower lip and taste her.
Now only inches separated her from him but holding her loosely within the circle of his arms wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. The music pulsed around them, the dance floor growing more and more crowded until another couple jostled them, bumping Emily off-stride. Lazhar caught her closer, supporting her weight against his.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be.” He welcomed the excuse to wrap her tighter, her slim body resting against him, her thighs aligned with his, the soft curves of her breasts against his chest, her temple touching his jaw, her silky hair brushing his throat and chin. Having his arms around her wasn’t enough but he knew that they were being observed by too many eyes, friendly though they probably were. If he gave in to the urge to kiss her in this very public place, the press would pursue them more than ever. And he didn’t want Emily hounded by paparazzi.
So they stayed on the dance floor, slowly swaying to the throb of the passionate guitars, until the musicians took a break. Lazhar knew he’d reached his limit; he couldn’t sit next to Emily and carry on polite conversation when all he could think about was making love to her. Reluctantly he released her, stepping back only slightly, his hand resting on her waist, and nodded briefly at the two bodyguards seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor.
The two men moved quickly and by the time Lazhar and Emily stepped out onto the sidewalk, the Mercedes was waiting for them, engine running, the back door held wide.
Lazhar couldn’t bring himself to release her hand and let her move away from him. Emily didn’t protest so they sat silently, pressed thigh-to-thigh, as the car purred along the winding road that climbed to the palace. He could have raised the privacy window, shutting them away from the chauffeur and guard in the front seat. But though he trusted the two men implicitly, he didn’t want the faintest hint of gossip to touch Emily. He’d always been scrupulously careful about keeping his personal life private and he felt even more strongly about protecting Emily. If all went as he’d planned, she would be his wife; he wouldn’t give anyone cause to question her actions.
So he held on to control by his fingertips and fought back the need to pull her into his arms.
He smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand, then the silky skin at her wrist, and felt the frantic pound of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Impatient to reach privacy, he dismissed his driver and then the guard as soon as they arrived at the palace, leaving him alone to walk Emily to her suite.
Aware that security cameras scanned the corridors at regular intervals, he opened the door to her suite and followed her inside.
The room was shadowy, dimly lit only by the faint light from a bedside lamp left burning in the adjoining room.
“Lazhar, I don’t think…” Emily began, her normally clear tones husky with emotion.
“Shh.” He silenced her with a fingertip against her lips. “Don’t think.”
He backed her against the door panels, lifted her hands to place them around his neck, and lowered his head to cover her mouth with his.
And was instantly lost in the hot, honeyed taste of her mouth that opened willingly beneath his, the press of her body that curved so perfectly against his own, the scent of her skin and hair that stirred his senses with every breath he drew.
He was drunk on the taste, scent and feel of her. He sank his fingers deep into the heavy thickness of her hair and tilted her face up to his. She murmured incoherently, her arms tightening around his neck to hold him closer as the kiss turned hotter, the press of their bodies more urgent in the thick silence of the darkened room.
Lazhar wanted her. Emily clearly wanted him. And the bedroom was only steps away. But when he drew back, intending to obey the urging of his body, pick her up and carry her the few feet to her bed, sanity intruded.
“Damn,” he muttered, resting his forehead against hers while he struggled for control.
“What?” Emily murmured, opening heavylidded green eyes to look up at him, confusion vying with arousal on her expressive features.
“We can’t do this.”
“Why?” Awareness chased away the drowsy, passionate cast of her face. Still flushed, she stiffened and pulled out of his arms. “Of course we can’t.” Her voice was equally stiff. “I think you should leave now, Your Highness. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
Lazhar was painfully aroused but he couldn’t help smiling ruefully at the contrast between the vibrant, passionate Emily he’d held a moment before and this prim, annoyed and obviously uncomfortable Emily who faced him now.
“It was my pleasure.” He caught her shoulders and bent to take her mouth in a brief, possessive kiss. “Especially this.” She glared at him, speechless, and he smiled, delighted with her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She didn’t answer and he stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. He clearly heard the sharp thud as something hit the panels. It was probably her purse, or maybe a shoe, he thought as he moved quickly down the corridor, whistling softly, his hands shoved into his pockets.
Emily woke to the sound of birds warbling and chirping outside her room, where the earlymorning sunshine flooded the garden. Despite the early hour and the late night before, she rose, showered, dressed in a bright yellow sundress she found hanging in the closet, slipped her feet into matching leather sandals, and within the hour was ready to search for the breakfast room.
She stepped out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her, and paused, trying to remember if the maid had led her to the right or the left the prior morning.
“I think we went to the right,” she murmured. She set off down the thick carpet that ran down the center of the wide hallway, leaving blackveined grey marble floor visible along both sides.
She hadn’t gone far when a man wearing the blue and gold uniform of a house servant entered the hall from a side passage and walked toward her.
“Miss Parks?”
“Yes.”
“His Highness, King Abbar, asks that you join him for breakfast in his garden. I’m to take you to him, should you choose to accept his invitation.”
Emily smiled with delight. “I would be more than happy to join the king.”
The man bowed. “If you’ll follow me, please. This way.” He gestured down the hallway he’d just traversed and set off, Emily walking behind him.
Once again, she quickly lost her bearings as they turned into yet another hallway and then another. At last, however, they reached the familiar door where the soldiers stood guard and her guide led her through the king’s spacious sitting room and out into the sunshine.
“Good morning, Emily,” King Abbar’s lined face lit with a smile.
“Good morning, Your Highness.” Emily let the servant pull out a chair and seat her. “How lovely of you to invite me to share breakfast with you.”
“And how gracious of you to accept.” The king’s eyes twinkled. He gestured at the waiter, who leapt into action, deftly pouring equal streams of coffee and hot milk into the Limoges china cup next to Emily’s plate. “What would you like to eat this morning? My chef will make anything you want, from American pancakes to British kippers to a Danizian omelet.”
“I think I’d like an omelet.”
“Excellent.” He waved his hand and the servant bowed and withdrew. “That is my choice as well, together with fruit and our own Danizian version of coffee, which is a bit of a cross between Turkish coffee and Italian espresso. You must taste it and tell me what you think.”
Emily obediently lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. The rich flavor of strong coffee blended with the vanilla-flavored milk, creating a smooth, succulent drink.
“Mmm.” Emily gave a small hum of appreciation, her eyes closing briefly. “This is almost sinfully delicious,” she told him. “I have a favorite coffee shop in San Francisco, not far from my office, and I’d love to take this recipe home with me so I can ask the owner to make it for me. Is that possible?”
“I will have my assistant write it down for you,” he smiled approvingly. “I’m pleased that you like it. How are you enjoying other things about my country? Are you having a pleasant visit?”
“I’m having a wonderful time,” she said promptly. “Last night we visited the casino and a club named Pilar’s where we saw flamenco dancing.”
“Ah, yes, I believe that Pilar’s is one of my son’s favorite nightspots.” King Abbar’s gaze was veiled and he looked away, lifting his own cup to drink. “What did you think of our casino?”
“I was fascinated.” Emily leaned forward, the heady rush of excitement she’d felt when she’d won last night returning in a gust of memory. “And I actually won at roulette.”
“Did you?” The king’s eyebrows winged upward in surprise. “Are you often lucky at games of chance?”
“I have no idea. Last night was the first time I’ve ever played roulette. Lazhar explained the system his grandfather used and when I tried it, I won. A lot,” she added, still faintly incredulous at the ease with which she’d gained such a large sum.
His gaze sharpened and he watched her closely over the rim of his cup. “Lazhar told you about the gambling system his grandfather used?”
“Yes.” Emily lowered her voice. “He told me that his grandfather taught him to play blackjack and roulette when he was only six years old, is that true?”
The swift grin that curved the king’s mouth was as mischievous as a boy’s. “Yes, I’m afraid it is true. My father—Lazhar’s grandfather—thought Lazhar should have a chance to experience life out from under the watchful eye of palace protocol. So he took my son to many places that in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have, and taught him things that might have been better learned when he was older.”
“But Lazhar loved him very much and treasures those memories of his grandfather,” Emily said with a soft smile.
“Yes, he does.” The king eyed her consideringly. “Did Lazhar tell you that?”
“He told me that he gave his winnings to St. Catherine’s because his grandfather thought he should and he loved his grandfather,” Emily said. “I gathered from Lazhar’s words and his tone that he treasured the time he spent with his grandfather.”
“Yes, we all did.” He sighed heavily, his expression sad.
“I assume that Lazhar’s grandfather is no longer with you?” Emily asked tentatively.
“He passed away just before Lazhar’s eighteenth birthday.” King Abbar was silent for a long moment, apparently lost in memories. Then he roused himself, visibly shaking off the brief melancholy. “What did you do with your winnings from last night? Are you thinking of visiting the Jewel Market to search for the perfect diamond or ruby later on this morning?”
Emily laughed. “No, not at all.” She glanced around, saw that they were completely alone as the servants had disappeared into the king’s suite. “I did what Lazhar and his grandfather did.”
He eyed her. “And what was that?”
“I stuffed the money into an envelope and dropped it into the poorbox at St. Catherine’s.”
His thick white eyebrows lifted in surprise. Then he chuckled, the deep sound of amusement startling birds from the tree in the corner of the garden. “How much was it?”
“About ten thousand.” Emily frowned. “I think. I won seven thousand at roulette, but then I lost at the dice table and won several hands of blackjack, so I can’t be sure of the exact sum, but I think it must have been around ten thousand dollars.”
“That’s a tidy sum,” he commented. “I’m sure the sisters at St. Catherine’s will put it to good use.”
Their breakfast arrived and the conversation turned to more general subjects. King Abbar answered her questions about his beloved Daniz and in turn, Emily willingly shared details about her life in San Francisco. When breakfast was finished, a last cup of coffee shared, and he reluctantly left her for his doctor-ordered morning rest, she gladly agreed to return for a game of chess before dinner that evening.
The same servant who had escorted her from her bedroom suite to the king’s rooms, guided her to a sun-filled morning room where the queen and Jenna were sharing morning coffee and croissants.
