The Kincaids: Private Mergers

Four

Laurel’s expression grew increasingly bemused as the limousine that had collected them from McCarran International Airport cruised along Las Vegas’s famous Strip.

“There’s no where else in the world like Vegas,” Rakin told Laurel, watching as she tried to assimilate the staggering visual impact of the city.

“It’s like a Hollywood set.” She twisted around to look out of a small window. “I don’t remember any of this from back when I was here as a child.”

“Then I shall have to show you everything.”

“I can’t wait.” Even under the tawdry neon lights of the limousine interior her eyes shone with excitement.

By the time the white limousine nosed into the forecourt of the luxury hotel he’d booked for them, Rakin half-regretted not reserving a suite in one of the more over-the-top resorts.

“There are more outrageous hotels.” Rakin stood at the door as she emerged from the limousine. “But I thought you might appreciate somewhere more peaceful when a retreat from the madness becomes necessary.”

Laurel clambered out to stand beside him. Dressed in a pair of white linen trousers and a taupe shell top she looked cool and comfortable. Pulling her sunglasses down from where they rested on the top of her head to shade her eyes, she said, “I can’t imagine that ‘peace’ is a word one often associates with Vegas.”

“Believe it or not, there are peaceful places to be found not far from here.”

“Like where?”

“Eli and I came here a couple of times during vacations while we were at Harvard. The desert is vast and undisturbed. Beautiful. Sometimes we’d hike through Red Rock Canyon.”

There was a long pause as she examined him.

“You were homesick,” she said after a moment, a peculiar note in her voice. “You missed Diyafa … and your family.”

Rakin didn’t reply. But he was relieved he couldn’t see her expression behind the dark, opaque veil of the sunglasses. He suspected it would be too kind for comfort. Pity was the very last thing he wanted from this woman he was determined to marry.

He certainly wasn’t going to explain the complicated relationship he shared with his family. The overwhelming expectations of his grandfather that had started when he was barely out the cradle and set him forever at odds with his cousins. His father’s fits of anger, which had caused his mother to weep in-consolably. His own growing resentment against his father that had increased after he’d been sent to boarding school in England. And the lingering guilt for abandoning his mother to deal with his father which had not been eased by the bravely stoic letters written in her perfect, flowing handwriting.

By his thirteenth birthday his parents had been dead—and by the time he and Eli had first hiked Red Rock Canyon they’d been buried for a decade.

So Laurel was wrong. The pilgrimages he and Eli had made to Vegas had nothing to do with missing Diyafa—or his family.

No need for her to know there were no nostalgic, happy memories for him to hanker after—or at least, not until he successfully talked her into marrying him to nullify Prince Ahmeer’s latest round of threats. For now, he’d promised his Southern rebel fun and adventure—and he intended to ensure she experienced plenty of both.

Cupping her elbow, he ushered her in the porter’s wake into the quiet, discreet luxury of the hotel lobby. A hostess rushed forward and offered them each a glass of champagne. Before Rakin could refuse, Laurel shook her head.

She flashed him a rueful glance. “I want a clear head—I’m not missing a moment of this.”

Her humor caused his mood to lighten. “I like you tipsy,” he said softly.

A flush swept along her cheekbones. “It’s not gentlemanly of you to remind me.”

Coming from his lady-turned-rebel, the statement caused him to chuckle. “I thought you were tired of social constraints?”

“Not so tired that I’ll get tipsy again any time soon.”

They’d reached the reservations desk. Laurel leaned forward to answer a question from the reservations clerk and Rakin was instantly all too aware of the taut, lean lines of her body. Her bare arms rested on the polished counter and she spread her hands drawing his attention to the rings that decorated her graceful fingers.

Her ring finger was bare. His gaze lingered on the band of pale skin that evidenced her broken engagement to Eli.

A light, summery scent floated to him. Rakin inhaled deeply. Could one get tipsy on perfume? he wondered, then shook off the absurd notion.

This was about business.

Not about Laurel’s perfume. Not about the pleasure that her company brought. Hard to believe he’d only met her yesterday. It had been tough to convince her to come away today. Once she’d accepted his invitation, she’d immediately tried to buy time. She’d suggested the following weekend. Rakin couldn’t risk her changing her mind. He’d pushed until she’d capitulated. He’d won. She’d agreed to two days. He had two days in which to convince her to marry him—and secure his position in Gifts of Gold, the company of which he’d been appointed CEO.

Two days …

He feared it wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to tempt her to play longer.

Once they’d completed the brief check-in formalities for the penthouse suite he’d reserved, Rakin wasted no time setting his plan of attack into action. Bending his head, he murmured, “I thought we might go exploring.”

Laurel had taken her sunglasses off, and without the shielding screen her green eyes sparkled up at him. “Sounds great—I can’t wait.”

Some of her joyous enthusiasm appeared to be rubbing off on him because Rakin couldn’t stop himself from smiling back at her. “Then there’s no time to waste.”

Laurel very soon discovered that Las Vegas did indeed have spectacular sights.

In fact, her mind was quite boggled by the end of the first hour. The interior of the Luxor hotel was concealed in an immense black glass pyramid guarded by a giant crouching sphinx. But inside, instead of the treasures of ancient Egypt, Laurel was amazed to find the reconstructed bow of the giant Titanic complete with a lifeboat. As she and Rakin wandered through the installations, Laurel was moved by the stories of the last hours of the crew and passengers on the ship’s tragic maiden voyage.

The Liberace Museum, by contrast, with its collection of resplendent, unashamed kitsch, made her giggle. The glittering mirror-tiled piano and the rhinestone-covered grand were wonderfully over the top. On catching sight of Rakin’s appalled expression as he inspected the famed red, white and blue hot-pants suit, a mischievous impulse overtook her.

She eyed the black jeans and dazzling white T-shirt he wore, then leaned close to whisper, “I think your wardrobe should include one of those outfits.”

“It would cause quite a stir in Diyafa if I ever wore such a garment. A national disaster, in fact. There are still some conservative elements who would never recover from the sight of Prince Ahmeer Al-Abdellah’s grandson sporting hot pants.” Across the narrow space separating them, their eyes met, and for one charged moment a connection pulsed between them…. Then it passed and hilarity broke.

“Enough of museums,” said Rakin, reaching for her hand when they’d sufficiently regained their composure. “I think we need a little more action.”

A shock of surprise rushed through her as his hand closed around hers. The clasp was warm and firm. Rakin showed no sign that the gesture had affected him to the same extent—he was striding purposefully forward, seemingly unaware that they were holding hands like a pair of lovers.

She was making too much of it.

Rakin was treating her with the kind of warm friendship she craved. So why spoil it by imagining intimacies that didn’t exist? She should take the gesture at face value and go with the flow. No need to overanalyze the camaraderie that was developing between them. That, too, was part of breaking free.

Easier said than done.

Laurel couldn’t dampen her awareness of their linked hands, and she finally slid her hand out of his and came to a stop when a familiar skyline materialized ahead.

“New York?” The Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building were interspersed with other landmark buildings. This was his idea of more action? But she had to admit the replica skyscrapers were impressive. “Oh, wow, there’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“The buildings are about a third of actual life size,” Rakin informed her. “But it’s not the sight of the buildings that will give you the adrenaline rush I promised.”

“New York–New York? A rollercoaster?” she gasped moments later.

“Why not?” He shot her a taunting look. “Scared?”

Even if she had been, his all-too-male I-dare-you expression would have forced her to bite her lip. She’d told him that she craved adventure, so there was no way she was going to back down now.

She stuck up her chin. “Of course not. I love rides.”

Love was a slight exaggeration. She hadn’t been on a ride in years. A quick calculation left Laurel astonished by exactly how long it had been since she’d last experienced such a ride. Where had the years gone? And, more to the point, where had her sense of fun gone? When had she let herself become so staid … so boring? When had she forgotten that there was a world out there beyond the confines of her family and the demands of public relations for The Kincaid Group?

“At least I did love them once upon a time,” she added a little more dubiously, hoping that her youthful infatuation with roller coasters would return by the time they reached the start.

“The track twists between the skyscrapers—” Rakin jerked a thumb in the direction of the buildings “—rising to two hundred feet between the buildings.”

“Thanks! That’s very comforting to know.”

“It reaches speeds of over sixty-five miles per hour—and there’s a place where the train drops a hundred and forty-four feet.”

The last snippet of information gave her pause. “Are you deliberately trying to frighten me?”

“I’d never do such a thing.” But the twitch of his lips gave him away.

Humor rushed through her like champagne bubbles rising. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Any adventure needs a good case of butterflies to start it off—dread heightens anticipation.”

That sealed it. “You are trying to scare me—wicked man!”

She advanced on him, brandishing her purse.

Rakin grabbed her wrists before she could take a swing at him, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “Are you having fun?”

She stilled. Lowering her purse, she glanced quickly around. How quickly she’d forgotten to behave with the dignity that befitted the eldest Kincaid daughter. Embarrassment swept over her; then she banished it. Who amongst the hordes knew her? And who would even care? Freedom followed in a dizzying burst.

With wonder she said, “Yes, I’m having a fantastic time.”

She skipped into line beside Rakin.

“The trains look like yellow New York taxicabs—complete with hoods and headlights.” She thought they looked delightful, and not at all frightening.

“We’re in luck, we’re going to get front seats,” said Rakin, as an attendant ushered them forward.

Once seated in the front row with the restraints securely fastened, Laurel’s enthusiasm waned at the unobstructed view of the red track ahead. Luck? Maybe not. As the train started forward her heart rose into her throat. “Rakin, what recklessness possessed me to do this?”

“You’re going to love it.” Rakin’s eyes gleamed with humor.

But Laurel was no longer so sure. Ahead of them the track climbed to the height of Everest. The train chugged up, and with each foot they progressed the butterflies that Rakin had stirred up broke free of their chrysalis in Laurel’s stomach and started to flutter madly.

They crested the top of the rise.

Laurel caught a glimpse of the Las Vegas skyline laid out in front of them. In the distance, hills undulated in a long curve.

The train gathered momentum.

“Oh, my heavens!”

Rakin’s hand closed around hers. Before she could catch her breath, they were hurtling down. Then they were rising…. The next plunge downward left Laurel’s stomach somewhere in the sky above them. Air left her lungs in a silent scream. She could hear Rakin laughing beside her.

Ahead, high above, she glimpsed a complete loop of red track.

“Noooo …” she moaned.

She gripped Rakin’s hand until her fingers hurt.

The train swooped into the upward curve of the loop. Tension, tight and terrifying, clawed at her body. Laurel could hear screams behind her. For a disconcerting instant the world turned over, hovered, blue sky flashing below them in a spinning blur; then everything righted itself. They sped down into a series of tight heart-hammering curves that pressed her thigh up against Rakin’s.

A wild euphoria exploded inside her.

The Statue of Liberty flashed past, and Laurel found herself laughing. Moments later the train shot into womb-like darkness.

Rakin murmured something beside her, but the sound of her heart hammering in her head drowned it out. Her hand was still gripping his, and Laurel realized her nails must be digging into his palm. Hot, awkward embarrassment flooded her.

“Sorry,” she muttered, letting go.

“It didn’t worry me.”

“I appreciated the loan,” she said lightly, and Rakin chuckled in response.

Gradually her eyes adjusted until she was able to make out lights and shapes of an underground station. Noise surrounded her—the attendant’s cheery greeting as he freed her from the safety restraint, the clatter of trains on the track.

When they emerged from the front seats Laurel’s legs felt like Jell-O. But sheer exhilaration propelled her forward.

“You were right, I loved it!”

Laurel didn’t care that she sounded breathless as she spun around to grin giddily at Rakin through the cloud of hair that had whipped around her face during the thrill ride. Right now she felt high on joy—prepared to take on the world. Anything he wanted to throw at her, she was game for. The surge of strength—the feeling that she could do whatever she wanted—was supremely empowering. Getting a life …

Yet Rakin wasn’t even breathing hard. And, what’s more, not even one dark hair had strayed out of place. A wicked urge to see him look a little rumpled stole through her.

“Again,” she challenged. “I want to do it again.”

It was evening, and the observation deck on the fiftieth floor of Paris Las Vegas’s Eiffel Tower was deserted.

Rakin felt Laurel go still beneath the hand he’d placed across her back to usher her from the glass elevator.

“How beautiful,” she breathed, and gestured to the warm, dusky light that turned the observation deck to burnished bronze. “It’s like being in a capsule of gold.”

He watched indulgently as she picked her way along the observation deck, her high heels tapping against the steel, to take in the dramatic view of the city stretching to the purpling mountains in the distance.

Laurel came to a stop and the fiery glow of the sinking rays lit the hair piled on top of her head, throwing the elegant black strapless dress she wore into sharp relief. Against the backdrop of the sunset she looked like a goddess waiting to be summoned back from earth.

“It has been the most extraordinary day,” she said breaking the spell that held him entranced. “Recklessness drove me to accept your invitation.”

His gaze fixed on her, he said, “Recklessness?”

“I gave in to the temptation to break the Winthrop ban on gambling.” She spread her arms wide to embrace the view. “But I didn’t expect this. I’ve no idea how you’ll intend to keep the action—and the surprises—rolling tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, there’s plenty more to see,” Rakin told her, and closed the gap between them. “Dolphins. Sharks. Lions. We haven’t even started on the animal encounters.”

The sideways glance she gave him held a very human glint of mischief. “Or we could try the thrill rides at the Stratosphere Tower.”

Rakin groaned. “I’ve created a monster. Three rides on New York-New York, not to mention braving the Speed roller coaster at NASCAR Cafe this afternoon—and you still crave more?”

“I never realized what I was missing out on—I should’ve put Ride a roller coaster on my list.”

“You made a list of things to do in Vegas?” Had he left anything out?

But before he could ask, Laurel colored and averted her gaze. A gust of wind blew a tendril of hair that had escaped across her cheek, and she brushed it back. “It’s not exactly about Vegas.”

“But you have a list?” he pressed.

Laurel gave a small nod.

Her reticence intrigued him. “So what’s on it?”

“I can’t remember,” she mumbled and her flush turned a deep shade of crimson.

Laurel Kincaid was a terrible liar.

“Now you’ve woken my curiosity.”

She muttered something. Then she pointed. “Look, isn’t that pretty?”

Rakin allowed himself to be distracted. Far below, the Strip was starting to light up as Las Vegas prepared for the coming night like a showgirl dressing for an after-dark performance.

“Oh, and look there!”

Rakin’s followed her finger. Three rings of fountains had leapt out from the lake in front of the Bellagio, the high plumes illuminated by bright light.

A glance at Laurel revealed that she was transfixed.

“We’ll see the fountains from closer up during dinner.” He’d booked a table at Picasso specifically so Laurel could enjoy the display.

“From up here it gives another perspective. This tower looks like every picture I’ve seen of the real Eiffel Tower. It’s amazing.”

Rakin hadn’t moved his attention from her face. Her changing expressions revealed every emotion she experienced. Wonder. Excitement.

For one wild moment he considered what her features would look like taut with desire, her dark-red hair spread loose across his pillow….

He shut his eyes to block out the tantalizing vision.

“So have you ever visited Paris or Venice? I’d love to visit both.”

To his relief her voice interrupted his torrid imaginings. “Not Venice,” he said, his voice hoarser than normal. “But I’ve been to Paris often—my mother loved Paris. She attended the école Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts on the Left Bank across from the Louvre.”

“She’s an artist?”

Rakin nodded. “She was—she died.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to reopen—”

The remorse on Laurel’s face made him say quickly, “Don’t worry. Talking about her doesn’t upset me. She’s been gone a long time. Most people avoid mentioning her—it makes them uncomfortable.” It ran contrary to his own need to talk about his mother, to remember her as she’d been. Talented. Mercurial. Loving. “My father died, too.”

“You must miss them both.”

The memories of his father were much more ambivalent. But there was no need for Laurel to discover the undercurrents that lurked beneath the mask he carefully preserved. So he focused on the facts. “My parents met in Paris.”

“How romantic.”

It was the conclusion he’d expected—no, led—her to draw. His mother had also thought it romantic. His father had called it fate. Neither romance nor fate had been enough in the end.

The night they’d met, Laurel had asked him whether he believed in fate …

It was Rakin’s turn to turn away. The sunset blazed along the skyline.

“It was spring time.” The words forced themselves past the tightness in his throat.

“Even more romantic.”

Without looking at Laurel, he continued to weave the tale that had become a legend of tabloid lies. “My parents returned to Diyafa for a lavish wedding, and I was born less than a year later.” That had been the end of the romance and the beginning of his mother’s harsh reality. As his father had the male heir he wanted, the sheik no longer needed to woo his wife. Duty, rather than desire, had kept his parents together until their deaths.