Royalty is their birthright, power and passion are their due!

ROMANCING THE CROWN: LEILA & GAGE

Two captivating stories of regal romance from two fantastic favourite authors

ROMANCING THE CROWN: LEILA & GAGE

Virgin Seduction

KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

Royal Spy

VALERIE PARV

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Virgin Seduction

KATHLEEN CREIGHTON

ROMANCING THE CROWN

The crown prince of Montebello is home at last. Now the Montebellan royal family extends its hand in friendship to the Tamiri sheikhdom and journeys to Tamir to celebrate a royal wedding – or is that weddings?

Leila Kamal: The youngest Tamiri princess’s impulsive actions have stirred up a hornets’ nest. But what stings most is that her new husband has yet to make love to his wife!

Cade Gallagher: This brash American knows he’s all wrong for a pampered princess. Still he’s never seen anyone so lovely…or wanted a woman so much.

Dear Reader,

I was thrilled to be asked to participate in this wonderful series, ROMANCING THE CROWN, but I must confess that when I learned I would be writing about the princess of a mythical Arab kingdom, my first thought was, “Who, me? But I don’t do Arab sheikh books!” How, I wondered, would I ever be able to write convincingly of a people and a culture I knew absolutely nothing about?

But as I began the research for Virgin Seduction, it suddenly came to me: this isn’t a book about sheikhdoms and Arabs and Eastern Mediterranean culture, it’s the story of two complete strangers, who don’t even know they’re in love yet, struggling to find a way to make a life together. Throw in the fact that they are already married to each other for a dash of suspense, I thought, and, lo and behold, here are all the elements I love most to write about! From that moment on, Virgin Seduction truly became for me a labour of love.

Now perhaps you, too, will fall in love with Princess Leila and her handsome Texan, Cade Gallagher, as I did, as they seek their very own happily-ever-after.

All the best,

Kathleen Creighton

Prologue

Sheik Ahmed Kamal, absolute ruler of the Mediterranean island kingdom of Tamir, had reason to count himself among those whom Allah has richly blessed. Indeed, he was the happiest of men as he stood in the modest but beautifully appointed mosque that was his family’s traditional place of worship and prayed for divine guidance and blessings for his youngest son, Hassan, on the solemn occasion of his marriage.

Before him were the bride and groom—at this moment, at least, appropriately separated—with eyes downcast as befitted such a solemn and worshipful occasion. Today the bride—as well as many of those assembled for the Nikah ceremony, and Sheik Ahmed himself—was modestly veiled and dressed in the traditional costume of her husband’s people. In Ahmed’s opinion, it was a much more pleasing mode of dress to both the eye and the spirit than the Western styles he’d grudgingly adopted in recent years.

A fine woman, Elena Rahman, Ahmed thought to himself. Hassan had chosen well—or so Ahmed had been assured by Alima, his wife, whose judgment in such matters he had learned to trust. To be honest, he’d had reservations about the girl at first—she was, after all, an American. And the daughter of a terrorist! But as Alima had pointed out, she was at least a true believer by blood and birth. And it must not be forgotten that Elena Rahman was CEO of one of the most prosperous oil refining companies in the American state of Texas. Yes, thought Ahmed, who had ambitious plans for his country’s own oil resources…Hassan had made a very good choice, indeed.

As he began the first of the required Quranic verses, Ahmed’s gaze expanded to include the two people standing with the bride and groom as witnesses, and his heart grew near to bursting with pride and thanksgiving. His eldest son, Sheik Rashid, and Rashid’s wife, Princess Julia of Montebello, were only recently wed themselves, and parents of Sheik Ahmed’s first grandchild, Omar—already the apple of his grandmother’s eye, and, it must be confessed, of his grandfather’s as well.

As serene and happy as the couple appeared today, the truth was that Rashid and Julia’s union had come about only after much intrigue and extreme peril. In the end, it had brought about the reconciliation of a century-old feud between their respective countries, and as a result, prospects for a future of prosperity and mutual cooperation between Tamir and Montebello had never been more promising.

It was time now to conclude the ceremony with the traditional prayers for the bride and groom, for their families and friends and for the community at large. As he intoned the beautiful and time-honored words, Ahmed raised his head and his arms to encompass them all: his two sons and their wives; his own beloved Alima, still as lovely as the day of their own Nikah ceremony; their three daughters, Nadia, the eldest; gentle Samira; and Leila, the youngest and secretly his favorite—and most vexing—child.

The ceremony was almost concluded. Quickly, Ahmed’s eyes continued their sweep of those assembled inside the mosque—a small, select group, for the most part close family and friends, according to the traditions of his people. There in the back, he caught sight of Butrus Dabir, his trusted advisor and—who knows?—perhaps soon-to-be son-in-law, if only Nadia—stubborn daughter!—would see fit to accept him.

But that small cloud over the sheik’s happiness passed quickly.

Also among the guests assembled in the mosque were the bride’s two guests, from Texas—that rather outspoken woman who was Elena’s friend—what was her name? Oh yes, Kitty. And the tall and somewhat mysterious man who had come as the bride’s guardian and protector. According to Elena, the man was her adopted brother and only family, although, since there was no actual blood tie between Cade Gallagher and Elena Rahman, and Ahmed being a suspicious and extremely traditional man by nature, he thought it a strange relationship.

Near the front of the assembly, dressed in well-tailored Western-style suits, was the contingent from Montebello. Several, including Ahmed’s new ally and in-law King Marcus Sebastiani and his firstborn son, Prince Lucas, stood with heads respectfully bowed. The day after tomorrow, to conclude the weekend’s festivities, there would be a state dinner and reception to celebrate the joyous occasion of the prince’s miraculous return from the dead as well as the new alliance between the two countries as personified by the marriage of Rashid and Julia.

But first…tomorrow would be the Walima, the feast given by Hassan to celebrate the consummation of his marriage to Elena Rahman. The palace would be ablaze with flowers and light and alive with laughter and music. There would be an abundance of good food, good friends and good conversation, all of which Ahmed most especially enjoyed. It would be a joyous occasion. On this day, all was well with the Kamal family. Tamir was at peace, and prospects for its future prosperity were bright.

Yes, thought Sheik Ahmed as he uttered the final words of the Khutba-tun-Nikah, life is indeed good.

Allah be praised.

Chapter 1

From a balcony overlooking the palace gardens, Leila watched the man in the dove-gray cowboy hat stroll unhurried along tiled pathways. She’d watched many people traverse the garden that morning, but she particularly liked the way this man moved—confidently but without arrogance. The way he seemed to study everything around him—the flowers, the fountains, the colorful mosaics at his feet—with unselfconscious interest reminded her of a child at the zoo.

She laughed out loud as a brightly colored bird flitted across the man’s path, startling him. He lifted his head to follow the bird’s flight, revealing a deeply tanned, hard-boned face, cheeks creased, teeth bared in a smile. For several seconds he seemed to look right at Leila, and her breath caught, stifling the laughter. Oh, she knew he couldn’t really see her. She was well concealed behind the balcony’s intricately carved screen. It was just that he had such a nice smile.

“That one,” she said in a conspirator’s whisper to the woman beside her. “Who is he—the one in the hat? I saw him yesterday at the wedding. He must be an American.”

“Oh yes, Princess, he is—and not only that, but from Texas.” The servant Nargis threw a guilty glance toward the divan where her mistress, Leila’s sister Nadia, had her nose—and her attention—safely buried in her sketchbook. She lowered her voice anyway. “His name is Cade Gallagher. The princess—er…Mrs. Elena invited him. Salma heard her tell Madam Alima that he is her guardian.”

Leila made a derisive sound, forgetting to whisper. “Do not be silly. Elena is an American. In America women don’t have guardians.” She couldn’t keep a note of envy out of her voice. Her new sister-in-law was only four years older than Leila, but so smart and sophisticated, and the head of her own company! And still she had managed to attract and win the love of a handsome and powerful man like Hassan.

Nargis shrugged. “It is what I heard.”

“Perhaps Elena only wished to honor the customs of our country,” said Leila’s sister Samira in an appeasing tone, laying aside the needlepoint she’d been working on and coming to join them. “You know that since the death of her father, she has no family of her own. This man may be a distant relative, perhaps a friend or even a business associate. Anyway,” she added, gently chastising, “if Hassan has agreed to have him here as a guest, there can be nothing improper about it. You should not gossip, Leila.”

Leila hooked her arm through her sister’s, not in the least chastened. “Oh, but look at him, Sammi—do you not think he is handsome?” But at the same time she was thinking that the word “handsome” really did not suit the tall man in the gray suit and cowboy hat. It seemed too pale and feminine a word, somehow.

“He seems very…rugged,” said Samira after a moment’s consideration, voicing Leila’s very thoughts. “Quite imposing, really.” She tilted her head sideways as she thought about it. “It would be difficult not to be intimidated by such a man.”

“Oh, I know,” Leila teased, rolling her eyes, “you’d prefer someone more suave…someone smooth, someone sophisticated—” she pointed “—like that one there—the dark, beautiful one with the impossibly gorgeous eyes.” And much too aware of how gorgeous they are, she thought with disdain. She didn’t know quite why, but she found something about the man vaguely unpleasant. Rather like food that had been cooked in too much grease. “And…is he not the one I saw talking with you yesterday?”

“That is Desmond Caruso, Princess,” Nargis interrupted eagerly, pleased to be the bearer of information that would make her once more the center of attention. “He is one of the Sebastianis—you see, that is Duke Lorenzo with him. And the woman with the red hair is Duke Lorenzo’s new wife, Eliza. She is an American, too, you know.” Her voice dropped to a gleeful whisper. “A newspaper reporter.”

“Really?” As always, Leila’s interest perked up at the mention of America, and she did not stop then to wonder why Samira had suddenly gone so pale and silent.

“Really—you three are the worst gossips,” said Nadia, making a tsk-tsking sound. But she said it good-naturedly as she, too, came to join them at the screen.

There was a little silence while the four women watched the shifting patterns below in the gardens…people gathering, greeting, moving on. Sounds drifted up to them on the balcony…the tinkle of water in the fountains, snatches of laughter and the murmur of conversation.

“Well,” Leila said flatly, “I do not trust a man who is that handsome.” A small, involuntary shiver surprised her. Funny—the same thing had happened to her when she had seen him talking with Samira yesterday in the corridor near the great hall. Something about the man was definitely off, but Leila did not mention it. No one would take her seriously anyway. She smiled with lowered lashes and added in a voice like a purr, “I much prefer the tall American. Do you not think he looks like a cowboy? Even dressed in a business suit?”

Samira smiled indulgently. “Oh, Leila, you just like Americans. You have a fascination with that country.”

“Why not?” said Leila, tossing back her long, black hair. “America is fascinating.”

“How do you know?” Samira asked with a trill of laughter.

Leila could feel her cheeks growing warm. “Hassan evidently thinks so. And Elena has told me about America—especially Texas. Since Elena is from there, it must be a very wonderful place, must it not? She is so smart, so…” She caught herself before she could say the word in her mind—free!—and instead turned her back on Samira and addressed the sister on her other side. “Nadia? Wouldn’t you like to visit America?”

Nadia gave an indifferent shrug. “What is so special about America? It is just…very, very big.” “But,” said Leila eagerly, “that is what makes it special.” She threw her arms wide. “It is so big. And Tamir—” she brought her hands almost together “—is so small.” She finished with a sigh. “It is hard to imagine a place so enormous.”

Oh, but Leila could imagine it. If she closed her eyes she could see herself mounted on one of her brother Rashid’s polo ponies, riding like the wind across the green-gold fields of his farm on the outer island of Siraj, with the wind blowing back her hair and the sky cloudless and blue above and all around her and the land seeming to go on and on forever.

Only it did not go on forever, of course—how could it, on Siraj or even Tamir? Very quickly the land ended and there were the cliffs, and below them the white sand beaches and blue-green water. Someday, she thought with a sudden and intense yearning, I want to go to a place where the land does not stop.

“Where would you like to go in America, little sister? What would you want to do there?” Nadia was looking at her, smiling in that tolerant, affectionate way she had, as if Leila were a particularly appealing, perhaps even moderately amusing child. “Shopping, I’m sure. Perhaps…New York City?”

Leila had shopped in London boutiques and Paris salons; her shoes were custom-made in Italy. What, she thought, would New York City have to offer her that those fashion centers did not? But she only said with a shrug and a superior smile, “I was thinking more of Hollywood. Maybe…Rodeo Drive?” But images of endless desert vistas and ranges of snowcapped mountains remained wistful and golden in her mind. Like memories, except—how could she have memories of places she had never seen?

Nadia laughed. “Hollywood? Oh, Leila, you are a dreamer.”

Stung, Leila said, “Why is it so impossible to think of going to America?”

“You have no reason to go,” Samira answered in her matter-of-fact way. “Father would never allow you to make such a trip just for fun, and what other reason would you have, when Europe is so much closer?”

Leila had to bite her lip to keep from mentioning the fact that Hassan had attended college in America. Her own education had been restricted to an all-female boarding school in Switzerland, capped off by a year in England, and her brother’s engineering degree from M.I.T. was a source of envy to her.

“What about business?” she said after a moment. “Now that Hassan has married Elena, and she is head of an oil company—”

“But that is Hassan’s business. It has nothing to do with you. No, Leila, dear—” Samira gave her arm a not unsympathetic squeeze as she turned away from the screen “—I am afraid the only hope you would have of visiting America is if, like Hassan, you were to marry an American.” She and Nadia exchanged laughing glances. “And for that, you must first wait until Nadia and I have found husbands.”

“I will be old and ugly before that happens,” Leila grumbled.

Never one to entertain a dark mood for long, she straightened, dimpling wickedly as she peered through the screen. “Speaking of prospective husbands—guess who has just arrived. Look, Nadia, it is Butrus Dabir.” She slid her eyes toward her oldest sister, lips curving in an innocent smile. “Is it true he has asked Father if he may marry you?”

Her teasing was rewarded by a most satisfactory gasp of dismay from Nadia. “Where did you hear that?” Hands on her hips, she rounded on her servant. “Nargis? How many times—”

Nargis was already making a hasty retreat, after sneaking Leila a delighted wink. “Yes, Princess—I am going to prepare your bath now. Did you wish the jasmine scent, or the rose? Or perhaps that new one from Paris…” She ducked through the draperies and disappeared into the princesses’ sitting room.

“She is such a terrible gossip,” Nadia said crossly, snatching up her sketchbook from the settee and preparing to follow. In the doorway she paused to give her sisters a piercing glance. “I have not said I will marry Butrus.”

“She will, though,” said Samira with a shrug when Nadia had gone. “I am almost sure of it.”

Still gazing intently into the garden, Leila could not repress a shiver. “I wish she would not. Even if it means we both must wait longer before we can marry.”

“You do not like Butrus?” Samira looked at her in surprise. “He is very handsome, in his way. And he has been almost a member of the family for so many years. Father trusts him.”

“It is just that…he seems so cold. I do not see how Nadia can possibly love him.”

“Perhaps,” said Samira thoughtfully, “there are other reasons to marry besides love. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I would ever do such a thing. But…who knows what is in another person’s heart? Nadia’s, after all, has been broken once already. Perhaps she does not wish to risk such pain again. And I suppose if the other reasons were important enough…”

Leila said nothing. Once again she was watching the man in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat stroll along the tiled pathways. This time she did not take her eyes off of him until he had disappeared from view beyond a stone archway thickly entwined with climbing roses.

In the shaded promenade beyond a rose-covered archway, Cade Gallagher paused to light a cheroot—a small sin, and one of the few vices he allowed himself. He was alone, for the moment, in this secluded part of the palace grounds, and he relished the solitude and the quiet, pulled it into himself along with the honey-sweet smoke of the cigar. As he exhaled, the chatter of strangers’ conversation receded to background noise. Nearby he could hear the twitter of birdsong, and the musical ripple of water. The air was cool and fragrant, misty with breeze-blown spray from distant fountains.

Not quite the juniper and live oak-covered vistas of his Hill Country ranch retreat back home in Texas, he thought, but not at all bad.

Admittedly, he hadn’t seen much of Tamir so far, save for the mosque and the royal palace and gardens. Thanks to the usual flight delays, he’d arrived late yesterday afternoon, just barely in time for the marriage ceremony. He found it all interesting, though frankly he was already beginning to feel cooped up and restless. He was more than ready for all this partying and celebrating to be over with so he could get on to his real reason for flying halfway around the world to this remote little island kingdom—business.

More specifically, oil business. In the beginning he’d resisted Elena’s invitation to attend the wedding as her honored guest, and to stand up for her as her guardian—ridiculous idea, he knew of no one on earth less in need of guardianship than Elena Rahman—in place of nonexistent family. At first. Until she’d mentioned that Sheik Ahmed Kamal, her father-in-law to be, was interested in refitting his country’s oil refineries, perhaps even building new ones. Cade was in the business of building and refitting oil refineries. The opportunities had seemed too promising to pass up.

There was very little in this world that impressed him, certainly nothing having to do with wealth or title or positions of power. But the old sheik—Sheik Ahmed—he’d made one hell of an impression on Cade, even after only one brief meeting. He was sharp, that one. Silver-haired and carrying the weight of a little too much good living, but still crafty as they come. Surprisingly unpretentious, too. The man was the absolute monarch of his country, yet he’d elected to use the title of sheik—a general all-purpose title of respect, was the way Cade understood it—rather than king. Cade liked that.

He liked the sheik’s son, Hassan, too, though he wasn’t ready to admit as much to Elena. Cade was beginning to think Elena hadn’t completely lost her mind after all, marrying into a Middle Eastern royal family. Hassan seemed westernized enough, and Elena was just hardheaded enough, as he well knew from personal experience, that they might actually make a go of it.

All at once he was remembering the unheralded softness in Elena’s voice on the telephone when she’d called to tell him of her plans to marry Hassan. He was remembering last night, and the way her eyes had shone when she’d lifted them to her new husband’s face as he’d drawn aside her veils… Twinges of unfamiliar emotions stirred in his chest—envy and longing were the only two he recognized. Annoyed, he drew deeply on the cheroot, his motions momentarily jerky and disconcerted.

It was at that moment when a low murmur of voices reached him from beyond the rose-covered archway. Glad of the distraction, he hurriedly composed himself, preparing to make polite small talk with intruders on his private corner of Eden. Instead, the newcomers—two of them, from their conversation—halted just on the other side of the arch. About to step through and join them, Cade hesitated. Something—the sneering quality of the speaker, perhaps—made him go still and alert and stay right where he was, hidden from view by a lush bank of hibiscus.

“…joyous occasion!” Suddenly raised, the voice was sharp, sarcastic and clear. That was followed by a distinct snort.

“You seem less than pleased, Desmond,” the second voice remarked in a mildly surprised tone. “Lucas is our cousin. Even if he were not family, I would have thought King Marcus’s joy would be reason enough for us to celebrate. After all, he had all but given his son up—”

“Now, don’t get me wrong,” the first speaker broke in hastily, his voice now smooth as oil. “I’m as thankful as anyone that Prince Lucas has turned up alive and…apparently none the worse for wear.” There was a pause, and then in a decidedly unctuous voice, “I’m thinking of you, Lorenzo.”

“What do you mean?” The question was curt, a little wary.

“Oh, come now—don’t pretend you don’t know that in the crown prince’s absence, King Marcus had been grooming you as his heir. Now that Lucas is back in the picture, your position in the royal court can hardly be the same.”

There was an ambiguous sound that could have been amusement or reproof. “It’s never been my ambition to govern a country, Desmond. I’m happy with the position I have, thank you.” And after a pause… “In any case, I really don’t think it’s my position you’re concerned about.”

The reply was blustering. “Look, I’m thinking of my own future, too—sure I am. I’m not going to deny having ambitions.”

“My God, Desmond, are you that mercenary? That you’d wish Lucas had not returned, for the sake of your own—”

“How can you think such a thing of me, your own brother?” Whoever he was, Cade thought, this Desmond had apparently really stepped in it, and was now backpedaling so fast he was almost sputtering. “I only meant—I was referring to our future in service to King Marcus. My only ambition is to serve His Highness, in any way I can, as he sees fit…”

As the voice babbled on, Cade almost snorted out loud. This Desmond guy was slippery as a snake oil salesman.

Apparently his companion was starting to have some doubts about the man’s character, too, brother or not. There was a formidable chill in his voice when, after a marked silence, he suddenly said, “I see my wife is looking for me. Excuse me.”

Footsteps quickly retreated. A moment later Cade heard the hiss of an exhalation followed by some mutterings that sounded mostly like swearing, and then a second set of footsteps moved off aimlessly along a tiled path, fading finally into the general noise of mingling guests and whispering water.

Cade released a breath he’d not been aware of holding, then took a quick drag on the cheroot he’d all but forgotten. Cautiously, casually, he stepped around the clump of hibiscus. Interesting, he thought as he watched two men in white dinner jackets move off in different directions. Apparently all was not entirely rosy after all in this Garden of Eden.

Back in the crowded main courtyard, he snagged a waiter, resplendent in white brocade and saffron yellow turban.

“Excuse me—uh, do you speak English?”

Balancing a tray of fruits carved to look like flowers, the waiter dipped his head respectfully. “Of course. How may I help you, sir?”

Cade smiled in mild chagrin. The man sounded as if he’d stepped right off the campus at Oxford—or wherever it was those British lords went to school.

“Uh…yeah, I was wondering if you could tell me who that gentleman is—the one with the lady with red hair. I was just talking with him, and didn’t catch his name.”

“That would be his lordship, Duke Lorenzo Sebastiani of Montebello, sir. The lady is his wife—an American. I believe her name is Eliza.”

“Ah—of course. And that gentleman over there—the dark one? I think he said his name was Desmond….”

“Yes sir—that is Duke Lorenzo’s brother, Desmond Caruso, an advisor to King Marcus.”

“Ah,” said Cade. “Yes…thank you.”

“I am happy to be of service, sir.” The waiter bowed and went on his way.

Interesting, Cade thought again. But, since it didn’t have anything to do with Tamir or Elena or her new in-laws, it didn’t concern him, either.

He winced as a piercing “Yoo-hoo!” rose above the pleasant chuckle of a nearby fountain. “Cade—oh, Cade!”

He groaned and glanced around in hope of finding cover. Seeing none, he rolled his eyes and fixed what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face as, with one last fortifying puff of his cigar, he went forth to greet Elena’s other guest, her loud and annoying friend, Kitty.

Leila was bored. The wedding banquet had been going on for more than three hours, and showed no signs of concluding any time soon. The parade of waiters bearing trays laden with an incredible variety of delicacies seemed endless, even though Leila—and, she was sure, most of the other guests—had already eaten as much as they could possibly hold. The food had been wonderful, of course, befitting a royal Walima—chicken simmered in pomegranate juice and rolled in grape leaves, veal sauteed with eggplant and onions and delicately spiced with tumeric and cardamoms. And for the main course, Leila’s favorite—whole lamb stuffed with dried fruits, almonds, pine nuts, cracked wheat and onions, seasoned with ginger and coriander and then baked in hot ashes until it was tender enough to be eaten with the fingers. Leila had eaten until she felt stuffed herself—which was, she supposed, one advantage in being forced to wear the gracefully draped but all-concealing gown that was Tamir’s traditional female costume. At least she didn’t have to hold her stomach in.

The trays now were offering a variety of fruits, as well as an amazing assortment of sweets—cakes, pastries and candies, even tiny baskets made of chocolate and filled with sugar-glazed flower petals. Ordinarily Leila had an insatiable sweet tooth, but tonight she was too full to do more than nibble at a chocolate-covered strawberry.

She had also drunk much more of her country’s traditional mildly fermented wine than she was accustomed to, and as a result was becoming both sleepy and cross. Not to mention frustrated. It was such a beautiful evening—stars were bright in the cloudless spring sky that canopied the palace’s Great Courtyard. The Walima was being held outdoors in order to accommodate the great number of guests, as, according to tradition, everyone in the immediate vicinity was invited to a marriage feast, rich and poor alike. Tiled in intricate geometric patterns and flanked on both sides by stone colonnades, the Great Courtyard was a formal rectangle that extended from the palace to the cliffs, where arched portals framed a spectacular view of the sea. Tables draped in linen and set with fine china and crystal had been set up on both sides of a chain of fountains and narrow pools that divided the courtyard down the middle and reflected the stars and hundreds of flickering torches. A light breeze blowing in from the sea was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and moonflowers. It was a beautiful night. It might also have been—should have been—a very romantic night.

Except that Leila had been trying all evening without success to catch the eye of the man she would very much have liked to share such an evening with—the man she had noticed that morning in the garden, the Texan in the dove-gray suit and cowboy hat. As luck would have it, he was sitting at a table almost directly across the reflecting pool from hers. Tonight the hat was absent, and, like many of the other male guests present, particularly those from Montebello and America, he wore a white dinner jacket. Though in Leila’s opinion, none of the other guests looked so lean and fit and dangerous in theirs, or boasted such broad and powerful shoulders. She could see now that his hair was thick and wavy, a rich dark blond. It gleamed like gold in the flickering light of the torches. She would like to know what color his eyes were, but they were set deep in his rugged face, and masked in shadows.

If only we could dance like Americans do, she thought wistfully as she watched a line of professional performers of the traditional Tamari dances, faces veiled and torsos cleverly concealed, undulating their way down the length of the courtyard, weaving in and out among the tables to the rhythmic keening of native flutes and sitars. Jewels flashed from their ankles, wrists and hair as they performed the intricate hand movements and kept time to the music with tiny finger cymbals. Like most girls in her country, Leila had learned secretly as a child how to dance the traditional dances, though of course it would not have been proper for a princess to actually perform for anyone—except, perhaps, for her husband, in the privacy of their marriage chambers. If I ever have a husband, she thought moodily, as without her realizing it, her body began to move and sway in time to the music.

On her right, Samira nudged her and hissed, “Leila—stop that. Someone will see you.”

Leila rolled her eyes. So what? she wanted to say. It would not be the first time. Many people had seen her dance in Switzerland and England, and the world had not come to an end. When she was in boarding school she had learned to dance the western way, to rock and roll music, and in England she had even—and she was sure her father would have a heart attack if he knew—danced with boys the way westerners did. Touching one another. And nothing terrible had happened then, either. She was still, alas, very much a virgin. And likely to remain one for the foreseeable future.

“I am bored,” she whispered back. “I have eaten too much and I want to lie down. When is this going to be over?”

“Hush,” Samira scolded. “This is Hassan and Elena’s night. Remember your manners.”

“I wish we could at least mingle with the guests—talk to them,” Leila said, wistfully eyeing the golden-haired man across the reflecting pool. But his head was bowed as he listened, apparently with close attention, to the frizzy-haired woman seated next to him. Leila sighed. And before she could stop it, her mouth opened wide in a blatant, jaw-popping yawn.

“I’m sorry?” Cade politely lowered his head in order to hear what the woman at his side was saying above the discordant wailing these people called music.

Kitty repeated it in a loud, hoarse whisper. “I said, that girl across the way over there has been tryin’ her darndest all evenin’ long to catch your eye. I believe she’d like to flirt with you.”

Cade’s glance flicked upward reflexively. “Oh yeah? Which one?” Anything, he thought, to relieve the tedium. He wasn’t accustomed to spending three hours over dinner.

“That one—the real pretty one in the aqua blue dress…long black hair with gold thingies in it…looks like something out of The Arabian Nights. See her?”

Cade looked. He’d already noticed the girl, since she was drop-dead gorgeous and he was a man and only human. Now, though, he felt a shiver of silent laughter ripple through him. “You mean, the one who looks like she’s about to swallow herself?”

His amusement blossomed into an unabashed grin as the girl’s bright and restless glance collided suddenly with his. Her eyes went wide with horror and she slapped a long, graceful hand over her mouth in a belated and futile attempt to cover up the yawn. Next, he watched, fascinated, as a parade of expressions danced across her face like characters in a play: dismay, chagrin, vexation, arrogance, pride, irony…and finally, to his delight, a dimpled and utterly winsome smile.

Kitty gave a little crow of triumph. “There, you see? I told you she was flirtin’ with you.”

“Kind of young, don’t you think?” Cade drawled. “Not to mention,” he added, as the significance of that circlet of gold medallions on the girl’s head sank in, “if I’m not mistaken, she’s a princess.”

“Really?” Kitty gasped before she caught herself, then added with a lofty sniff, “Well, so what if she is? Hassan’s a prince. That didn’t stop Elena.” She gave an excited little squeal. “Oh—I just realized—that would make her Elena’s sister-in-law, wouldn’t it? I’ll bet she could introduce us—uh, you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Cade said dryly. “Looks to me like they keep those princesses pretty tightly under wraps.”

Pretending disinterest, he watched out of the corner of his eye as an older woman flanked by a cadre of female servants suddenly appeared beside the princesses’ table across the way. This woman he knew. He’d been presented to Tamir’s first lady—Elena’s new mother-in-law—along with her husband, Sheik Ahmed, following the wedding ceremony last night. Alima Kamal—who, he’d been told, preferred not to use a royal title—was dressed in the same gracefully draped style of gown as were her daughters, this one deep royal blue liberally trimmed with gold. Like her daughters, she wore a circlet of gold medallions in her still-raven black hair. They glinted in the torchlight as she gracefully inclined her head. Without a word, all the occupants of the princesses’ table rose and were swallowed up by the royal entourage, which then moved away in the direction of the palace, veils fluttering, like a dense flock of brightly plumed birds.

“Wow,” breathed Kitty. “It really is like something out of The Arabian Nights. Do you think they keep them in a harem?”

Cade gave a snort of laughter. “I’m sure they don’t. For starters, the sheik only has one wife. And, if Hassan is any indication, they’re pretty westernized here. All this native costume stuff tonight—the turbans and veils—I’m sure is just for this occasion. Some kind of wedding tradition, probably.”

“Umm-hmm…” Kitty was thoughtfully chewing her lip. “Well, I’ll still bet Elena could introduce you to that cute little sister-in-law of hers, if you asked her to.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not? She’s very pretty, and she was definitely interested in you, Cade.”

“Not on your life.” Cade’s grin tilted with grim irony. A knockout she might be, but not really his type and way too young for him, anyway. Not to mention that the very last thing he needed was to get tangled up with some royal pain-in-the-ass princess, when what he was really hoping for was to close a nice, lucrative business deal with her father, the sheik.

Chapter 2

Eight horses thundered in close formation down a grassy plain on what appeared to be a collision course with disaster. Long-handled mallets flashed and winked in the bright morning sunlight to the accompaniment of guttural cries, grunts of effort, and shrill and imperious whistles, while on a sideline shaded by olive trees that looked as though they might easily have dated from biblical times, Cade watched the proceedings with an interest that could best be described as ambiguous.

He wasn’t a polo fan—in fact, he knew next to nothing about the game. He considered it a rich man’s sport. And while there were some who’d place Cade in that category, he certainly never thought of himself in those terms. As far as he was concerned he was just a hardworking businessman who happened to have made a lot of money, which put him in an altogether different class than those who had nothing better to do with their time than gallop around a field on horseback jostling one another for the chance to whack a little ball with a big mallet.

“Snob,” said Elena teasingly when he voiced that opinion to her. “I knew it. You, Cade, are a working-class snob. Come on—polo is the sport of kings.”

“I rest my case,” Cade said around the stem of his cheroot.

“And, it’s one of the oldest sports, maybe the first ever invented.” She shot him a mock-piercing look. “What’s this prejudice you have against royals? Seeing as how I’m now one.”

“Prejudiced? Me?” he countered in mock outrage. “I don’t even know any royals—except Hassan, I guess.”

“That’s what prejudice is,” Elena said smugly. “Forming an opinion without personal knowledge.” Her eyes went to the riders on the field, seeking and fastening on one in particular. “Anyway, you’ve met a few more in the past couple of days. Hassan’s parents…What did you think of them, by the way?” Her tone was carefully casual, but Cade heard the question she was really asking: Do you like him…my husband, Hassan? Please like him.

He glanced down at the woman he’d thought of as a sister for most of his life, arguably the only family he had left. He said gruffly, “I had my doubts about your husband for a while. You know that.” His voice softened. “But as long as he does right by you, that makes him okay in my book.” He paused. “So…are you? Happy?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then smiled up at him, and he read her answer in her shining eyes before she spoke. “Yeah, Cade…I am.”

Cade took a quick sip of his cheroot, surprised again by that sudden fierce ache of envy. “Then that’s what counts.”

Elena shot him a searching look. “So…what did you think of them—Hassan’s family? The old sheik?”

He took a moment to consider, though he didn’t need to. “Ahmed’s a sharp old fox,” he said finally. “Knows what he wants for his country, and won’t give an inch until he gets it. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but he’ll be fair.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’m looking forward to doing business with him.” “What about his wife—Alima?” Elena smiled ruefully. “My mother-in-law.” She paused, shaking her head. “Boy, I never thought I’d say those words.”

“She seems very nice—warm.” He didn’t tell her that for some reason the sheik’s wife had reminded him, in ways that had nothing to do with physical resemblance, of his own mother. What he remembered of her, anyway.

“And Rashid?” Elena’s eyes were once more on the field of play, watching the swirling mélange of men and horses. Sunlight glinted off helmets and goggles and sweat-damp horsehide, while brightly colored jerseys tangled together like ribbons. Eyes sparkling, she answered herself before he could. “He does raise some fine ponies, you’ve gotta admit.”

Cade grinned. “He does that.” He’d been admiring Rashid’s own mount in particular, a dapple gray stallion with the Arabian’s classic dish face and high-arched neck, graceful, delicate lines and, it appeared, the courage of a lion. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk horse breeding with the prince…maybe discuss an exchange of bloodlines—

His thoughts scattered like dry leaves as several ponies thundered down the field in tight formation, close to the sideline and only a few yards from where he and Elena were standing, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, followed by shouts—mostly of triumph, intermingled with a few moans of dismay. Apparently the Tamiri team, jubilant and easily distinguishable in bright gold and black, had just scored on the scarlet-clad Montebellans.

Distracted by the celebration on the playing field, it was a few seconds before Cade noticed the woman running—no, dancing—along the sideline, keeping pace with the ponies galloping barely an arm’s length away beyond the low board barrier. He had an impression of slenderness and grace as unselfconscious as a child’s, of vitality as voluptuous and lush as Mother Earth herself. The unlikely combination tugged at his senses—and something else, some cache of emotions hidden away, until that moment, deep inside him. His breath caught. Protective instincts produced electrical impulses in all his muscles.

She’s too close. She’ll be trampled!

The alarm flashed across his consciousness, there one second, gone the next. Cynically, he thought, She’s a grown woman, she’s got sense enough to stay out of harm’s way. His heart was beating fast as he settled back to watch her. He realized that, incongruously, he was smiling.

She was dressed all in earth tones—shiny brown leather boots to the knee, a divided skirt in soft-colored camel suede that hugged her rounded hips like kid gloves, and a cream-colored blouse made of something that looked like—and undoubtedly was—silk, with long flowing sleeves cuffed tightly at the wrist. The skirt was belted at her waist with a silk scarf patterned in the Tamari team colors—yellow and black. She wore a hat to shade her face from the blistering Mediterranean sun, the same soft suede as her skirt with a wide brim and flat crown, like those Cade associated with Argentinean cowboys. A hatstring hung loosely under her delicate chin to keep the hat from blowing off in the unpredictable sea breeze. Beneath the hat, raven-black hair swept cleanly back from a highcheekboned face to a casually wound coil at the nape of a long, graceful neck.

Entranced, Cade thought, I wonder who she is. And following that, clearly, distinctly, I want her.

He acknowledged the thought unashamedly but with a wry inner smile. He was fully grown-up, no longer a child, and years ago had learned that wanting did not necessarily mean having.

Shouts of outrage and a shrill whistle interrupted his appraisal of the woman. He almost chuckled aloud as he watched her express her own dissatisfaction with what was happening on the field, whirling in fury and stamping her foot like an angry child. Moments later she was in motion again as the horses and riders careened back down the field, once more dancing along the sideline, completely caught up in the action, her body bobbing, jerking and weaving in unconscious imitation of the players. As if, Cade thought, she longed to be one of them, rather than just a spectator.

And then…he caught his breath. As she moved directly in front of him, a gust of wind caught her hat from behind and tipped it neatly forward off her head. She gave a little shriek of dismay and grabbed for it, but it was already tumbling across the trampled grass, directly into the path of the oncoming horses. Cade felt his body lurch involuntarily, before the thought had even formed in his mind. She’s so damned impulsive! My God, is she crazy enough to go for it?

As if she’d heard his thought or maybe sensed his forward lunge, she stopped herself abruptly and spun toward him, delightfully abashed, like a little girl teetering on the edge of the curb, preparing to earnestly swear, “I wasn’t really going to run out in the street, honest.”

Perhaps loosened by that movement, her hair came out of its sedate coil, unwinding like a living creature, something sleek and sinuous awakening to vibrant life. As it tumbled down her back in a glorious black cascade, at that precise moment she locked eyes with Cade. Catching her lower lip between white teeth, she gave him a winsomely dimpled smile.

Recognition exploded in his brain even as desire thumped him in the groin. The double whammy caught him off guard. Breath gusted from his lungs as if he’d taken an actual blow.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Cade jerked toward the quiet voice, mouth open in automatic denial. One look at Elena’s face told him protest was pointless, so instead he laughed and wryly shook his head. “Let me guess—one of the princesses, right?”

She nodded. She was smiling, but her eyes were grave. “Leila—the youngest. I’m serious, Cade. If the sheik catches you laying so much as a finger on that girl, all bets are off. He watches her like a hawk.”

“Evidently not today,” he murmured out the side of his mouth as the princess approached them, stepping gracefully up the slight incline into the shade of the ancient olive trees.

Holding out her hand to Elena and, for the moment, ignoring Cade completely, she cried out in obvious delight, “Elena—hello!” And then, her expressive face scrunching with chagrin, “You saw what happened?” She had a charming accent, more pronounced than Hassan’s—the result, Cade surmised, of having had much less contact with westerners. The quality of her voice was low and musical but with a huskiness that caressed his auditory nerves like coarse-textured fur.

“Oh, I did,” Elena said with a moan of feminine commiseration. “I’m so sorry. It was such a beautiful hat.”

The princess pursed her lips in a brief but charming pout, then smiled and gave a little shrug. C’est la vie.

She turned to Cade, finally, her eyes emerging from under thick sooty lashes like mischievous children peeking out from behind a curtain. “Hello. I am Leila Kamal.” The way she held her hand out made him wonder if she expected him to kiss it.

Which was probably why, out of pure contrariness, he did nothing of the sort, but instead took her hand in a good old Texas American-style handshake. A moment later he wondered if that had been a mistake as well. Her hand was smaller and at the same time firmer than he’d expected. It left an impression on his senses of both strength and vulnerability, and he found himself holding on to it for a lot longer than was probably sane, while his mind filled with images and urges that had nothing whatsoever to do with sanity.

“This is Cade,” said Elena. “Cade Gallagher—my friend and, uh, guardian.”

“Of course.” Lashes lifted; eyes gazed at him, somehow both dark and bright, mysterious as moonlit pools. He had a sudden sensation of leaning slightly off balance, as if his internal gyrocompass had been knocked out of kilter. “And also your brother—but not really.” The dimples flashed. “For that I am glad, because if you were truly Elena’s brother, and she is now my sister, then you would be my brother, as well.” Her laugh was low, a delightful ripple, like water tumbling over pebbles. “And I most certainly do not need any more brothers. Two is quite enough!”

Cade found himself floundering in unfamiliar territory, at least when dealing with a beautiful woman. Not that he considered himself suave—far from it—but he’d never found himself utterly at a loss for words before, either. At least, not since about seventh grade. He was muttering something unintelligible when a discreet cough from Elena reminded him that he was still holding the princess’s hand. He released it…laughed…and felt as awkward and abashed as the twelve-year-old Cade he painfully remembered.

“Are you enjoying the game, Mr. Gallagher? Exciting, is it not? Especially since Tamir is winning.” Her eyes held a gleeful sparkle.

He wondered suddenly if the reason he felt so young was simply because she was, and the thought helped restore him to sanity. That, and a calming sip of his cheroot. “I am, very much,” he drawled, gazing over her head to where the action was taking place now, at the far end of the field. “Especially the horses. That gray stallion of Rashid’s—”

“Oh, but they are all Rashid’s ponies. He raises them, you know, on one of the other islands. Siraj—it is just south of Tamir. Perhaps you would like—”

“Cade raises horses, too,” Elena interrupted. “Arabians.” “Really? But that is wonderful!” In her eagerness and enthusiasm she seemed almost weightless, like a bird, he thought—a blackbird one sudden motion away from taking flight. “How I wish that I could see your horses, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Maybe someday you will,” Cade murmured, and felt a strange little shiver go through him—some sort of primitive warning. He coughed, glanced at Elena and gruffly added, “When you come to Texas to visit your brother.”

And he watched the light go out of the girl’s eyes as if someone had thrown a switch, shutting off all circuits. Her lashes came down and her smile faded. Her body grew still.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Perhaps…” She turned away, one hand going to her forehead. “Oh—I see the play has been stopped. Someone has fallen off. I think now it is safe to get my hat. Please, excuse me—”

Maybe it was because she’d looked so sad—Cade had no other rational explanation for doing what he did. He shot out a hand and caught her by the arm. The feel of her flesh beneath the silk fabric of her blouse sent impulses tingling along the nerves in his fingers as he gruffly said, “Here—I’ll get it.”

With that, he strode past her down the slope, stepped over the low barrier and scooped what was left of the hat out of the trampled grass. Grimly ignoring the smattering of applause from nearby spectators, he whacked the hat once against his thigh, then retraced his steps to where Elena and the princess were waiting for him under the trees.

“There you go,” he said as he handed the hat over to its owner. “For what it’s worth. Looks in pretty bad shape.”

“It is only a hat,” Leila said, smiling but without a trace of the sparkle that had lit her eyes before. Cade was conscious of a vague disappointment. It was like watching the sun set without colors. “It is not important. But it was very kind of you to retrieve it for me. Thank you.

“Well—” She looked quickly, almost guiltily, around. “I must go now. Someone will be looking for me. Elena, I am so glad to have had a chance to see and talk to you. And Mr. Gallagher, it was very nice meeting you. Thank you…goodbye….” Cade watched her disappear into the crowd like a doe in dense forest.

“Cade,” Elena said in a warning tone, “I mean it—she’s absolutely off-limits.” He pulled his gaze back to her, covering the effort it cost him with a snort and a wry smile. “Hey, she’s too young for me. Besides,” he added after a moment’s contemplation of the end of his cigar, “she’s not really my type.”

Elena gave a derisive hoot—not very ladylike, but pure Texas. “Oh, yeah, I know all about your ‘type.’ Whatever happened to that Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, by the way?”

“She was a nice girl,” Cade said with a small, reminiscent smile. “We…wanted different things, is all. She was thinkin’ in terms of wedding bells and baby carriages, while I—”

“I know what you were thinkin’ about,” Elena said dryly. “The same thing you’re thinking right now, which is absolutely out of the question. You promise me, Cade—”

Laughing, he held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey—you’ve got nothing to worry about. Like I said earlier, and like I told your friend Kitty last night—where is she, by the way? Haven’t seen her around this morning.” He looked around furtively, half expecting to see a fuzzy brown head bobbing through the crowd, to hear that gawdawful, “Yoo-hoo!”

Elena grinned. “I think maybe she overdid a bit on the rich food last night. She was planning on taking it easy this morning, getting all rested up for this evening’s festivities.”

Cade made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

Leila ran across the courtyard, the patterned tiles smooth and warm under her bare feet. She had taken her boots off in her chambers, but had found it impossible to stay there. She felt too stirred, too restless to stay indoors—which admittedly was not an uncommon way for Leila to feel.

But this was different. Today the pounding of her heartbeat was only an echo of the thunder of horses’ hoofbeats. The breeze from the sea tugged gently at her hair, but she longed to feel it whipping in the wind as she raced wild and abandoned across fields without boundaries. Today, every flower and tree and shrub in the gardens, every fountain and vine-draped arch and pillar, seemed like the bars of a prison to her. A very beautiful prison, it was true, but a prison nonetheless.

And something else. Today as she ran, she thought of the way a garden feels when it rains—a contradiction of freshness and excitement and anticipation, but also a bit of gloom and sadness, a yearning for the sun’s familiar warmth. And all of her insides seemed to quiver like the leaves of flowers and shrubs and trees when the raindrops hit them.

The palace gardens were vast, and Leila knew every inch of them, including hidden nooks and bowers where she occasionally sought refuge from turbulent thoughts like these. Today, though, it wasn’t refuge she wanted. After this morning, she very much needed to confront those disturbing thoughts, face them head-on, and then, if at all possible, decide what she was going to do about them. For this she had chosen a spot she was almost certain would be empty at that hour—the private terrace adjacent to the family’s quarters where she sometimes took breakfast with her sisters, or her mother and her mother’s faithful servant, Salma, who had once been Leila’s nanny. The terrace faced northeast and overlooked the sea. Now, approaching midday, it would be shaded, with a nice breeze from the sea to cool her burning cheeks while the gentle trickle of the fountain and the heady scent of roses would, she desperately hoped, help to calm her fevered thoughts.

Never had Leila so desired to be alone with those thoughts! Oh, such humiliating, embarrassing thoughts. And so she was dismayed to find, as she plunged headlong through the arched portal that was the garden entrance to her retreat, that someone was there before her.

Worse, a stranger. A woman with drab brown hair—rather frizzy—was sitting in a chair beside the fountain, reading a paperback book.

Leila’s headlong plunge had already taken her several steps onto the terrace before she realized it was already occupied. She lurched to a halt, arms flung wide, body tilted forward, and uttered a soft, disappointed, “Oh!”

The woman quickly set aside her book, a romantic novel, by the looks of the cover. She smiled, and Leila recognized her then—the woman who had been talking with Cade Gallagher during the banquet the night before. She felt a jolt of excitement, then an alarming twinge of jealousy. But it was fleeting. The woman wasn’t very pretty, and besides, Leila told herself with a mental sniff, she’s old. At least forty.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, and Leila noticed that she had an accent just like Elena’s. “Gee, I hope I’m not where I shouldn’t be. I was looking for someplace cool and quiet, and…well, the roses just smelled so good….”

“No, no, it is quite all right.” Leila had been raised to be polite to her elders. She advanced, hand outstretched. “I am Leila Kamal. Please—do not get up.”

In spite of Leila’s assurance, the woman half rose and at the same time managed to execute an awkward sort of curtsey. “I’m Kitty.” And oddly, it was she who sounded out of breath, though it was Leila who had been running. “Elena’s friend.”

“Yes, I saw you last night at the banquet. You were talking with Mr. Gallagher.” Leila spoke slowly, absently. An idea was beginning to take shape in her head.

“That’s right!” Kitty looked pleased, perhaps flattered that Leila had noticed her. Then her pleasure changed to concern. “My, but you look warm. Would you like something cold to drink? There’s a lot more here than I’ll ever need.” She indicated a water-beaded pitcher and several glasses sitting on a tray on the glass-topped table an arm’s length away. “It’s some kind of fruit juice, I think—got a little bit of a bite to it. It’s not quite up to sweet tea, but it’s pretty good.”

“Thank you,” Leila said with an absent sigh, then gave the plain woman a friendly smile. “I have been watching the polo match. You do not care for polo?”

She sat down in a chair beside the table and only then realized she was still holding what was left of her hat. She glanced at it, frowning.

“Well, you know, it’s not really my sport. I’m more a Dallas Cowboys fan,” Kitty began apologetically, then gave a gasp of dismay as she, too, noticed Leila’s hat. “Oh, my goodness, what in the world happened? That’s a real shame.”

Leila shrugged and placed it on the tabletop. “The wind blew it onto the field and the horses trampled it,” she explained matter-of-factly as she poured herself a glass of the blend of pomegranate and grape juices. She sipped, and found it nicely chilled and just slightly fermented. She lowered her lashes, veiling her eyes, and casually added, “Elena’s friend—Mr. Gallagher—got it back for me.”

Kitty chuckled and rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, that sounds like something Cade would do.”

Leila flashed her a look of what she hoped was only polite interest. “You know this Mr. Gallagher—Cade—very well?”

“Not real well, no—mostly through Elena.” But then Kitty gave a little smile and sort of waggled her shoulders as she settled back in her chair, reminding Leila so much of her favorite source of gossip, Nargis, that she almost laughed out loud. “He is a good-lookin’ man, though, isn’t he?”

“He is handsome,” Leila said in a considering tone, then made a brushing-aside gesture with her hand as she picked up her glass. “But surely such a handsome man must be married.”

Kitty shook her head, looking gleeful. “Uh-uh—he’s not.”

Leila glanced at her in surprise. “Really? Then…surely, someone special—a girlfriend?”

“Not that I know of.” The expression on Kitty’s face reminded Leila now of the palace cats—she all but purred. “Lots of girls, I imagine, but, nope—no one in particular. Elena would have told me if there was.”

“But that seems very strange,” Leila said, frowning. “What do you suppose is the reason? There must be some reason why a man of his age—he is what, thirty?”

“Thirty-six,” Kitty promptly supplied. “I know, because Elena told me he’s six years older than she is.” Thirty-six…ten years older than I am. But that is good—

Startled by the thought, Leila guiltily slammed it into a drawer, hidden far away in the back of her mind.

“Perhaps,” said Leila with a sniff, “he is not a good man.”

“Cade?” The other woman looked taken aback, even mildly affronted. Then she chuckled. “I’m not sure how you mean that, honey, but if you mean ‘good’ like in decent, honorable—that sort of thing—then I can pretty much tell you there’s probably not a better man alive. Cade Gallagher is so honest it’s scary. Oh, I hear he’s tough when it comes to business, but judging from the way I’ve seen him with Elena—” She interrupted herself to lean forward like a conspirator. “His parents are dead, you know, just like Elena’s—they’re all the family each other’s got.” She sat back with a little wave of her hand. “Anyway, as far as I can see, the man’s got a heart like a marshmallow.”

“Marsh…mallow?” The word was unfamiliar to Leila.

Kitty laughed. “It’s a kind of candy—real soft and gooey, you know? And sweet.”

Sweet? Leila chewed doubtfully on her lower lip. “Sweet” was not a word she had ever heard applied to a man before. Certainly not to one as rugged-looking as Cade Gallagher.

“Well,” said Kitty with an air of finality, “I know Elena thinks the world of him—that’s enough for me.”

And, Leila realized suddenly, I think Elena thinks the world of you, too. She must, to have invited the woman to her wedding. This woman—Kitty—seemed like a kind person. A bit of a gossip, maybe, but Leila saw no real harm in that. The important thing was, she was Elena’s friend. Elena trusted her.

Leila took a deep breath and made a decision. She sat forward, hands earnestly clasped. “Please—tell me about America. What is it like, between men and women? How is it when they are…” she waved a hand in a circular motion, searching for the word. “I am sorry, I do not know—”

“You mean, dating?”

“Yes.” Leila let out a breath. “Dating.” She had learned a little about the customs of Europe and England from classmates in boarding school, but what she knew of America came mostly from movies and very old television programs, and she was, she feared, badly out-of-date. “You must understand, here we have no such thing. What is it like? How, exactly, is it done?” And without her realizing it, her heart had begun to beat faster.

“What’s it like?” Kitty gave a dry little laugh. “Not that I’ve had much personal experience lately, you understand, but from what I can recall, it can be anything from fun and exciting to downright awful. As for how it’s done—honey, there’ve been about a bazillion books and magazine articles devoted to that subject.”

“Oh, but please,” Leila cried, “you must tell me. For example, must the man always be the one to…to…” Frustrated, she paused to frown and gnaw at her lip. She was not accustomed to feeling so awkward, and she did not like it one bit.

“Make the first move?” Kitty said kindly.

“The first move—yes!” Leila was almost laughing with relief. “Must the woman always wait for the man to do it? Or may the woman be the first one to speak?”

Kitty gave a merry laugh. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?” She leaned forward, intent with purpose now.

“Oh, well…on your generation, for one thing. Now, my generation, they’re pretty much stuck on the ‘leave it to the guy to make the first move’ tradition. Men my age seem to feel threatened by pushy women, for some reason.” She sighed.

Leila wasn’t exactly sure what was meant by “pushy women,” but she forged on, eager to get to what she really wanted to know. Breathlessly, she asked, “And…Mr. Gallagher?”

It was hard to imagine such a man feeling threatened by anything, much less a mere woman.

“Cade?” Kitty had that look again, the one that made Leila think of the woman’s animal namesake. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal a great secret. “Just between you and me, I think that man focuses entirely too much on business. I think maybe if a woman wanted to get his attention, she might have to be a little bit pushy.”

“Pushy?” Leila frowned. That word again. The pictures it brought to her mind didn’t seem appealing to her.

“You know,” Kitty said, lifting one shoulder just slightly. “Give him a little…nudge in the right direction. A push.”

“Ah,” said Leila, feeling as if a light had come on in her head, “you mean, not a real push, but a suggestion. And this is…permissible in America?”

“I don’t know about all of America, but in Texas it is.”

“Thank you,” Leila breathed. “That is what I wanted to know.” She placed her glass on the table and rose to leave, preoccupied and just in time remembering her manners. Turning back to Kitty, she said automatically, “It was very nice talking with you. I hope I may see you tonight at the reception?”

“Oh,” said Kitty, looking solemn, “you can count on it.”

As Leila was turning away, she saw the other woman pick up the paperback book she had laid aside when Leila interrupted her. She thought it must not be a romance novel after all, but perhaps a very funny one instead. Because, as she found her place and began to read, Kitty was laughing to herself, and the smile on her face stretched from one ear to the other.

Chapter 3

The hum and clatter of sound from the reception hall receded as Cade strolled deeper into the gardens, and was gradually usurped by the quieter conversation of the fountains. The music followed him, though, carried on the soft evening air like a sweet-scented breeze. At least it was western music tonight. Not country western, that would have been too much to hope for—but the classical stuff, something vaguely familiar to him. Mozart, he guessed, or maybe it was Beethoven. He never could keep those guys straight.

He had the gardens to himself tonight. Everyone seemed to be inside the grand ballroom, nibbling fruits and exotic Middle Eastern tidbits and awaiting the arrival of the king of Montebello and his entourage, including the recently restored crown prince, Lucas, who not so long ago had been all but given up for dead. Elena had filled him in on that story, and thinking of it now, Cade could only shake his head. The whole thing sounded like something out of a spy novel to him.

He’d pay his own respects to the honored guests before the night was over, of course; he owed that much to Elena. But for now, he was seizing the opportunity for a much needed breath of fresh air. And some space—oh, yeah, that more than anything. There was something about this damned island, beautiful as it was, that gave him claustrophobia. He’d be glad when all the hoopla was over and he could get down to doing business with the old sheik. Hassan and Elena were postponing their honeymoon long enough to give him the intro he needed to smooth the way, but he was confident the negotiations would be easy sailing for all concerned.

As he stepped though the rose-covered arch that led to the promenade where yesterday he’d stood and listened to that strangely sinister conversation, he paused once again to light one of his cherished cheroots. This time, though, he didn’t linger there but continued on down the tiled walkway, which was arrow-straight and flanked on both sides by rows of intricately carved columns and lit at regular intervals by torches. At the far end, through another arched portal, he could see where it opened out finally onto a cliff-top terrace overlooking the sea. Through the portal the sky still glowed with the last wash of sunset, and it seemed to Cade like the gateway to paradise.

He walked toward his destination slowly and with a pleasant sense of anticipation, savoring the taste of the cigar, enjoying the textures of the night and his aloneness in it, feeling the breeze curl around his shoulders like a cloak…stir through his hair like caressing fingers…

And something shivered down his spine. He’d felt something…something that wasn’t really a touch. Heard something that wasn’t quite a sound. And knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t alone in the promenade any longer.

He halted…turned. Froze. His heart dropped into his shoes.

Halfway between the archway and where he stood the figure of a woman paused…hovered…then once again moved slowly toward him. Tonight, she wore an evening gown of a delicate yellow-gold, something shimmery that seemed to glow in the light of the torches like a small pale sun. It had a high neck and long, flowing sleeves, a bodice that clung and skirts that swirled around her legs so that she seemed to float, disconnected from the ground, like a wraith or a figment of his imagination. Except that he knew she was only too real.

Strands of long black hair, teased by the same wind that made a plaything of her skirts, coiled around her shoulders and lay like a shadow across one breast. Something glittered in the twist of braids on top of her head…caught an elusive source of light and winked. He couldn’t see her features in that purple dusk, but he’d known at once who she was. In a strange way, her body, the way she moved, seemed already familiar to him.

Leila almost lost her courage. The tall figure silhouetted against the evening sky and framed by gold-washed pillars seemed so forbidding, utterly unapproachable, like a sentinel guarding the gates of Heaven. But, oh, she thought as her heartbeat pattered deliriously in her throat, how commanding he looked in his evening clothes—how elegant, even regal.

And yet—the notion came to her suddenly, the way such insights often did to Leila—as elegant and at ease as he appeared, there was something about the formal dress that didn’t suit him. As if his appearance of ease went no deeper than his skin…as if it were his soul that was being suffocated.

Almost…almost, she turned to run away, to leave him there with his solitude. For uncounted seconds she hovered, balanced like a bird on a swaying branch, balanced, she was even in that moment aware, between two futures for herself…two very different paths. One path was familiar to her, its destination dismally certain. The other was a complete unknown, veiled in darkness, and she had no way of knowing whether it might lead her to the freedom she so desired…or disaster.

She hovered, her heart beating faster, harder, and then, somehow, she was moving forward again, moving toward that imposing figure in evening clothes. She felt a strange sense of inevitability as the figure loomed larger, as she drew closer and closer to the American named Cade Gallagher. And it occurred to her to wonder if she had ever had a choice at all.

They were only a few feet apart now, close enough that one or the other must speak. But Cade only looked at her and went on quietly smoking…something too brown to be a cigarette, too slender to be a cigar. Reminding herself what Kitty had said, that in America—in Texas—it was permissible for a woman to speak first, Leila summoned all her courage and sent up a small prayer.

“Good evening—it is Mr. Gallagher, is it not?” She kept her voice low to hide the tremors in it. “May I call you Cade?”

“I wish you would.” His voice was a husky drawl that shivered her skin as if someone had lightly touched her all over. He gave a bow, and she wondered if he might be mocking her. “Good evening, Princess—or is it, ‘Your Highness’?”

“If I am to call you Cade, then you must call me Leila.” She was glad for the shadowy torchlight that hid the blush she could feel burning in her cheeks. On the other hand, she hoped he would see the dimples there, and as she joined him, she smiled and tilted her face toward him and the light.

He waited for her to reach him, then turned so that they walked on together toward the terrace, side by side. Leila’s heart was beating so hard she thought he must hear it.

After a moment he glanced down at her and said, “Shouldn’t you be at the royal reception?”

She hesitated, biting her lip, wondering just how “cheeky”—it was a word she’d acquired during her school days in England—she dared be. Hoping he wouldn’t think her insolent, she looked up at him through lowered lashes and colored her voice with her smile. “Yes, I should. And…should not you be, as well?”

He acknowledged that with a soft and rueful laugh. Emboldened, she added, “You are certainly dressed for it.” And after a moment, bolder still, “You do look quite nice in evening dress, but…” She counted footsteps. One…two…

She felt his gaze, and, looking up to meet it, caught a small, involuntary breath. To get his attention, a woman would have to be a little bit…She smiled and said on the soft rush of an exhalation, “But, I liked what you were wearing yesterday—especially your hat. You looked quite like a cowboy.”

She heard the faint, surprised sound of his breath as he looked down at her. “Yesterday?”

“I saw you in the garden,” she explained with an innocent lift of her shoulders. “I was with my sisters, on the balcony outside our chambers. I could not help but notice you. You stood out, among all the others. I thought you looked…very American—like someone I have seen in the Western movies.”

He gave a little grunt of laughter, but she didn’t think it was a pleased sound.

She conjured up a new smile. “But tonight…tonight you look very different—elegant, very sophisticated. And, of course, very handsome.”

He laughed uncomfortably. “Princess—”

She laughed too, in a light and teasing way, and before he could say more, hurried on. “But, you have run away from the reception and all the ladies who would admire you, to walk alone in the gardens…” She left it hanging, the question unspoken.

Cade brought the slender cigar briefly to his lips before answering. “I needed some air,” he said abruptly, and there was a certain harshness in his voice now. They had stepped onto the terrace that overlooked the sea. He made a gesture toward the emptiness beyond the marble balustrade. “Some space.”

A breeze from the sea lifted tendrils of hair on Leila’s neck. She felt a shivering deep inside her chest. Space…

“Yes,” she whispered, forgetting to flirt, for all at once her throat ached and she no longer felt like smiling.

They stood together at the balustrade in silence, shoulders not quite touching, and she felt the ache inside her grow. I shouldn’t have done this, she thought in sudden and unfamiliar panic. This is terrifying. Perhaps I am not cut out to be a pushy woman.

Far below, waves collided gently with the rocky cliff, sending up joyful little bursts of spray. The rhythmic shusshing sound they made was familiar and soothing to her soul. She listened to it for several more seconds, then lifted her eyes to the almost invisible horizon.

“I understand, I think,” she said quietly, leaning a little on her hands. “I come here often when I am feeling…”

At a loss for the word, she gave a little grimace and shook her head.

“Cooped up?” Cade softly suggested, watching the horizon as she did. She looked him a question, not being familiar with the expression. He glanced down at her. “Walled up…fenced in—”

“Oh, yes!” She turned toward him, her breath escaping in a grateful rush. “That is it exactly—walled up and fenced in. But what is this…coop? I do not know—”

He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the sea. “It’s an expression they use where I come from. A coop is a kind of pen. They keep chickens in it.”

“In Texas?”

“Yeah…” He said it on a sigh. “In Texas.” After a curiously vibrant pause, one that fairly sang with unspoken communion, he jerked himself upright and away from the silence with a loud and raggedy attempt to clear his throat. “Other places, too. Pretty much any place they have chickens.”

He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with a princess. One that, even in a designer gown, really did look like something out of The Arabian Nights. But talking about chicken coops, dopey as it was, seemed infinitely safer than that terrifying sense of…what in the world had it been? Affinity, concord…none of those words seemed adequate to describe what had just happened between them, between himself and this woman from an alien culture…a kind of oneness he’d never experienced before with another human being. As if, he thought with a shudder, she’d somehow found, and for that one brief moment touched, his innermost self. His soul.

“Texas.” Her sigh was an echo of his. “It must be very wonderful.” Hearing a new lightness in her voice, he looked at her warily. Torchlight played mischievously with her dimples.

She’s flirting with you, Cade. The thought made him almost giddy with relief. This was familiar territory, something he was pretty sure he knew how to handle.

He turned toward her and leaned an elbow on the balustrade, relaxed now, and casually smoking. “Some parts of it are,” he drawled, “and some aren’t.” He was thinking about the West Texas oil country, and parts of the Panhandle that were so flat you had the feeling if you got to running too fast you’d run right off the edge of the world. Even such a thing as wide open spaces could be carried too far.

Maybe because his thoughts were back home in Texas and he was feeling a little bit overconfident, it was a few seconds before he noticed the intensity of Leila’s silence. By the time he did, and snapped his attention back into focus on her, it was too late. He thought it must feel something like this, the first moment after stepping into quicksand—a disquieting, sinking sensation, but not yet sure whether he ought to panic or not.

When had she come to be standing so close to him? The sea breeze carried her scent to him, sweet and faintly spicy. The word “exotic” came to his mind. But then, everything about her was exotic. Was that why she seemed so exciting to him? The fact that she was different from every other woman he’d ever met?

Don’t even think about it. She’s absolutely off-limits.

Or was it simply that she was forbidden fruit? Off-limits. Inaccessible. Except that, at this moment, at least, he knew she was entirely accessible…to him.

To think like that was insane. And insanely dangerous. He was dealing with a tiger out of her cage, nothing less.

Except that she didn’t look much like a tiger at the moment, or anything even remotely dangerous. She looked soft and warm and sweet, more like ripe summer than forbidden fruit. Torchlight touched off golden sparks in the ornaments in her hair and in her eyes. Gazing into them, he felt again the peculiar sensation of not-quite-dizziness, as if his world, his center of gravity, had tilted on its axis. Clutching for something commonplace and familiar, he took a quick, desperate puff of his all-but-forgotten cheroot.

Her whisper came like an extension of the breeze…or his own sigh. For one brief moment he wasn’t certain whether it was her voice he was hearing, or merely the echoes of his own thoughts.

“Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Gallagher?”

Cade almost swallowed his cigar. Do you want to kiss me?

What on God’s green earth could he say to that? Jolted cruelly back to reality, his mind whirred like a computer through countless impossibilities, distilled finally down to two: Lie and tell her he didn’t, which would be unconscionably cruel; or tell her the truth, which would most likely land him in more trouble than he cared to think about.

It was probably gut instinct that made him do neither of those things, but instead try to laugh his way out of it. To make light of it. A joke.

Tossing his cigar over the balustrade with an exaggerated, almost violent motion, he snaked one arm around her waist. The other he hooked across her back at shoulder-blade height, and laying her against it, arched his body over hers in broad parody of some old silent movie clip he’d seen recently, he couldn’t recall exactly where—The Academy Awards, maybe?—about an Arab sheik in flowing robes and headdress seducing a wild-eyed maiden in a tassel-draped tent.

“Kees you?” he intoned in a ludicrous and excruciatingly awful mishmash of several different accents—he had no idea where he’d gotten that from. “Oh-ho-ho, mademoiselle…”

Startled eyes gazed up at him. He felt a sensation of falling, as if the ground beneath his feet had dropped away.

What mow? He had no idea what he was supposed to say next. That was the trouble with those silent movies, he thought. They were silent. Short on dialogue, long on action. And he was pretty sure he did know what action was supposed to come next.

Don’t do that. You can’t. You’d be crazy to do that.

Then came the smallest of sounds…the soft rush of an exhalation. Her breath was sweet and faintly wine-scented, so close he felt the stirring of it on his own skin. So near to his…her lips parted. Slowly, slowly her eyes closed.

Lord help me, he thought, and lowered his mouth to hers.

He had an impression of warmth and softness, of sweetness and innocence. Of purity. It occurred to him to wonder whether his might even be the first lips to ever have touched hers, and the thought both excited and shamed him. Is that what it’s all about? he wondered. Is that why I want her so much? Nothing to do with exotic beauty and forbidden fruit, only the thirst of the conqueror for undefiled lands to claim as his own.

His thirst was in danger of blossoming into fullblown lust.

He felt the flutterings of her instinctive resistance. If only he hadn’t! If only she’d responded openly, brazenly to his kiss, he might have been able to keep it as he’d intended it to be—blatantly mocking—and end it there. But that tiny faltering, that faint gasp of virginal hesitation… It stirred some primitive masculine response deep within him, so that her hesitation affected him not as a warning, but as a challenge. And an embrace meant only to lighten the mood and diffuse dangerous emotions became instead a seduction.

Instead of releasing her, his fingers stroked sensuous circles over the tightened muscles in her back and waist. Instead of pulling away from her, he gently absorbed her lips’ quiverings and delicately soothed them with the warmth of his own mouth. And felt her relax…melt into his embrace …as he’d somehow known she would.

He shifted her slightly, to a more comfortable, more natural position, and felt her body align with his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose, a soft and supple warmth. He lightly sipped her wine-flavored mouth, and only then discovered—too late—that he was famished for the unique taste of her, that he craved her with every fiber of his being.

Tiny lightbursts of warning exploded inside his brain. Reserves of strength summoned from God knew where made it possible for him to tear his mouth from hers—for a moment, no more. He released a sound like the moaning of wind in old trees and buried his face in the graceful curve of her neck. Then…gently, carefully at first, he brushed his lips against the skin there, velvety soft and sweetly scented as rose petals.

The sound she made was breathy and frightened, but he felt the uniquely feminine, seeking arch of her body, and the hot rush of blood through his in automatic masculine response. With a growl of triumph, unthinking he brought his mouth back to hers. Still gently but inexorably now as water finding its own course, his mouth began to follow the shapes and contours of hers…his tongue found its way to the soft inside. She whimpered.

How can this be? Leila thought. I cannot breathe, my heart is racing so. I feel as if I am drowning…dying…and yet I cannot stop myself—don’t want to stop myself—or him. If I am dying, then this must be heaven, because I don’t want it to stop…ever.

Her skin felt hot and prickly all over, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. And yet…she shivered. Her head—her heart—felt light as air, lighter than butterflies and wind-carried chaff, yet her body felt weighted, too heavy to move.

His body was a hard, unyielding weight against her breasts, breasts that had become so sensitive she could feel every ridge and fold of his jacket, the warp and woof of the cloth. Even the rub of her own clothing seemed an intolerable abrasion.

Panting, she tore her mouth free of his and arched her throat, offering that to him instead. And how had she known to do such a thing? Even as she wondered, she felt the press of his lips against the pounding of her pulse, and mounting pressure…and terrifying weakness.

And then the pressure was gone. From a great distance came a raw, anguished sound, and the weight lifted from her breasts. Her throat and lips felt cold, and throbbed with her racing pulse. Swamped with dizziness, afraid she might fall, she clung with desperate fingers to the arms that held her and fearfully opened her eyes. Eyes stared down into hers…eyes that burned with a golden gleam…eyes that burned her soul like fire.

“What—” She meant to whisper, but it was a tiny squeak, like the mew of a kitten.

His voice was so ragged she could hardly understand him. “Princess—I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t…”

When she felt his arms shift, depriving her of their support, she gasped and caught at his sleeves. His fingers bit into the flesh of her arms as, grim-faced, he held her away from him, then with great care stood her upright and steadied her like a precariously balanced statue. Once more his eyes lashed across her, and she flinched as though from the sting of a whip.

“Dammit,” he fiercely muttered, and then, as he turned, added with soft regret, “Another time, maybe…another place.”

And he was gone.

Left alone, Leila stood where she was, trembling, hardly daring to move, until the scrape of footsteps on stone had been swallowed up in the shusshing of waves and the whisper of wind.

Foolish…foolish…The whispers mocked her. Serves you right. This is what happens to pushy women.

But…what had happened, exactly?

Hugging herself, Leila whirled to face the glittering indigo vastness of sky and sea. She was shivering still, no longer with shock, but a strange, fierce excitement. Cade Gallagher had kissed her! Kissed her in a way she was quite certain no man should ever kiss a woman who was not his wife.

And that she had allowed it…? Fear and guilt added layers to her excitement, but did not banish it. That she had allowed such a thing to happen was unpardonable.

She knew she should feel frightened, terrified, ashamed. So why was she smiling? Smiling, lightheaded, and absolutely giddy with excitement?

Another time…another place.

That was what he had said. She remembered his exact words. Understanding came; certainty settled around her, comforting as a cashmere shawl.

Back in his own room at last, Cade slipped out of his tux jacket with a grateful sigh. One helluva day, he thought as he tossed the jacket onto the cushions of the surprisingly trendy brown-and-white striped sofa. And thank God it was over. Tomorrow he’d be back in familiar territory, home country. The world of business was where he belonged, where he felt comfortable. It was what he was good at—doing deals, making plans, working out compromises. All this formal socializing, rubbing elbows with royalty—that wasn’t his style. Oh, he knew a certain amount of that stuff was unavoidable from time to time, but he was always glad when it was time to roll up his sleeves and get down to the real work, down and dirty sometimes, rough as a bare-knuckle brawl, but that was what he liked about it—the excitement of the game. That, and the satisfaction that came with winning.

Anyway, for sheer stress, all that was a piece of cake compared to what he’d just been through. He’d rather spend three days in cutthroat negotiations than three hours at a formal reception—and in this case, formal was putting it mildly. Not that it hadn’t been impressive as hell, the palace ballroom lit up like Christmas, the food delicious, the music tolerable, if you went in for that sort of thing. And he’d never seen so many purple sashes and gold medals in one place in all his life, or so many beautiful people—especially the women. Everywhere he looked was a feast for a man’s eyes. But there was something about it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Undercurrents.

Undercurrents. Yeah, he thought, that about described it, all right. Underneath all the bright lights and highbrow music, the dazzling smiles and graceful bows, elegant tuxes and designer gowns in rainbow colors swirled together like ribbons in a washing machine…under all that, like a subterranean river, ran a ribbon of tension, a hum of intrigue he could feel in his bones. He wondered whether it was something going on between these Tamiri people and their nearest neighbors, the Montebellans, or if it was just standard operating procedure for royal courts. Not unlike what goes on every day in Washington, D.C., he thought, or for that matter, any state capitol back home.

This thing with Leila Kamal, though…that was another story. That particular intrigue was entirely personal, and the tension a steel rod running straight down the back of his neck. It had made for one helluva nerve-wracking evening, trying to avoid eye contact—or any sort of contact whatsoever—with the woman, while being at the same time aware of her with every nerve in his body. Nervewracking…intense…but now, thank God, it was over. Finally, he could relax.

With another gusty exhalation, he peeled off his necktie and headed for the bathroom. There, while his fingers dealt with the studs on his shirt, his eyes gazed dispassionately back at him from the ornately framed mirror above the sink.

You were damned lucky, Gallagher.

Oh yeah. He knew just how lucky he’d been. He’d played with fire and somehow managed not to get burned.

That narrow brush with disaster had left him shaken, but he’d managed to put it behind him. All he needed now was a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow some mutually advantageous wheeling and dealing with the old sheik, and he’d be himself again.

Stripping off his shirt, he briefly considered another shower. But he was tired, just wanted to hit the sack, so he turned on the tap above the sink instead. He was hunched over the bowl, cupped hands filling up with water to splash over his face, when he heard a light tapping on his chamber door.

What now? One of the servants, probably, they were always bringing him something—towels or fruit or herbal tea—though it seemed pretty late for that. Frowning, he turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel and went to open the door.

When he saw who was standing there, he wondered why he didn’t have a heart attack on the spot. At the very least, he was pretty sure he knew now what it might feel like to be speared in the belly with an icicle.

Chapter 4

“Princess—” It gusted from him before he could think. “What’re you—why—” And while he was sputtering like that she slipped past him and into his room.

He had a fleeting impression of a light, spicy scent, hair that flowed down her back like an ebony river, a gown made of something pale and floaty—she’d glow in the dark like a candle!

He’d never felt more exposed, or more cognizant of the danger he was in. If anyone happened to walk by…if she so much as raised her voice, cried out, Cade’s goose was as good as cooked. Even in this part of the world he doubted they still executed people for such transgressions, but at the very least, any hopes he had of doing a deal with the Tamari people would be out the window, and he might even be out—literally—himself. As in, given the bum’s rush. Bounced unceremoniously out the door on his butt. Right now, this minute, in the middle of the night.

Plus, Elena was never going to forgive him—never.

With icy dread crawling down his spine, he gave his face an absentminded mop with the towel, glanced quickly up and down the corridor, then silently pulled the door closed. He felt as if the door of a trap had just slammed shut behind him.

Leila moved as if through a wall of suffocating heat—holding her breath, feeling her cheeks burn and sweat bloom on her forehead. Knowing instinctively the source of the heat, she kept her face turned away from him—as if that would help!

She reached with her hand to touch the back of the sofa and leaned against it a little, testing it for support, then brushed her fingers over the fabric to hide the fact that she’d done so. She heard the door close behind her and silence fill the room. In it the thump and swish of her pulse sounded loud as the storm surf striking the rocks below the cliffs.

“Princess—” His voice was harsh.

And though she didn’t want to, she flinched. Still, as she turned she knew her smile would appear bright and determined. “I thought you were going to call me Leila.”

Breath gusted from him, as if he’d been holding it in too long. “For God’s sake, what are you doing here?”

But she could not answer. Suddenly she had no moisture in her mouth; she could not seem to move her tongue. Nor her eyes, either, for somehow they had become stuck to the naked masculine chest in front of her, and not even for her life could she tear them away. She did not understand—she had seen men’s chests and torsos before…hadn’t she? In pictures, at the very least. But if she had, it did not seem so. To her this felt like the first time she had ever laid eyes on such a sight…ever.

“Look…Leila—” He took a step toward her, face darkened, both hands upraised and fingers tensed, as though he wanted to grasp her with them.

Her breath caught and her heart gave a frightened leap. Even she could see that it was not a welcoming gesture. But not a violent one, either. She thought he seemed more distraught than angry, and her fear was not for her physical safety. He would not harm her, she was certain of that.

Just as she was certain now that she had made a terrible mistake in judgment. Somehow, because of the vast difference in their cultures, probably, she had misunderstood him. She knew that he had not meant what she had thought he meant. Not at all.

I shouldn’t have come.

All of that passed through Leila’s mind in the time it took her to utter a single dismayed gasp. In the next moment, memory—sensual, visceral, overwhelming—slammed her with the force of a physical blow. Hard lips, smooth and gentle lips…liquid warmth, breath smelling of tobacco, trembling pressure and pounding pulse…

Her body felt cold, and her legs as if they would not support her weight. She heard a rushing sound in her ears. But I had to come…I had to. What else could I do?

She took one step forward…and into a void.

Swearing vehemently, Cade caught her as her knees buckled. Then, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do, he scooped her up in his arms. This is insane. Ludicrous.

While casting frantically about for a place to deposit his unconscious burden, he caught a glimpse of himself and her in the gilt-framed mirror above the tile and marble fireplace—heaving breasts in a filmy gown against the backdrop of his own naked, sweaty chest…her pale throat a taut and graceful curve…raven hair cascading over his arms like a waterfall…Damn, he thought with a snort that was part irony, part disgust and most of all dismay. I look like the cover of one of those romance novels women are always reading.

He’d about decided to lay his swooning princess on the sofa when he felt her arms come to twine around his neck. He barely had time to register that fact before her hair began to stir against his skin, an incredible, unimaginable softness.

He shivered involuntarily and felt his nipples harden. As if in response to that, she turned her face toward him and touched him just there in a series of tender and tiny kisses, rather like a kitten, he dimly thought, making tracks across his chest. His heart, already beating hard, gave a lurch.

“Princess…” His voice was faint and airless. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her lips were working their way across his collarbone and upward along the side of his neck. His jaw muscles felt so rigid he half expected to hear them creak when he added almost desperately, “Hey—cut that out.”

Poised to deposit her on the sofa, he halted, muscles quivering, beset by a new dilemma. If he put her down now, she would almost certainly pull him down with her, which would be nothing short of disastrous. If he went on holding her, with that unnerving weakness creeping through his body, he was afraid he might drop her. To head off that possibility, he brought one knee up under her bottom, braced his foot on the cushions, and tried to shift her to a more secure position in his arms.

Big mistake. Hadn’t this happened to him once before?

Yes, and once again as on the terrace, he felt her body mold itself to his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose…an all-over body glove, silky-soft, supple as finest kid. Tiny puffs of her breath brought his sweat-damp skin alive with goose bumps. Her spicy, exotic scent made his head swim. The weakness in his arms oozed into his legs, while in the center of his body his heart was banging like an energetic and enthusiastic bass drummer, sending joyful, giddy impulses and inviting—no, compelling—the rest of his body to follow along.

His body’s predictable response was, Oh, yeah. I’m there! And his heart chimed in with, Sure would like to…maybe it would be okay…don’t you think I could?

To which the rational part of his brain emphatically replied, No way, Jose!

“Princess—” he began, but the rest was muffled. Leila’s lovely and adventuresome mouth had reached its destination at last, and anything else he might have added was swallowed up in its sweet, intoxicating warmth.

For a moment…just a moment, it seemed to Cade he was fighting a losing battle. He thought how easy it would be…what a relief it would be…to just say the hell with it and give in. He thought it would be a little like drowning, to let himself go wherever this might take him, and damn the consequences.

He might have been able to do that—just maybe—if it hadn’t been for the strident and insistent clamor of his reason. Cade, you can’t! She’s a princess, most likely a virgin! You’re a guest in her father’s house! You have to stop this. Now!

He wasn’t sure how much longer he might have resisted the voices of sanity inside his head, or if in fact he’d ever have found the strength to end it. What saved him was anger. It came suddenly and unexpectedly, a bright and savage flare of resentment. Foolish woman—what the hell does she think she’s doing? Spoiled brat…she’s going to ruin me—ruin everything!

He let go of her abruptly, and felt her round and firm little bottom come to rest on his drawn-up knee.

“No,” he said hoarsely as, jerky and shell-shocked, he peeled her arms from around his neck and thrust her from him. The places where she’d touched him felt like fresh abrasions.

Little by little, in ungraceful adjustments, he managed to stand her on her own two feet, and himself as well. And all the while she said not a word, while her eyes gazed up at him, black as ink, glistening dangerously. Her lips, pink and soft and still glazed from his mouth, parted slowly. If she speaks, he thought…Or worse, if she cries…

He grasped at his anger like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver and spoke in a ragged and guttural voice. “I said no. Do you understand me?” He pulled himself away from her, raked a distraught hand through his hair and fought to get his breathing calmed down. “This isn’t going to happen, okay? Not tonight, not ever. I’m sorry—you have to go. Come on—out.”

Since she didn’t appear able or willing to move on her own, he took hold of her arm and gave it a tug. Just a small one. Then he watched in horror as her gown slipped down over one creamy-smooth shoulder. He let go of her arm in a hurry. “Ah, hell—Princess…” He closed his eyes and said it with a groan, almost pleading.

Then, through the pounding of his own pulses he heard a sharp, heartbroken sob…felt the rush and flurry of her passing…and at last, the click of an opening door.

Regret pierced his heart without warning, pierced it like an arrow and sent it plummeting into his belly. Belatedly he was aware of how young, how innocent Leila really was, and how grievously his rejection must have hurt her. He felt as if he’d kicked a puppy, or trampled a lovely blossom into the mud.

Hoping to explain, to soften it for her somehow, he lunged after her as she hurled herself through the doorway, out into the hallway—straight into the arms of her father, the sheik.

Sheik Ahmed Kamal had been feeling quite pleased with himself, and enormously satisfied with the way the weekend’s events had unfolded. The wedding ceremony had been as solemn and dignified as should be—in spite of the tendency on the part of young people nowadays to want to adopt certain deplorable Western customs instead of adhering faithfully to traditional ways. The groom’s banquet had been enjoyable for all in attendance, sumptuous and generous as was appropriate for a royal couple yet neither excessive nor ostentatious. The exhibition polo matches had been enjoyed by the many guests in attendance, and had resulted in gratifying wins for the Tamari team. Tonight’s state dinner and reception honoring the king and the crown prince of Montebello had been a grand success.

Yes…and its aftermath even more so. Sheik Ahmed was, in fact, just returning from a most productive private meeting with his Montebellan counterpart, after having personally accompanied the royal contingent to their quarters in the guest palace on the other side of the gardens. He was in an expansive mood; his belly was full of good food and his mind full of plans for Tamir’s future, plans that involved economic expansion in a number of areas near and dear to the sheik’s heart.

Now, accompanied by his cadre of loyal bodyguards, he was making his way toward his private chambers at the end of a long, empty passageway adorned with mosaics and murals and softly lit by recessed lamps. He was looking forward to discussing the weekend’s activities with Alima, his beloved wife, and afterward…a well-deserved rest.

And then—what was this? His youngest daughter, blinded by tears and with garments in disarray—garments, moreover, that would be appropriate only for a woman’s chambers, or her husband’s—his beloved child running headlong into his arms!

“Daughter, what is the meaning of this?” the sheik thundered, holding her at arm’s length while he made hurried and necessary adjustments to her costume. He spared no thought at all for his contingent of bodyguards; being both well-trained and loyal, they had already turned their backs and averted their eyes from the deplorable spectacle.

Besides, if the truth were known, at that moment Sheik Ahmed’s thoughts were in too much of a quandary to worry about what his bodyguards might or might not have witnessed. On the one hand, there was a father’s understandable wrath at finding one of his offspring in a place and circumstances she had no business being at such an hour. On the other hand…the fact was, the sheik had a secret softness in his heart for his youngest child, and seeing her face so pale and frightened, her eyes overflowing with tears, gazing up into his…

“Leila, explain yourself!” he bellowed, but his anger was more show than substance.

Her lips opened, but she did not speak. He felt her arm tremble in his grasp. About to repeat the command a bit more gently, he hesitated. His focus wavered. A flash of movement on the periphery of his vision caught his gaze and jerked it away from his daughter’s frozen face…and beyond. His eyes narrowed.

In the space of an instant his fatherly anger, mostly bombast, bluster and hot air, melted down and solidified into a rage as cold and deadly as any he’d ever known in his life.

Cade had never seen murder looking back at him from a man’s eyes before, but he knew beyond any doubt he was seeing it now.

Strangely, faced with his worst nightmare, he felt all fear leave him. His body grew cold and his mind quiet. His eyes never left Sheik Ahmed’s face as he waited for what would come.

Rotund and flushed with the effects of good food and good living, the Sheik was still an imposing presence. His snow-white hair and beard and magnificent hawk’s beak of a nose gave him an almost biblical majesty, and even though he didn’t speak loudly, his voice, welling from the depths of a barrel chest, sounded to Cade like the voice of doom.

“Young man, there was a time, not so long ago, when I could have had you executed on the spot. Explain yourself.”

A strangled cry from Leila tugged at Cade’s attention, but it was only a flicker, and only for an instant. All of his attention was focused on her father.

Explain himself? Under the circumstances it seemed to him a more than reasonable, even generous demand. Certainly more than he’d expected.

Explain himself. Well. Your Highness, I was just getting ready for bed, minding my own business, when your daughter, here, came knocking at my door, and the next thing I knew, she was throwing herself into my arms. Did I invite her? No sir, I did not. And…where did she get the idea to come to my chambers, Your Highness? You mean, did I entice her? Lead her on? Well…no sir, I sure didn’t…unless you count kissing her earlier this evening until she couldn’t stand up….

Cade sighed inwardly. To explain seemed cowardly to him, and heartless, somehow. His mouth, opened to release the words that were poised on the tip of his tongue, firmly closed.

He looked at Leila, standing so straight and still beside her father. Her face was pale but proud, even with eyes lowered and veiled by tear-clumped lashes. He cleared his throat and determinedly began. “Your Highness, this is not what you think. Your daughter—” He glanced at her again, and saw her eyes go wide and stare straight into his…saw her lips part and her cheeks flood with pink. She reminded him of a doe he’d seen once, caught in a hunter’s snare. And again he felt that awful sensation in his midsection, as if his heart had just been speared, and had landed with a thud in the bottom of his belly.

Every rational thought went out of his head. His mind was chaos, a whirlwind of remorse and shame. This was his fault. He’d humiliated this girl—and she was a girl. She was a princess and he’d humiliated her. She was almost certainly a virgin, and he’d kissed her frivolously, toyed with her emotions. And now, to make matters even worse, her humiliation was made public, since all at once the hallway around them seemed filled with people—bodyguards, servants, even Leila’s mother with her servants, come to see what all the commotion was about. The damage he’d done to Leila—and to his own agenda, of course—seemed irreparable. Unless…

Just as suddenly as the chaos had come, now calm and certainty descended upon him. There was only one way to fix the mess he’d created. Cade knew precisely what he had to do.

He drew himself up, and with as much dignity as he could muster with his hair standing on end and without benefit of shirt, jacket and tie, looked Leila’s father straight in the eye. “Sheik Ahmed, this may seem sudden, but I have fallen in love with your daughter.” Ignoring Leila’s shocked gasp, he rushed on. “I want to marry her.” The gasps had found echoes throughout the gathering; he ignored those, too, as well as the sheik’s sudden stiffening. “I respectfully ask your permission—”

“My permission!” Sheik Ahmed’s voice shook. His wife laid a cautioning hand on his arm, and he whirled, blindly thrusting Leila toward her.

“Take her,” he bellowed. “Take her away—and the rest of you—” he waved his arms, making shooing motions at the crowd. “Leave us!” Without waiting for his orders to be obeyed, he turned back to Cade, black eyes glittering with rage.

“You. You would marry my daughter?” With extreme effort, the sheik seemed to draw himself together and spoke more calmly though with no less anger. “Mr. Gallagher, I have made you a guest in my house, and you thank me by inflicting this gravest of injuries upon my family.”

Cade frowned. This was not going quite the way he’d expected. “That was not—”

“Silence! And now, to that injury you would add insult? Do you think that I would allow my daughter to marry you—an infidel, an unbeliever, a man without honor?” There was a pause, during which Cade could have sworn the sheik grew in height at least a foot before his very eyes. And then, in a magnificent bellow, “I would sooner see her dishonored!”

Having delivered his exit line, Sheik Ahmed whirled—then spoiled the effect of it somewhat by jerking back to Cade. “You will leave my house,” he growled, stabbing the air in his direction with a bejeweled finger. “Tomorrow—as early as can be arranged.” Once more he turned, and stalked off down the now-deserted hallway, footsteps ringing on the tile floor.

Protected by an icy shell of calm he knew must be shock, Cade watched until the massive doors at the end of the hallway had closed upon the sheik’s broad back. Then he retreated into his own chamber and carefully pulled the door shut after him.

On the whole, he thought as the quivery aftereffects of shock hit him, that had gone pretty well. At least he hadn’t been executed on the spot.

Like a gracefully pensive statue, Leila stood in steamy and fragrant warmth and gazed at the familiar back of the woman who knelt beside the bath. Gazed at, but did not really see. Her mind was empty, as bereft of thoughts as her eyes were of tears. She did not dare allow herself to think, not even so much as a single thought; if she did, she feared the anger, humiliation and despair would simply overwhelm her.

Salma Hadi, her mother’s most trusted servant and once upon a time Leila’s own nanny, hummed nervously as she fussed over the bathwater, adding scent and soap bubbles, swishing the water with her fingers to test the temperature. The tune she hummed was simple and familiar, a children’s play song she had sung to Leila long, long ago. Leila found it oddly soothing.

Pushing stiffly to her feet, Salma turned to smile up at her. Holding out her hand, she spoke in Arabic, the language of her youth. “Ah, yes, now it is good. Come, my treasured child, let me help you undress.”

Mindlessly, Leila obeyed the familiar voice, lifting her hair to allow access to the fastenings of her gown. She stood, docile and numb, while well-remembered hands gently removed her clothing and twisted her hair into a pile atop her head, securing it there with jeweled clips and combs. Naked, she allowed herself to be taken by the hand and led to the edge of the bath.

“There, my sweet…gently…gently,” Salma crooned. “The water will sooth you…take away the pain.”

Leila gave her former nanny a puzzled look. Pain? What pain? Was Salma getting old? Losing her mind? The pain she felt was all inside, deep in her heart, and it would take much more than a hot bubble bath to make it go away.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she lowered herself into the fragrant suds, for she had been taught never to take loyal servants for granted. “This does feel good.” Closing her eyes, she lay back with a sigh and stretched herself languidly, like a sleepy cat. How good it felt to relax, after such a tumultuous day. How good it would be if she could simply go to sleep right here, and not have to think…

“Princess? Are you—”

There was concern, and something else—embarrassment, perhaps?—in Salma’s voice. Leila opened her eyes. “Yes, Salma, what is it?”

The servant’s round face was flushed, and her eyes glistened with kindness. “Princess, I have some oil—it is very soothing. When you have finished—”

“Oil?” Leila frowned. “What kind of oil? What for?”

Salma touched Leila’s cheek with gentle fingers. “My little one…it is normal for a woman to have pain, the first time she…is with a man. But after a hot bath…the soothing oil…it goes away quickly—” She stopped, for Leila was shaking her head wildly. She continued in distress, “Princess, it is all right—” But Leila went on shaking her head, and brushing aside Salma’s anxious fingers, covered her face with her hands.

Her face, her whole body burned with shame; even the bathwater felt cool on her fevered skin. Oh, how she wished she could just…sink to the bottom of the tub and disappear forever.

“Princess—what is it?” Salma’s voice had risen with alarm. Lifting her hands heavenward, she uttered a rapid, wailing prayer, which she almost immediately interrupted to ask in a despairing whisper, “Oh, tell me—did he harm you? Are you injured, truly? Tell me—what has he—”

“No, no!” Leila cried, “you don’t understand. He did nothing. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Salma rocked backward, hushed and wondering. “You mean, you are not—he did not—”

“No,” Leila moaned, putting her hands over her eyes once more, “he would not. Oh, Salma, it was awful. Just awful…” And all at once she felt herself gathered into loving arms, soapsuds and all, and she was sobbing like a little child on her nanny’s shoulder. “Salma,” she gulped,

“I have been a fool….”

“Yes, my treasure,” Salma crooned, rocking her. “Yes….”

* * *

Alima Kamal was worried about her husband. She had never before seen him so angry—his color was quite alarming. Hadn’t the doctors warned him about his blood pressure, insisted he must lose some weight? And after such a weekend, so much excitement, too much rich food—and perhaps more of the mild Tamari wine than he was accustomed to—now this. What had Leila been thinking of, to do such a thing?

Ah—Leila. That was another worry entirely. She was in Salma’s capable hands—that problem could wait until tomorrow.

At the moment Ahmed was in the bathroom, Alima having persuaded him that a warm bath might help him to relax—with the help of a little subtle bribery, naturally, in the form of the promise of a nice massage afterward. She had in mind an old family recipe of Salma’s—passed on to her by her maternal grandmother—a mix of fragrant oils and certain herbs that were designed to soothe the mind as well as the body. She had used it on her husband before, with most satisfactory and highly enjoyable results, for her as well. Although, under the circumstances she didn’t hold out hope for such a conclusion to this evening’s activities. Ah, well… Alima sighed.

A discreet tapping at the royal bedchamber’s heavy wooden door almost went unnoticed, so engrossed was she in her preparations. When it continued, now a little louder, she glanced at the antique French clock on the mantelpiece. Who would dare disturb the sheik in his chambers at this hour? With a mildly vexed sigh, Alima went to answer it.

“Salma!” Her heart gave a leap of alarm when she saw her oldest and most trusted attendant standing there, almost bouncing on her tiptoes with ill-concealed emotion. “What’s wrong? Is Leila all right? Is something—”

“Oh, no, Sitt,” Salma interrupted breathlessly, “Princess Leila is fine. That is why—Oh, Sitt, please forgive me for disturbing you, but I must speak with you.”

Casting a hurried glance toward the bathroom where, judging from the sounds coming from within, her husband—perhaps in anticipation of what was to come after?—seemed to be enjoying his bath more than he’d expected, Alima stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind her.

Flat on his belly with his eyes closed, Sheik Ahmed drifted on waves of pleasure. Ah yes…there…Alima’s strong fingers never failed to find the spot that needed them most.

She wanted something from him, of course. She only resorted to the oils and herbs when she was hoping to cajole him into giving her her way. He knew this, but it did nothing to lessen his pleasure. He trusted his wife implicitly. He knew she would never use the considerable influence she had on him lightly. If she was attempting to manipulate him now, it would only be for something she considered to be of utmost importance. Ah well…she would get to it in her own good time. And meanwhile, as far as Sheik Ahmed was concerned, getting there was the most enjoyable part.

“Ahmed, my beloved…”

“Yes, jewel of my heart? Speak to me.”

They had been speaking Arabic, as they often did on intimate occasions, but Alima switched now to English. “Ahmed, Salma was here, while you were in the bath. She brought news of Leila—”

“Leila!” A snort lifted his head and shoulders from the pillows.

Gently but firmly, Alima pushed them down again. “Hush, my husband—please, hear me.” After a pause, which she decided to take for acquiescence, she continued in a musing tone, “What she had to say was interesting. I think you will want to hear it.”

Ahmed gave a resigned grunt. “Very well…if you must.”

Bracing herself for the expected upheaval, Alima bore down with all her strength on one of her husband’s most troublesome spots, took a deep breath, and said lightly, “It is possible we have misjudged Elena’s friend from Texas.” A growl resonated beneath her fingers. She hurried on. “It seems this American may not be entirely without honor, after all. I say this—” she spoke calmly, but her fingers were kneading her husband’s tensed muscles as hard and fast as they possibly could “—because of what your daughter has confessed to Salma. In tears.” There was that growl again. “Yes, tears,” she said firmly. “But not because this man had dishonored her. Quite the opposite. Your daughter was in tears because he had sent her away.”

Like a small mountain shifted by an earthquake, Sheik Ahmed rolled himself onto his back. Raising himself up on his elbows, glowering fiercely, he bellowed, “Away? What do you mean, he sent her away? Explain yourself!”

Alima sat with her legs tucked under her, head high and eyes downcast. Her heart was beating rapidly and her hands, clasped tightly together in her lap, were cold. She was desperately afraid, though not of her husband—she could never be afraid of Ahmed! This was another kind of fear entirely—the fear of a mother for her beloved child. Her youngest daughter’s future happiness was at stake.

“Yes,” she said on a soft exhalation, “I fear it was not the American who behaved badly this evening, but our daughter. And I—” Her voice broke—she had not planned it. “I must say that I am not surprised. I have been afraid something like this might happen. Oh, Ahmed—” She rose and turned quickly from him to hide the tears that had sprung unexpectedly to her eyes. “Leila is so impatient and impulsive—she has always been so.”

“Yes.” Ahmed actually chuckled.

Whirling back to him, Alima was just in time to see him rearrange his face in its customary glower. “Ahmed, she is a woman. She has the feelings, the needs, the impulses of a woman. Every day I have watched her grow more impatient, waiting her turn, waiting for her sisters to choose husbands…”

Yes, and impatient for other things, for other reasons, too, about which Alima knew she could never tell her husband. Ahmed was a good man and a progressive leader in many ways, but he would never understand how bright, intelligent women like his daughters might feel frustrated at being patronized, overlooked, discounted and ignored. Particularly Leila, whom everyone considered silly and shallow, and whom possibly only her mother knew was anything but.

And there was another thing Leila’s mother knew. She had noticed the way her youngest child looked at the tall oilman from Texas. Tonight she had seen the soft shine in her eyes, the pink flush in her cheeks….

“Humph,” said Ahmed. “I have been more than patient with Nadia, it is true…” He scratched his bearded chin thoughtfully. “Butrus wishes to marry her, and she seems willing enough.” He shrugged and gave a regal wave of his hand. “Pah—I see no real value in this tradition of marrying off daughters in order of their birth. So—if you are certain that Leila is eager to marry, and impetuous enough to do something foolish, then the answer is simple enough. I must find her a suitable husband. And now, my beloved, if that is all that is troubling you—” He smiled, and his eyes gleamed wickedly.

Alima hesitated. This was the tricky part. She must be extremely careful not to give herself away. Breathing a relieved sigh, she bowed her head and said, “Yes, my husband. You are wise, as always. Only—”

Still smiling, he caught her hand and drew her closer to him. “Only? What is it now, my love?”

Bracing her hands firmly on her husband’s shoulders, Alima looked gravely into his eyes. “Only, I fear that it may prove difficult to find a man willing to overlook tonight’s escapade. Perhaps we should consider—”

“Not the American!” bellowed Ahmed, rearing back in outrage. “A nonbeliever? Never.” “Of course not,” said Alima, laughing. “What an idea! No, I was going to say, perhaps we should consider someone older, someone who will give Leila the firm guidance she needs.” She paused, then continued demurely, “I hear the Emir of Batar is looking for a fourth wife.”

“The Emir of Batar! The man is older than I am,” fumed Ahmed, looking horrified. “And I have it on good authority that he treats his wives shamefully. No, no—we must do better for Leila.” He gave his wife an absentminded squeeze and turned away from her. “Let me think about it.”

“Of course, my husband,” murmured Alima, beginning to knead his shoulder muscles. “Perhaps this will help.”

After several minutes, Ahmed spoke, slurring his words slightly. “I have ordered the American to leave tomorrow, as early as possible.” Alima said nothing, but continued massaging his neck and shoulders. “Perhaps,” muttered Ahmed, “that was a bit…hasty. And somewhat unfair, under the circumstances. What do you think, dearest one?” He turned to encircle her with his arms. She saw that his eyes were twinkling.

She lowered her lashes so he would not see the gleam in hers. “You know best, my husband.”

“I believe I will speak to the man, first thing in the morning.”

“Whatever you say, beloved,” crooned Alima.

Chapter 5

Cade dropped his toiletry kit into his carry-on bag, added a half-empty pack of cheroots and the zippable daily planner in which he kept his business notes and appointments, then straightened for one last look around. Not that he was afraid he’d overlooked something; rather, his gaze was one of wonderment, reflecting his frame of mind. He was still having a hard time accepting what had happened to him. He tried to remember whether he’d ever suffered such a demoralizing tail-between-the-legs disaster before in his life. He couldn’t.

Ah, the car, he thought when he heard the discreet knock on his door. He called, “Be right there,” and grabbed up his big suitcase and moved it over beside the door. A little early, he thought, glancing at his watch, but so much the better. He’d have time to grab a bite of breakfast at the airport before his flight. He sure as hell wasn’t about to eat anything here at the palace, or for that matter, impose on the Kamal family’s hospitality in any way, for one minute longer than absolutely necessary. He’d seen enough of these royals to last him a lifetime. With the exception of Elena, of course. Though he sure wouldn’t care to run into her, right now, either. He couldn’t even begin to think how he was going to explain this to her.

He zipped up his overnighter, picked it up and placed it beside its bigger twin, then opened the door. The man who stood there, waiting at patient and respectful attention, wasn’t wearing the white-and-gold uniform of the household servants, but a western-style suit, dark gray with an immaculate white shirt and blue-and-gray striped tie. He looked familiar—dark, swarthy, probably handsome, in an austere, arrogant sort of way. Undoubtedly Cade had been introduced to the man during the course of the weekend, which meant he was a member of the royal family or somebody high on the bureaucratic totem pole.

Probably a lawyer, Cade thought cynically. For the defense, he wondered, or the prosecution?

“The sheik wishes to speak with you,” the man said, in clipped English. “If you will come with me, please.”

What now? Maybe he’s changed his mind about having me executed, Cade thought sourly as he gave his room one last look and with a fatalistic shrug, pulled the door shut behind him.

His escort didn’t say another word as he led the way along the corridor, following virtually the same path by which the sheik had made his dramatic departure the night before. Cade made a conscious effort to relax, and tried not to think about the confrontation to come. Instead he made a point of noticing the arched passageways, the apparently ancient tiles beneath his feet and mosaics on the walls, and the lamps which, set into niches along the walls, added to the medieval look of it all. He half expected to see armored guards with swords and crossed pikestaffs barring entry through the massive carved double doors at the end of the hallway.

Instead, his escort merely knocked twice, paused, then pushed the doors open and gestured for Cade to enter ahead of him. Cade gave the man a nod and a sardonic, “Thank you,” which went unacknowledged.

The sheik’s office was huge, but was saved from seeming cavernous by the warm opulence of mahogany, leather and Persian carpets. Arched windows along one side of the room looked out on the sea; on the other, Sheik Ahmed waited behind a long mahogany desk. He wore an ordinary business suit this morning, but that didn’t make him seem any the less imposing. He still looked positively biblical, Cade thought. Moses in a suit and tie.

The sheik had risen at Cade’s approach. Now he nodded at the escort and said, “Thank you, Butrus. You may leave us.”

As the man muttered and made his exit, the name came to Cade. Butrus Dabir. The sheik’s most trusted advisor, and according to Elena, one with designs on his daughter, Nadia.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Gallagher. Please sit down.” The sheik indicated one of several leather chairs in front of the desk, waited until Cade was seated, then returned to his own chair. Like a genial host, Cade thought, except without the smile. In fact, he seemed almost…in anyone else Cade would have sworn he was….No way around it. The reigning monarch of Tamir gave every indication of being embarrassed.

Sheik Ahmed picked up a pen and put it down. He leaned back in his chair and scowled at the pen with lowered eyebrows. At last, following an introductory rumbling sound, he spoke.

“Mr. Gallagher, I have asked you here so that I may offer you an apology. It seems that, in the heat of the, uh, moment last night, I have made a too-hasty judgment. I believe I accused you of being a man without honor, whereas it seems that you behaved with more honor than most men would have under the same…ahem…the circumstances. I hope that you will forgive my behavior, and that of my daughter.” And with that, half rising, the sheik leaned across his desk to offer his hand to Cade.

Who was momentarily speechless, with his mouth hanging open like a schoolboy caught red-handed at mischief. Whatever he might have expected, it sure as hell wasn’t this. Finally, though, there was only one thing to do, and that was shake the sheik’s hand and say thank you. So he did it.

He was settling back in his chair, feeling dazed as a poleaxed steer, when the sheik gave another rumble and continued. “Regarding your proposal of marriage to my daughter…” There was a pause while the sheik stared intently at Cade, eyes glittering from beneath lowered eyebrows. Much against his will, Cade’s heart began to beat faster. “Mr. Gallagher, I am fully aware of the circumstances under which it was made, and I—that is to say, your gallant attempt to salvage my daughter’s honor is not unappreciated.” There was another pause. Again the sheik’s eyes pinioned Cade with the intent stare of a hawk zeroing in on a cornered gopher.

Cade’s mind was racing. What was going on here? The old sheik had an agenda, that was clear enough. What wasn’t clear at all was exactly how Cade was supposed to fit into it. Okay, he’d been cleared of dishonoring the princess, apologies had been made, he’d been let off the hook. On the other hand, his banishment hadn’t been lifted, not in so many words. He had a very strong feeling that if he said thank you now, shook hands and left this room, he’d be taking that early flight home, no hard feelings, but no business deal, either.

What was it the old fox wanted from him? He’d made his feelings on the marriage issue plain enough. So, what?

His heart was pounding, his mind in chaos. However, only his narrowed eyes betrayed the turmoil he was feeling as he calmly said, “Sir, I assure you—I didn’t propose marriage to your daughter merely to save her reputation. My desire to marry Leila was—is—sincere.”

God, what had he just said? Marry Leila? He felt a bright stab of panic before he remembered that he was safe. Her royal papa was never going to go for it anyway.

At the moment, though, the way the old sheik was staring at him was making him decidedly uneasy. Still intent as a hawk about to pounce, but now—there it was again, that odd little shift of embarrassment.

“Hmm, yes…I see.” Sheik Ahmed tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Mr. Gallagher, you must understand that in our culture, such an alliance would be impossible…”

“I understand,” Cade murmured, gravely nodding.

“Unless—” the sheik pounced “—you were to convert.”

Cade’s heart leaped into overdrive. “Convert?”

“To our ways, our culture.” The sheik spread his hands and in the white nest of beard his lips curved in a smile. “Then there would be no objection to a marriage between you and my youngest daughter—from me, of course. Naturally, Leila would have to consent to such a match.” He actually chuckled.

“Naturally…” Cade breathed. His head was whirling again. What the hell was happening? He gave his head a little shake and tried to smile. “Wow. Convert, huh? That’s an…interesting idea. I’ll…definitely have to…”

“Of course,” Sheik Ahmed said smoothly, “I understand such a decision should not be made lightly. And I would fully understand if you wished to leave us, Mr. Gallagher, after the treatment you have recently been subjected to, from me and, uh…members of my family. However, if you should decide to stay…” another of those strategic pauses, another shrewd glare “…it is my understanding that my son, Hassan, and daughter-in-law, Elena, had scheduled a visit to the oil-producing regions of our country, and a tour of our facilities, before their departure on their…uh…” He frowned, searching for the word.

“Honeymoon?” Cade supplied.

“Yes, honeymoon.” The sheik waved a hand and muttered something about “western traditions,” then harrumphed and went on. “It is also my understanding that the three of you wished to discuss a possible business arrangement between your own company, Elena’s and Tamir.”

Cade, who was pretty much in shock at this point, could only nod and mutter, “Yes, sir, I had been looking forward to meeting with you on that subject—”

Sheik Ahmed gave another hand wave and leaned dismissively back in his chair. “I have decided to leave that aspect of my country’s business dealings to my son. And his new wife, who, as the head of her own company, seems very knowledgeable on the subject. You may consider them my representatives. Any agreement you might enter into with them, especially as a member of the family, if you should chose that course—” the sheik smiled, showing strong white teeth “—would be honored fully by the government of Tamir.”

Cade let out a gust of breath. He felt absolutely calm, now, clear through to his insides. The cards were on the table; he was pretty sure he knew both the game and the stakes. He also knew he’d been seriously outmaneuvered.

“I understand,” he said as he rose to accept the sheik’s proffered hand. “Thank you, Your Highness. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’m looking forward to visiting your oil production facilities.” He tried a strategic pause of his own, meeting the old sheik’s glittery black eyes and locking on as their hands clasped across the mahogany desktop. His smile felt frozen on his face. “I’m sure we can work out something,” he drawled, “that’ll be to both our advantages.”

“He is what?” Leila shrieked, slopping hot coffee into her saucer and very nearly her lap.

“He is going to convert,” her mother repeated, her face so round and happy she looked like a child’s drawing of a beaming sun. Leila felt as though her sun had just been covered by a huge black cloudbank.

She was on the terrace with Nadia, having a late breakfast—or perhaps an early lunch—while Nadia, who had already eaten, passed the time in her usual way, with her sketchbook. At their mother’s interruption Nadia looked up briefly, then went back to making little pencil sketches of Leila.

While Leila mopped up coffee with her napkin, her mother selected the chair next to her and turned it so that it angled toward Leila before she sat. She took Leila’s hand, holding it in both of her warm, soft ones. Tears sprang to Leila’s eyes. She had to swallow hard to fight down the lump in her throat.

“Your father has given his permission for the two of you to marry,” her mother said in a husky, excited voice. She gazed at Leila with shining eyes. “Oh, my child, I am so happy for you. Mr. Gallagher must love you very much, to honor you so.”

Leila was glad she was no longer holding the cup of coffee in her hands; as badly as they were shaking, she would surely have dropped it—or perhaps hurled it into the nearest fountain. Inwardly she was seething with anger, with outrage. Remembering the way he had thrust her away from him, as if she were something vile. Remembering the humiliation. How dare he!

Why is he doing this? she thought desperately. What can he possibly hope to gain? Is he trying to humiliate me even more?

Because she knew, she absolutely knew, that whatever Cade Gallagher’s motive might be for marrying her, it most definitely was not because he loved her.

“Mother,” said Leila in a choked voice, “I do not want to marry Mr. Gallagher. I will not.” A tear ran down her cheek.

Her mother made a distressed sound and brushed it away. “Oh dear—I thought you would be pleased. But tell me, why not?”

Why not? Because he made me feel like…like I never knew it was possible to feel. Because he opened a door and beckoned to me, showed me a glimpse of paradise, then slammed the door in my face. Because he made me want him…and I cannot stop thinking about him…and I know I will never be able to forget him. How can I forgive him for that?

“He is from America!” Leila cried, brushing furiously at both the tears and her mother’s hand. It was the only thing she could think of to say. “From Texas!”

Her mother looked startled, but only for a moment. Then she put her arms around Leila and patted her on the back as she crooned, “Yes, of course…I understand. Don’t cry, my sweet. Naturally you would not wish to marry someone who would take you so far away from your home…your family. I hadn’t thought, but yes—you would have to live in America—in Texas! Your father and I would hardly ever see you. What were we thinking? Hmm. Well. Never mind.”

She gave Leila one last little hug and rose. “Don’t worry, my sweet, I will explain things to your father.” She smiled and leaned down to kiss Leila’s cheek. “To be honest, I think he will be glad that you will be staying right here in Tamir.”

When her mother had gone, Leila reached for her coffee cup, then pushed it savagely away from her.

Nadia put aside her sketchbook. “Have you suddenly lost your mind?” she asked mildly. Leila said nothing, but stared at her coffee cup with hot, tearless eyes. “Or,” said Nadia, “are you merely being contrary?” She gave a sigh of exasperation. “Did I not hear you say, two days ago, how attractive you thought Mr. Gallagher? And, were you not talking about how much you wanted to go to America? Especially Texas? It seemed like an impossible dream, even I thought so. To have it realized would have taken a miracle. Now, it is as if you had rubbed a magic lamp! All your wishes have been granted. And you would turn them down? Leila—for mercy’s sake, why?”

“Because I do not love him,” Leila said flatly. Her voice was as dry as her eyes. “And he certainly does not love me.”

With an exasperated noise, Nadia flung herself away from the table. “Leila, you are such a child.”

Leila stared at her, stung. Although it was the sort of thing people were always saying to her, for some reason, this morning, it hurt more than usual. She swallowed, then said softly, “I do not think it is childish to want to be loved. You have known love, Nadia. Why should I not have the same?”

For a moment, as she gazed back at Leila, Nadia’s face softened. For a moment. Then her eyes darkened with pain and she veiled them with her lashes before she turned away. “You don’t know what you are talking about. Love brings only pain. Trust me—you do not ever want to know pain like that.”

“I am sorry, Nadia,” Leila whispered, belatedly remembering her sister’s secret heartbreak.

“Besides,” Nadia went on briskly, “we are not talking about love, but about marriage, which is a different thing entirely. Love is a terrible reason to get married. It is a recent idea, this notion that one must be in love in order to marry—don’t you know that? And look at what that has done! So much unhappiness. Inevitably, love leads to disappointment, and disappointment to misery and even divorce. No, thank you.”

“So,” said Leila grudgingly, “what reason do you think people should marry for, if not love?” She was by no means ready to agree with such a cynical point of view, but there was no arguing with Nadia.

“Why, for practical reasons, of course.” Nadia looked as annoyingly superior as an older sister can. “Marriage should be entered into as a business agreement—a contract, mutually advantageous, of course. I, for example,” she said loftily, holding her head high, “have decided to marry Butrus. Why?” Ignoring Leila’s gasp of surprise, she rushed on, ticking off reasons one by one on her fingers. “One, Butrus wishes to marry me in order to gain favor with Father, therefore, he knows he must treat me well—very well—because if I were to be made unhappy, Father would not be pleased. Two, as Father’s advisor, Butrus is away a great deal of the time. So, I would not only have the status of a married woman, but at the same time I would be assured a considerable amount of freedom. And three, I wish to have children. Butrus is handsome and physically well made. So, we would have beautiful, healthy babies. And, he has rather nice teeth, I believe.”

“Nadia,” Leila said, giggling in spite of herself, “you sound as though you are buying a horse.”

“It is very much the same thing,” Nadia said airily. A moment later, though, she was serious again as she bent down to cover Leila’s hand with her own and give it an urgent little squeeze. “Leila—for once in your life, use your head. Think. Cade Gallagher will make beautiful, healthy babies, too. And, he will take you to America—to Texas.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder and lowered her voice. Even so, it quivered with passion. “Away from here. Just think, Leila—in America you can do—you can become—anything you want to. Anything. Do you understand? The freedom…” She straightened abruptly, biting her lip. “Think about it, Leila,” she whispered, and snatching up her sketchpad, walked quickly away without looking back.

Leila did not know how long she stayed there, biting her lip and stubbornly frowning at nothing. Bees hummed among the roses, birds came to drink and play in the fountain and a servant came quietly to clear away the remains of the meal. And still she sat…quivering with the burden of unshed tears.

It was the strangest meeting Cade had ever been a part of. Definitely not what he’d expected. Though he’d have had a hard time putting into words just what it was he had expected.

One thing, definitely—he’d expected to have at least one more chance to talk with Leila. Alone. But clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. Instead they each occupied separate leather chairs facing Sheik Ahmed’s long mahogany desk, with several feet of space between them. It might as well have been several miles. Like a cross between a biblical Moses and a junior high school principal facing down a couple of co-conspirators in mischief, Sheik Ahmed presided behind his desk. His wife, Alima, Leila’s mother, sat in a comfortable chair near one of the casement windows that overlooked the sea. She wore a serene smile and held in her hands a small, leather-bound book.

As for Leila, she hadn’t spoken a word to Cade, or even looked at him. She sat straight-backed in her chair with her head held high, the arch of her throat as pale as the marble columns that graced the palace gardens. There was only a quivery softness about her mouth to betray any emotion or vulnerability at all, but to Cade, that was enough. Disliking the queasy, seasick feeling he got when he saw…when he remembered…that incredibly ripe, incredibly fragile mouth, he’d stopped looking at her at all.

With a face as stern as an old-fashioned Texas hang-’emhigh judge, Sheik Ahmed was speaking, “…and that you have entered into this decision of your own free will, and with pure mind and sincere heart?”

“Yes—” Cade cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, I have.”

The sheik went on talking, something solemn about a man’s heart being the province of God and therefore not to be questioned by man, but Cade wasn’t listening. His mind was full of the incredible fact that he, Cade Gallagher, an American businessman living in the twenty-first century, had just agreed to an arranged marriage. Arranged—like in medieval times! How had such a thing happened to him?

Right now, more than anything, what he felt was dazed, bewildered, at a loss to explain how a man such as he, a master at navigating through the most circuitous and complex of business negotiations, could have gotten himself so completely boxed in. Because the truth was, he just didn’t see any other way out of this. Not unless he was prepared to take it all back, right here and now, in front of Leila and both her parents. Say he hadn’t meant the proposal of marriage to begin with, that it had been a mistake and he wasn’t prepared to go through with it after all. Say it to her face.

There was no way. He could not do that. No way in hell.

Because if there was anything he’d learned as a kid growing up in Texas, it was to stand up and take the consequences for his actions like a man.

Consequences…. Elena had said something like that, hadn’t she? They’d had only a few minutes together, while Hassan was speaking to the foreman at one of the refineries they’d visited this afternoon about some sort of minor problem or complaint. Even now, remembering the disappointment in her eyes made Cade squirm. “Cade, I warned you….”

“You did,” he’d acknowledged, and added, grimly joking, “Don’t worry, I take full responsibility for my own stupidity.”

But Elena hadn’t smiled, and with a sad little shake of her head had murmured, “This isn’t what I wanted for you, Cade.” Her eyes had gone to where her husband stood with his back to them, deep in conversation with the refinery foreman. “I’d hoped…someday…you’d find someone you could love the way I love Hassan.” Her voice had broken then, and Cade had snorted to cover the shaft of pain that unexpectedly pierced his heart.

Why he’d felt such a sense of loss, he didn’t know. He’d never expected to experience that kind of love, anyway. The kind of love that lasts a lifetime. From his own personal experience he thought it doubtful love like that even existed.

As for his own feelings about Leila, since they were so confusing to him, most of the time he tried not to dwell on them at all. If he had to define them, he’d have said they pretty much consisted of a mix of anger and remorse. Yeah, she’d behaved like a moonstruck girl, but he was old enough, experienced enough, and he should have known better. He was responsible and it was up to him to make it right. But there was something else in the stew of his emotions that wasn’t as easily defined, possibly because it was a whole lot less unfamiliar. The closest he would allow himself to come to defining it was protectiveness. With his own carelessness he’d hurt this child-woman immeasurably, and he never wanted to do so again.

Understandable enough. But even that didn’t account for the strange ache of tenderness that filled his throat sometimes when he looked at her—like now, as she murmured affirmative responses to her father’s questions.

Do you agree to this marriage, Leila, and enter into it of your own free will?

Yes, Father….

But still, not once did she look at Cade. And he felt a strange, unfamiliar emptiness inside.

Alima rose then, and came to her daughter’s side. She placed the leather-bound book on the shiny desktop. Sheik Ahmed picked it up and handed it to Cade, explaining that it was an English translation of the Quran, which he might wish to study in his own time. Cade nodded, accepted the book and murmured his thanks. The sheik then repeated, in Arabic, the words of the eshedu, which Cade would be required to recite later that evening, before the marriage ceremony itself. Cade nodded again. Then Alima touched Leila on the shoulder. Without a word, she rose and followed her mother from the room.

“Now, then,” purred the sheik when the women had gone, leaning back and lacing beringed fingers across his ample middle, “let us discuss the Mahr… It is our custom that a husband bestow upon his wife a gift. This may be money or jewels, of course—” the sheik waved a hand in a casually dismissive way “—or something of even greater, if less concrete value. That is up to you. You will no doubt wish to give the matter some thought….”

Once again, Cade could only nod. His heart was beating hard, gathering speed like a runner hurtling downhill.

This is real, he thought. It’s actually happening. I’m marrying a princess of Tamir. And a virgin princess, at that.

Leila gazed at her reflection in the mirror, eyes dark and solemn in her waxy pale face. She saw her mother’s hands, graceful and white as lily petals as they plucked and tweaked at the veils that covered her long black hair, veils that soon would be arranged to cover her face as well, until the final moments of the nikah ceremony later that morning when her husband would lift them to gaze at last upon the face of his wife.

At least, she thought, there would not be many people present to witness that moment. Only her parents and her sisters, Nadia and Sammi, of course, and Salma, and perhaps a few of the other servants who had known her since she was a baby. She was glad she would not have to face Elena, and especially Hassan. Salma had told her that they had left last evening for their honeymoon trip, right after returning from their tour of the oil refineries with Cade. Most of the guests who had attended Hassan and Elena’s wedding had left yesterday, as well, and probably would not even know yet of Leila’s humiliation.

Sadly, she thought of the wedding she had always imagined for herself, the most wonderful, beautiful occasion…even more glorious than Hassan’s. Instead, it must be only a brief and private, almost secretive affair, with only her closest family attending. Papa would preside over the ceremony, of course. She would not even have a Walima, since she and Cade would have to leave for his home in Texas immediately after the nikah ceremony, and so how could there be a joyous celebration of its consummation?

Her stomach lurched and she swallowed hard. I wish I had some makeup, she thought. Lipstick, at least. What will Cade think, when he sees me looking so pale?

Does he think I am pretty at all?

Will he want to kiss me again, the way he did that night?

Her stomach gave another of those dreadful lurches. Oh, she thought, I do hope I’m not going to throw up.

Another time…another place…

She took a deep breath, and then another. After tonight I will be his wife. Will he want me then?

“Are you all right?” her mother asked, holding her hands away from the veils and looking concerned. “Do you need to sit down for a moment?”

“I am fine, mother,” Leila said, trying a light laugh. “I was just thinking about Sammi and Nadia. Are they very angry with me?” Not Nadia, of course—she was the one who had convinced Leila to go through with this. But Leila had not told her mother that.

Her mother gave a rather unladylike snort. “Of course they are not angry with you.” She paused to consider the effect she had just created with the drape of the veils, then threw Leila a quick, bright glance by way of the mirror. “They have been no more happy than you have, you know, with some of our more…restrictive ways. To have one such restriction done away with they see as a victory for themselves as well as for you.”

Leila could only stare back at her, openmouthed with surprise. She had never heard her mother speak so freely. It occurred to her then, perhaps for the first time, that her mother was a person in her own right, a woman of intelligence, with her own thoughts, opinions, hopes and dreams. And she suddenly wished with all her heart, now that it was too late, that she could have talked with her about those things.

This time, the lurch was not in her stomach, but in her heart. She made an impulsive movement, a jerky half turn. “Mother—” she began, then paused, because Alima’s eyes had darkened with worry…and something else. Embarrassment?

Her mother took a small step back and clasped her hands together in front of her ample chest. “Leila…my dear, you are the first of my daughters to marry. I am sorry—I do not know…exactly how…” She closed her eyes for a moment and bent her head over her clasped hands, as if in prayer, then drew a resolute breath. “What is it you would like to know? There must be questions you wish to ask. Please do not be afraid. I will try—”

A strange little bubble rose into Leila’s throat—part nervousness, part excitement, a little guilt—but she bit it back before it could erupt in laughter. A wave of unheralded tenderness swept over her; she suddenly felt quite amazingly mature and wise. “Mother,” she said gently, “I know about sex. Really. You do not have to worry.”

“Oh dear.” Alima closed her eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “I was afraid of that.”

“From school.” Leila was softly laughing. “It is all right. Really.” She did not think it necessary to mention to her mother that most of her “education” on the subject of sex had not come from classrooms and textbooks, but from the lurid novels and how-to books smuggled in from time to time by Leila’s classmates and examined late at night, by flashlight, under the covers, to the accompaniment of giggles, gasps of amazement and sometimes, outright horror.

Her mother sighed, reached for her and drew her close, in a way she had not done since Leila was a little girl. “Then…you are truly all right? You are not afraid?”

As she fought back tears, Leila briefly considered lying. Then, trembling, she whispered, “Mummy, I am terrified.”

“Oh, my dear one—”

“He is a stranger to me! Who is he? What is he like, this…Cade Gallagher? Mummy, I do not know him at all!”

“Then you will learn,” said her mother in an unexpectedly firm voice, putting Leila away from her and making little brushing adjustments to her veils. “And he will learn about you. And, God willing, you will continue doing so all the days of your lives. As your father and I have.”

“Mother?” Leila brushed a tear. “Did you know Father well before you married? Did you…love him?”

Alima considered that for a moment, and there was a faraway look in her dark eyes. Then she smiled. “I knew that he was a good man….” Then she added more firmly, “And I believe Cade Gallagher to be a good man, as well.”

She paused as Leila turned from her in frustration. Catching hold of her arm, she gave it a tug and said with exasperation, “Leila, you went to his room. Have you forgotten? There must have been a reason. Perhaps you should try to remember what it was about Mr. Gallagher that made you do such an incredibly foolish thing! What made you decide, of all the men in the world, to pursue him?”

In the silence that followed, Leila heard her mother’s words like an echo inside her head. What was it about Mr. Gallagher? What was it…what was it?

Once again she faced her own reflection in the mirror, but now her eyes saw another scene…a sunlit garden, bright with flowers and people and noisy with chatter and the shush of fountains…and a tall man in a pale gray suit and a western cowboy hat with his face lifted to follow the flight of a bird, smiling…eyes alight with wonder, like a child’s. And she drew a long, unsteady breath.

Yes. That was it. The moment when I knew. Everything else came after….

For a long moment her own dark eyes gazed back at her. Then, carefully, she lifted the veils and pulled them forward so that they completely covered her face. They would not be lifted again until her husband drew them aside to look for the first time upon the face of his wife.

She turned to her mother and said in a voice without tremors, “I am ready.”

It is true, she thought. It is really happening. I am marrying Cade Gallagher from Texas. I am going to America.

Chapter 6

“So this is Texas.” Leila tried to keep any hint of disappointment out of her voice as she peered through the windows of the big American car at the jumble of tall buildings and looping ribbons of freeways filled with cars—so many cars, all moving slowly along like rivers of multicolored lava.

“It’s Houston,” her husband replied in that drawling way he spoke sometimes.

Glancing over at him, Leila saw that the corner of his mouth had lifted in a smile—a smile nothing at all like the one that had lit his face like sunshine when he turned in the palace garden to watch the flight of the bird. The one she held tightly in her memory as if to a sacred talisman. Nevertheless, she felt encouraged by it. She had seen him smile seldom enough in the twenty or so hours that she had been his wife.

His wife…I am a wife. He is my husband…. How many times had she repeated those words to herself, sitting beside him in airplanes and cars and airport lounges, standing with him in queues, facing him across restaurant tables? And still the words seemed unreal to her…totally without meaning.

Sitting beside him in the airplanes—that had been the worst part. Sitting so close to him, for hours and hours and hours on end! So close, even in the roomy first-class seats, that she could feel the heat of his body…smell his unfamiliar scent…and, if she was not very careful, sometimes her arm would brush against the sleeve of his jacket. When that happened, prickles would go through her body as if she had received an electric shock. Once…she must have fallen asleep, because she had awakened to discover that her head had been resting on his shoulder. Mortified, she had quickly made her apology, to which he had grunted a gruff reply. Then, looking uncomfortable and shifting restlessly about, he had offered her a pillow.

She had tried very hard to stay awake after that, and as a result now felt fuzzy-headed and queasy with exhaustion. But, she thought, mentally squaring her shoulders, I will not complain. She was a princess of Tamir, after all, and a married woman, not a child. And even as a child had been much too proud to show weakness or fear.

“It is not quite what I expected,” she said lightly, letting her dimples show.

He threw her a glance, a very quick one since he was driving. “In what way?”

“I thought it would be more open—you know, like in the movies. Fewer people, fewer buildings… And,” she added, gazing once more out of the windows, “not so many trees.” In fact, she had never seen so many trees in all her life, not even in England. In some places they made solid curtains, like tapestries woven of green threads, on both sides of the highway.

Her husband laughed softly, deep down in his chest. She had never heard him make that sound before, and she decided she liked it, very much. It made her feel warm, with quivers of laughter in her own insides.

“Like I said, this is Houston—that’s east Texas. The kind of wide open spaces you’re talking about, that’s west Texas. Out in the hill country and beyond. I have a place—guess you could call it a ranch—out there.” He threw her another of those tight, half-smiling glances. “Which I guess you’ll probably see…eventually.”

She caught her lip between her teeth to contain her excitement. “Are we going there now?”

He answered her again with laughter—indulgent this time. “Not hardly. It’d take the rest of today and most of tomorrow to drive out there. Texas is a bi-ig place.”

“Yes,” Leila said with a little shiver of suppressed delight, “I know.” She felt her husband’s eyes touch her, but did not turn to see what was in his glance.

Instead, looking through the window at the unending wall of trees, she asked, “You live here, then? In Houston?”And her momentary happiness evaporated with the realization that she knew so little about the man she had married—not even where he lived.

“Near there. We’ve got a ways to go, though, so if you want to, you can just put your head back and sleep.”

“Oh, no,” she said on a determined exhalation, “I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Wake up, Princess,” said a deep and gentle voice, very near. “We’re home.”

Home. Leila’s eyes opened wide and she jerked herself upright. Her heart was pumping very fast and she felt jangly from waking up too suddenly. She must have been disoriented, too, because the view through the car’s windshield seemed oddly familiar to her, like something she had seen in a movie. Not a western movie. Maybe one about the American Civil War.

They were driving slowly down a long, straight avenue with trees on both sides—not a solid wall, but huge trees with great spreading branches that met overhead like a lacy green canopy. Sunlight dappled the grassy drive with splotches of gold, and somewhere in all those branches she could hear birds singing—familiar music, but different songs sung in different voices. Eager to hear them better, she rolled down the car window, then gasped as what felt like a hot, damp towel slapped her face.

Cade looked over at her and drawled, “Might want to keep that window closed,” though she was already hurrying to do just that. “You’re probably not used to the humidity.”

A squirrel scampered across the road in front of them, and Leila gave another gasp, this one of delight. Again Cade glanced at her, but this time he didn’t speak.

Now, far down at the end of the shaded avenue, the trees were opening into a pool of sunlight. The driveway made a circle around an expanse of bright green lawn bordered by low-growing shrubs and flowers. On the other side of the lawn, twin pillars made of brick with lanterns on top flanked a shrub-and flower-bordered walkway. The walkway led to brick steps and a wide brick porch with tall white columns, and tall double doors painted a dark green that almost matched the trees. On either side of the porch and above it as well, large windows with many small panes and white-painted shutters gave the red brick house a sparkly-eyed, welcoming look.

Again, Leila drew breath and said, “Oh…” but this time it was a long, murmuring sigh. She thought it a lovely house—small compared to the royal palace of Tamir, but plenty large enough for one family to live in.

Family. Are we, Cade and I…will we ever be…a family?

She felt a peculiar squeezing sensation around her heart.

Two people—a man and a woman—had come out of the tall green doors and were waiting for them, standing side by side on the porch between two of the white columns. Neither was tall, but the woman’s head barely topped the man’s shoulder.

He was thin and bony, with legs that bowed out, then came together again at his western-style boots, as if they had been specially made to fit around the girth of a horse. His white hair was slicked back and looked damp, and he had a thick gray moustache that almost covered his mouth, a stark contrast to skin as brown and wrinkled as the shell of a walnut. He wore blue jeans and in spite of the heat, a long-sleeved blue shirt. One gnarled hand, dangling at his side, held a sweat-stained cowboy hat.

The woman seemed almost as wide as she was tall, with a face as round and smooth as a coin. She had shiny blackcurrant eyes and skin the exact color of the gingerbread cookie people Leila had learned to love as a schoolgirl in Switzerland and England. Her hair, mostly black with only a few streaks of gray, was cut short and tightly curled all over her head, and she wore a loose cotton dress that was bright with flowers.

“That’s Rueben and Betsy Flores,” Cade said before Leila could ask, nodding his head toward the couple on the porch. “They take care of the place for me.”

“They are your servants?”

He answered her with that sharp bark of laughter. “Well…they work for me. But they’re more…friends. Or family.”

“Ah,” said Leila, nodding with complete understanding. Like Salma, she thought. “And…they live here also? With you?”

Cade shook his head. “They have their own place, down by the creek.” He stopped the car in front of the steps and turned off the motor.

Time to face the music, he thought. And inexplicably his heart was beating hard and fast, as if he was a teenager bringing a girl home to meet his parents. He took a sustaining breath and reached for the doorhandle.

But his bride’s hand, small and urgent, clutched at his arm. In a low, choked-sounding voice she said, “Did you tell them? Do they know?” Turning, he saw panic in her eyes.

His throat tightened with that strange protective tenderness. “It’s okay, I called them from the airport in New York and filled them in.” Except for the part about his new bride being a princess. And, he thought, even without that they’re probably still in a state of shock. But impulsively, he put his hand over hers and gave it a squeeze before he reached once more for the doorhandle.

He went around the car and as he opened her door for her, leaned down and said in a low voice, “I should warn you—Rueben’s great with horses and dogs, but he’s kind of shy with two-legged animals, so he probably won’t say much. Betsy’ll hug you. They were born in Mexico but now they’re American through and through—I doubt they’re much up on royal protocol.”

“That is quite all right,” Leila said coolly. “Since I am an American now, too.”

While he was still trying to think of a response to that, she belied it by extending a regal hand and allowing him to help her out of the car. She released him at once, though, and stood for a moment, squinting a little in the hot sunlight, smoothing the skirt and tugging at the jacket of the once-elegant, now badly wrinkled designer suit she’d worn all the way from Tamir. Then, before he could even think to offer her his arm, she slipped past him and started up the walk alone.

And for some reason, instead of hurrying to catch up with her, Cade stood there for a moment and watched the woman who was now his wife…slender and graceful in a travel-worn and rumpled suit the color of new lilacs, her head, with hair coming loose from its elegant twist, held proudly.

American? Well, maybe, he thought with something like awe. But somehow still every inch a princess.

As he watched his bride with dawning wonder, he was surprised by yet another alien emotion—an unexpected surge of pride. It made his eyes sting and his nose twitch, and he had to clear his throat before he went to join her on the porch.

He got there just in time to see her hold out her hand to Rueben and say in her musical, slightly accented voice, “Hello, I am Leila. You must be Rueben. I am very happy to meet you. Cade has told me so much about you.”

It was a graceful little lie—he hadn’t done any such thing. And he should have, he realized now. Lord knows he’d had plenty of time, all those hours on various planes and vehicles, waiting around in airports; time to tell her more than she probably wanted to know about himself, his home, his life. The truth was, he’d barely spoken to her at all during the trip home—just what was necessary between two strangers sharing the same space, no more. He tried to excuse his behavior now by telling himself it was because they’d both been in a state of shock, that he’d been trying to let her rest…sleep a little, which was hogwash. The reason he hadn’t spoken was because he hadn’t known what to say to her. He still didn’t.

By this time, Leila had turned to Betsy, holding out her hand, face all decked out in dimples. “Hi, you must be—” was as far as she got, though, because just like he’d said she would, Betsy was already hugging the stuffing out of her, cooing to her like one of her little lost puppies.

And no sooner had that thought entered Cade’s head than here they came—Betsy’s mob of adopted mutts, barking and baying and wiggling and whining, falling over themselves and everybody else trying to be the first to slobber all over the newcomer.

In those first chaotic seconds Cade had his hands full, along with Rueben and Betsy, pushing and scolding and grabbing at collars. So he didn’t notice right away that Leila had gone rigid as a post. By the time he did notice, she’d already started backing up, moving stiffly with tiny jerky steps, like a statue trying to walk. She kept backing up until she bumped into Cade’s chest, then tried to back up some more, as if, he thought, she was trying to crawl inside his skin.

His first instinct was to wrap her in his arms and help her to do that any way he could. His heart was kicking like a crazy thing against her back and his skin had gone hot and prickly, as if he’d gotten too close to a fire.

Ignoring all that, he took her gently by her upper arms and moved her a couple of inches away from him, then leaned down to mutter gruffly in her ear. “They won’t bite. They’re just saying hello.”

“Are they…yours?” Her voice was trying hard to be normal.

“Nah—they’re Betsy’s. She picks ’em up here and there. The woman can’t resist a stray.”

“I am sorry.” The tiniest of tremors skated beneath his fingers. “I did not mean to be rude. I am not used to dogs—” she gave a breathless little laugh “—so many at one time.”

Cade murmured, “Don’t worry about it.” His tongue felt thick and his thumbs wanted to stroke circles on the tender muscle hiding underneath the fabric of her jacket.

Meanwhile, Betsy and Rueben had managed to corral the dogs, not as many as they’d seemed, now that they were relatively still—only four, in fact. Somehow or other, Betsy managed to exchange her pair of dogs for Leila, and, cooing and fussing, maneuvered her through the pack and into the house. The front door closed firmly behind the two women, leaving Cade, Rueben and the dogs outside on the porch.

For several seconds the two men just stood there, saying nothing at all. Forgotten, the dogs scattered about their business, looking chastened or pleased with themselves, according to their various natures.

Cade cleared his throat and made a half turn. Rueben touched a hand to the top of his head and then, as if surprised to find it bare, resettled his hat into its customary place. He gave one shoulder a hitch. “Give y’hand with the suitcases?”

“Naw, in a little bit.” Cade started down the steps, Rueben clumping stiff-legged beside him. Cade glanced over at him. “Things go okay while I was gone?”

Rueben hitched his shoulder again. “Sure. No problems.”

At the bottom of the steps, both men turned by unspoken agreement and headed along the side of the house and around back toward the stables. “Suki have her foal yet?” Cade asked.

Rueben shook his head. “Two…maybe three more days.”

“Yeah? How’s she doing?”

“Doin’ good…real good.”

That was as far as conversation went, until they reached the stables.

Cade went to check on Suki first, naturally. She was his best mare—dapple gray with a black mane and tail, charcoal mask and legs, a real beauty—and this would be her first foal. Not that he was worried. If Rueben said she was doing okay, then she was. But he looked her over anyway, because it made him feel good doing it, and he and Rueben discussed her condition and care the way they always did, which was mostly mutters and grunts with the absolute minimum number of actual words. Then he went out to the paddock to look over the rest of his stock—two mares with spring foals and three more pregnant ones due later in the summer.

He was leaning on the fence railing watching the foals trotting around after their dams, fuzzy little brush tails twitching busily at flies, when Rueben came to join him.

“Doin’ real good,” he said.

Cade nodded. He’d been wondering why the sight wasn’t giving his spirits a boost the way it was supposed to.

“So,” said Rueben after a silence, “you got married, huh?”

Cade surprised himself with a hard little nugget of laughter, which he gulped back guiltily. “Yeah…I guess I did.”

“Pretty sudden.”

He didn’t try to stop the laugh this time. “You could say that.”

Rueben mulled that over. “Pretty girl,” he said after awhile, nodding his head in a thoughtful way.

Cade nodded, too. “Yeah…” and he changed the nod to a wondering little shake “…she is that.”

“Seems nice,” said Rueben. He stared hard at the toes of his boots, then kicked at the dirt a couple of times, and finally turned to offer Cade his hand. “Congratulations.”

They shook, and Rueben gave his shoulder a hitch. “I’m gonna go get those suitcases now.” He walked rapidly away in the bowlegged, rump-sprung way older men do when they’ve spent a good part of their lives sitting on the back of a horse.

Cade thought about going to help him, but for some reason didn’t. He stayed where he was, leaning on the fence, watching the foals cavort in the sunshine, smelling the familiar smells of grass and straw and horse manure, feeling the humidity settle around him like a favorite old shirt. This was his world. It was where he belonged. It was good to be home. Home…

And then he thought, What in heaven’s name have I done?

Having suffered through the pain of his parents’ divorce at an age when his own adolescent struggles were just getting underway, he’d come to believe with all his heart and soul that if two people got married it ought to be forever. It was why he’d never been tempted to try it himself—he just didn’t think he had it in him to make that kind of commitment. And here he was, not only had he gone and committed himself, but to a girl ten years younger, from the other side of the world, with whom he had nothing in common with, and barely knew!

He patted his shirt pocket, looking for the comfort of a cheroot, which Betsy wouldn’t let him smoke in the house. Then, remembering they were still packed away in a suitcase, he gazed up into the milky haze and sighed.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, but…well, it was what Rueben had said. Leila was a very pretty girl—downright beautiful, actually—but more than that, yes, she was nice. Sure, she was a princess, and spoiled and pampered and very, very young. But she had a bright and buoyant spirit. And he’d come to realize, even in the short time he’d known her, that she also had a kind and loving heart. She deserved someone who would love her back, someone who would make her happy. As he was certain he never would.

His chest swelled and tightened, suddenly, with that familiar surge of protective tenderness, and he brought his closed fist down hard on the fence railing. Dammit, he thought, I can’t do this to her. I can’t.

At the time, he remembered, it had seemed to him he’d had no choice. Converting…marrying Leila…it had looked like the only reasonable course of action open to him. But that had been back there, in The Arabian Nights world of Tamir. Here, with the green grass of Texas under his boots, he knew it was impossible. Not so much the conversion—he’d never had any particular religious beliefs one way or another, so what difference did it make what label he carried? But marriage, now, that was different. Marriage involved somebody else, not just him. In this case, a nice, lovely girl. A princess. And a virgin princess, at that.

His fist tightened on the fence railing. Somehow or other, he was going to have to find a way out of this—for both their sakes. And in the meantime…well, the very least he could do, Cade figured, was see that the virgin princess came out of this marriage in the same condition as when she went in….

It was late—almost midnight—and Leila was growing more nervous and apprehensive by the minute. Surely, she told herself, Cade would come soon. He must be tired after such a long journey. Why did he not come to bed?

This was his bedchamber—bedroom—she must remember to call it that, now that she was to be an American. Betsy had told her so. “And yours, now, too,” the round, kind-faced woman had said, and had given Leila’s hand a happy squeeze.

Betsy’s husband, Rueben, had brought her suitcases here along with Cade’s, and then Betsy had helped her with the unpacking until it was time for her to go and prepare the evening meal. She had even rearranged things in the dresser drawers and spacious closets to make room for Leila’s things. So few things, really—she had left Tamir in such a hurry. The rest of her belongings would be packed into boxes and shipped to her later, though where she would find room for them all here was a mystery to her.

But would she even need so many things…so many beautiful clothes, hats, designer shoes…now that she was married to Cade Gallagher and living in Houston, Texas? She didn’t know. There were so many things she didn’t know.

It had all happened so fast. She had barely had time to say goodbye to her mother and sisters, to Salma, and Nargis. Thinking about them now, she felt a frightened, hollow feeling, and for one panicky moment was afraid she might begin to cry. She took several deep breaths and blinked hard until the feeling went away. I must not cry—what would Cade think?

Perhaps it was just that she was so tired. It seemed a lifetime since she had slept. Cade’s bed—big and wide and covered with a puffy comforter in masculine colors, a burgundy, blue-and-green paisley print—looked inviting. But Leila didn’t dare to lie down. She didn’t dare even sit. In fact, she had taken to pacing, not so much out of nervousness, although she definitely was, but because she was afraid if she stopped moving she would fall asleep. She had refused wine at dinner for the same reason—even the mild vintages at home made her sleepy.

Cade, she had noticed, drank strong black coffee with his meal, and afterward a small glassful of something the same golden brown color as his eyes. Bourbon, he said it was, when she asked. After that he had excused himself and gone into his study—to make some phone calls, he told her.

Betsy had shown her Cade’s study, on her tour of the house. To Leila it had seemed the most fascinating of rooms, full of photographs and books and all sorts of personal things that belonged to Cade. There had been a photograph of Cade with his mother and father, taken when Cade was very young, and Leila remembered that Kitty had told her that Cade’s mother and father were both dead. She had felt a warm little flash of sadness for the eager-looking golden-haired boy in the picture. There had been a blackand-white photograph of a bearded man dressed in overalls, standing amongst a forest of tall wooden oil derricks—Cade’s grandfather, Betsy had told her, and he had been a “wildcatter.” What was a wildcatter? Leila had longed to ask that question and so many others, to study the pictures and ask about them…to learn more about the stranger who was her husband.

But there had not been time, then. And after dinner Cade had gone into his study and Leila had dared not intrude.

Instead, she had gone alone to this, the bedroom they would share, to prepare herself for bed. And for her husband.

Butterflies. Oh yes, they were all over inside her, not just in her stomach, but everywhere under her skin. They had caught up with her in the bathroom she and Cade were to share, as she arranged her personal things, her bottles and jars of powders and scents, oils and lotions, her hair brushes, toothpaste and shampoo. There were two sinks, one of which, she assumed, was meant to be hers. The other, barely an arm’s length away, was Cade’s. And yes, there were his personal things, neatly arranged around it.

Daringly, unable to help herself, she picked up a bottle labeled Aftershave Lotion and sniffed it. So this is my husband’s scent, she thought. But it was not yet familiar to her. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him there next to her, brushing his teeth, shaving, patting the spicy lotion onto his smooth, clean skin…and all the while the butterflies frolicked merrily.

She tried to relax away the butterflies in a warm bath scented with jasmine, but although the water made her limbs and muscles feel warm and limp and heavy, the hard fluttery knot in her belly remained. And there was something else—a new, squirmy, quivery feeling between her legs. When she put her hand there and pressed against the quivering, she felt her pulse in the soft places beneath her fingertips, a slow, heavy pace.

She thought, then, about what Salma had told her, that there might be pain the first time she made love with a man. She thought of the bottle of soothing oil her former nanny, with tears in her eyes, had pressed into her hands as she was helping her to pack. A cold little gust of homesickness and dread swept through her, taking away the butterflies and leaving a great hollow void in their place.

I must not be afraid. A woman’s first duty as a wife was to please her husband sexually. How could a man—how could Cade—find pleasure in sex if he knew that his wife was afraid? Clearly, there was only one thing to be done. I must think of some way to not be afraid.

And no sooner had she thought that, lying there in the water’s warm embrace, with the sweet scent of jasmine melting into her pores and seeping into her senses, then here came the memories…vivid, tactile memories…sweeping away all thoughts of Salma and pain and homesickness and fear.

Cade’s chest…a landscape of gentle hills and unexpected valleys her lips had explored like a greedy treasure hunter on the trail of lost gold…smooth, warm skin and a musky scent, unfamiliar but intoxicating as wine…the hard little buttons of his nipples…an intriguing texture of hair that tickled when she touched it with her nose….

The throbbing between her legs became heavier. She arched and squirmed sinuously as, under the water, her hands slid over her body, unconsciously following the same paths as the images in her mind. But, oh, what a difference there was between her own curves, and the hard planes and sculpted hollows of the male body she remembered…the body that invaded her thoughts, quickening her pulse and heating her cheeks at the most unexpected and inappropriate times. Cade’s body. And now, her husband’s.

My husband…will he desire me now? Now that I am his wife? Will he kiss me again the way he did that night on the terrace?

Her heart gave a sickening lurch, as though it were trying to turn upside down inside her chest. Trembling like someone just risen from a sickbed, Leila climbed out of the bathtub and wrapped herself in a thick, soft towel. She dried herself quickly, ignoring the shivers, then bravely tossed aside the towel and naked, faced her blurred reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. With her lips pursed in a thoughtful pout, she turned this way and that, trying to see herself from all angles. Yes…her breasts were full and yet still firm, with the nipples tightened now into hard, tawny buds…hips also full, but, she thought, not too wide…slender waist and firm, flat stomach…thighs wellmuscled—probably from horseback riding—and her buttocks, what she could see of them, round and smooth, and, she hoped, not too big.

Almost as an afterthought, with a defiant little flourish, she pulled out the combs and pins that held her hair high atop her head and let it tumble, thick and dark, down her back and over her shoulders. As she watched it her breathing quickened. Her lips parted and a rosy flush spread across her cheeks. The eyes that looked back at her in the mirror seemed to kindle and glow, as if from a fire somewhere in their depths.

He kissed me. He desired me then, I know he did.

Confidence welled up in her like a fountain, and her thirsty soul found it more intoxicating, more erotic than wine. He desired me once, and I will make him desire me again.

Buoyed on a magic carpet of restored self-confidence and new resolve, Leila brushed her teeth and her hair and rubbed her skin with scented oil until it felt soft and smooth as silk. She put on a modest but alluring gown in a soft, shimmery blue-green—the color of the water in a shallow cove near the palace where she and her sisters liked to swim and sunbathe. Somewhere along the line she noticed that the butterflies had come back, although now it did not seem at all an unpleasant sensation.

I am ready, she thought as she paced nervously, glancing from time to time at the clock on Cade’s bedside table. Ready for my husband…

It was half past midnight when she heard the creak and scuffle of footsteps outside Cade’s bedroom door. Her heart skittered and bolted like the squirrel she had seen that afternoon in the lane as she watched the doorknob slowly turn and the door swish inward, silent and stealthy as a thief in the night, to frame the tall, imposing figure of her husband.

For a moment he hesitated, looking as if he wasn’t sure whether he’d got the right room. Then he stepped through the doorway and carefully closed the door behind him. All the while his eyes never left her face, and they reflected the glow of the lamps she’d turned on low beside the bed so that they seemed to catch fire and flare hot as he looked at her.

Her stomach gave a lurch as the magic carpet of confidence she’d been riding on went into a steep crash dive.

Chapter 7

She was every man’s dream. And Cade’s worst nightmare.

He’d just about driven himself crazy, trying to think what he was going to do about this, his so-called wedding night. How did a man avoid consummating a marriage that never should have happened in the first place, without seeming to reject the woman he’d married and had already thoroughly humiliated once?

In the end, it had seemed to him that the best course of action was also the easiest one: Do nothing at all. If he stalled long enough, he reasoned, Leila was bound to fall asleep, as thoroughly jet-lagged as she must be. Then he could tiptoe in, snag his overnight bag and sneak off to the guest room, and his excuse would be that she needed her rest and he hadn’t wanted to disturb her—what a considerate guy he was. Tomorrow morning early he’d be off to work, and after that—well, he had the pretty good excuse of a prior commitment, a weekend hunting trip to the ranch with a client he was trying to woo. No reason he couldn’t arrange to fly out a day early, if the client was willing.

On Sunday when he got back, he’d sit Leila down and have a serious talk with her, and they could both try to figure out what they were going to do. By then, he told himself, they’d both be rested up and thinking clearly, and between them they ought to be able to come up with a way out of this farce with a minimum amount of embarrassment for all parties concerned.

It had seemed so reasonable to him, sitting there in his study sipping bourbon and enjoying a cheroot he knew he was going to catch hell for from Betsy tomorrow. He’d dozed a little bit in his chair and woken up stiff and groggy to find that it was well past midnight. Thank God, he’d thought, figuring there was no way in hell Leila would be awake at that hour. It ought to be safe to venture into his own bedroom.

Reeling with the effects of travel fatigue and whiskey, he’d mounted the stairs and made his way down the hallway, conscious of the silence all around him and his heartbeat ticktocking away like an old-fashioned grandfather clock. He was used to the silence of an empty house, but it was odd, he thought, how weighty silence seemed in a house that wasn’t as empty as it should be. He was thinking about that, about the usual silence and emptiness of his house at night, when he turned the knob and pushed open his bedroom door.

Then his only thought was: Oh God, what now?

There she was, not only awake but looking like the overture to some erotic dream, a vision in sea-green silk that covered every inch but failed to disguise one centimeter of her curves, her hair cascading down around her shoulders like midnight rain. Every man’s dream…his worst nightmare.

He didn’t know how long he stood there in the doorway looking at her. Just looking at her, with all sorts of emotions shooting off in every direction inside him so that for a moment his brain function felt more than anything like an explosion in a fireworks factory. Now what? What was he supposed to say to her? He couldn’t think of a thing.

It came to him gradually, as the shock subsided and his mind began functioning again, that he’d made a serious miscalculation. With all that had happened, he’d forgotten that, from almost the first moment he’d laid eyes on Leila Kamal, he’d wanted her.

He remembered it now. He remembered that the idea had amused him at the time, that he’d laughed at himself for his adolescent foolishness. He wasn’t laughing now.

“You’re still up,” he finally said—as inane an observation as ever there was.

“I waited for you.” She said it without a trace of seduction in her voice, facing him bravely with the light from a bedside lamp shimmering in her hair and making deep, dark mysteries of her eyes. She looked so incredibly beautiful …and nothing at all like the buoyant, flirtatious girl he remembered meeting in Tamir. Right now what she looked like more than anything was a virgin waiting to be sacrificed.

“You shouldn’t have,” he said, but in a gentle tone to temper the abruptness of it. He launched into his prepared justifications as he came into the room, keeping at a wary distance from her like a hiker circling a pit of quicksand. “Look…Leila. You’ve had a long day—you must be tired. I know I am.” He stifled an ostentatious yawn. “I, uh…had a few things I needed to take care of—business things that couldn’t wait.” He brushed them aside with a diffident wave of his hand. “Things pile up when I’m away. I’m going to be doing a lot of catching up during the next several days….”

“Oh yes,” she murmured, “I understand.”

For some reason her acquiescence annoyed him, made him feel fraudulent and unworthy. He cleared his throat and ventured a look at her, squinting as if she were a light too bright for his eyes. He continued almost defiantly, “In fact, there’s something—this weekend I have a thing I’m supposed to do—I promised a client I’d take him hunting out at the ranch.”

A frown appeared between her eyebrows. “The…ranch?”

“Yeah—I told you about it—west Texas?”

“Oh—yes, yes—I remember.” She sounded eager, now. “And you will fly there in your airplane?”

His insides writhed with guilt. Furious with himself for it, furious with her for making him feel it, he fought the urge to fidget and cleared his throat instead. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, actually. Straight from work. So I won’t be—”

“Tomorrow?” He could hear a different breathiness in her voice now…unmistakable touches of panic.

“Look—I’m sorry. It’s been scheduled for a while. It’s a client—I couldn’t very well cancel at the last minute.” Cade chose that moment to escape into his bathroom, too cowardly to risk another look at her. He didn’t need to see the shock, dismay and disappointment he knew would be written all over her face…that incredibly expressive face that sometimes seemed to him like watching a video tape on fast forward.

Just inside the bathroom doorway, again he stopped dead.

In only a matter of hours his bathroom had become an alien place. A lush and steamy greenhouse garden, redolent of all sorts of flowery, exotic scents, where jewel-toned bottles sprouted like mushrooms from the marble countertops and a rainbow of fabrics intertwined with the more subtle hues of damp towels bloomed in tropical profusion over every available surface.

Closing his mind to both the chaos and the disturbingly evocative smells, Cade set about gathering up the toiletries Betsy had unpacked for him, putting them back in their travel case. And while he was doing that he went on glibly talking, telling Leila in a logical, reasonable way how he thought she should spend the time while he was gone, catching up on her rest, settling in, getting to know the place…

But not too well, he reminded himself. No sense in her getting too settled in and comfortable here. This “marriage” was only going to be temporary, after all.

Listening to himself talk like that, without Leila’s disturbing presence to distract him and just the sound of his own voice and his reassuringly normal reflection glaring back at him from the mirrors, he could feel his self-assurance coming back. Everything he said sounded reasonable and sane—even logical and wise. And why shouldn’t it? He was Cade Gallagher, successful Texas businessman, a self-made man who’d had his first few million under his belt before his thirty-fifth birthday. A man with a far-ranging and well-earned reputation as a deal-maker, a man who knew how to play the game—and win.

Play the game…and win.

It came to him then, a flash of self-awareness like a spotlight trained on a dark corner of his soul, just what had happened to him back there in Tamir. In the first place, he’d gone to Elena’s wedding with a business deal in mind. Once there, he’d gotten so caught up in the game and so blinded by the idea of winning, he’d lost his perspective. In order to win the game he’d let himself be coerced into marrying a woman he didn’t love, with whom he had nothing whatsoever in common.

But the truth was, he didn’t need this “win.” He didn’t need the old sheik’s oil deal. He’d made his millions right here in Texas, and there was plenty more where that came from.

He’d been an ambitious fool and had paid the price, but all was not lost. He could still get out of this. He could still get his life back.

Just as long as he did not consummate this marriage.

That was it—the key to his deliverance. Because, from what he’d learned of Leila’s culture so far, it seemed to him that when it came to marriage, it was all about the consummation. Even the Walima, the marriage feast, was to celebrate, not the wedding, but the consummation. The way Cade saw it, so long as he didn’t make love to his wife, he wasn’t even really married.

No problem. So what if she was one of the most beautiful and seductive women he’d ever seen in his life? He was thirty-six years old—a grown man, not a randy teenager. The image that looked back at him in the mirror was confident and mature…eyes world-weary, smile wry, eyebrows set at a sardonic tilt. Yes, he told himself, he had more than enough willpower, he ought to be able to resist one little black-eyed virgin princess.

He picked up his toiletry kit and turned around. And there she was, the virgin princess herself, standing in the bathroom doorway, filling it up so his only escape was going to have to be either through her or over her. Unless she moved out of his way, which she was showing no inclination to do.

As a test of that theory, he took a step toward her. Sure enough, she didn’t budge an inch. Instead she watched him with great luminous eyes, and he saw her lips slowly part.

Apprehension shivered through his insides. He took another step…and another. Only a foot or so separated them now. And then she did move, but not away from him. Instead, she lifted one soft, scented hand and laid it alongside his jaw, a touch as cool and light as a flower. His heart began to pound.

“Leila—” With no spit at all in his mouth, it was all the sound he could manage.

She didn’t say a word, just touched one petal-like finger to his lips and shook her head. For a long and terrifying moment she looked deeply into his eyes, and he no longer felt the least bit logical or wise. Then she stretched way up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

His heart and stomach performed impossible acrobatic maneuvers and shimmers of panic danced behind his closed eyelids. His confidence had already evaporated. He snatched at a breath that seared the inside of his chest while every impulse and desire in him pleaded with him to give in…to kiss her back and then some. To carry her to his bed and make love to her for what was left of tonight and let tomorrow and the rest of his future—and hers—take care of themselves.

He might have done it. He wasn’t sure what would have happened, in fact, if he’d had both hands free. As it was, while one hand, already tingling with anticipation of the feel of her, hovered indecisively inches from her shoulder, his other hand, filled with the small leather case that held his toiletries, made a lump, a slight but significant barrier between his chest and hers. One she couldn’t ignore.

She drew back, one of her hands still resting on his shoulder, and looked down at it. After a long moment, her eyes came back to his. “I do not understand,” she said in a husky voice. “These are your personal things. Why do you need them? Where are you taking them? Now…tonight?”

The air seemed to back up in Cade’s chest. His tongue felt thick as he tried to explain. “I…uh, I thought I’d, you know, sleep in the guestroom—it’s just across the hall…” Why did he feel like an inept thief trying to explain the goodies in his sack, an unprepared schoolboy without his homework?

“But, this is your bedcham—bedroom.” She wasn’t touching him at all, now, but somehow he knew she was trembling. “Betsy told me. If you do not wish me—” She broke off suddenly, as if she’d been choked, and swallowed hard several times. Then he saw her body stiffen and her chin lift, and his own heart sank. With her face now pale and frozen as a statue, she said in a proud and quiet voice he’d never heard before, “If you do not wish me to sleep here with you in your bedroom, then you must tell me. It is I who should move to the guestroom, not you.”

“It’s only for tonight,” he heard himself say, as his free hand doublecrossed him by lifting to her cheek. He felt himself brushing it with the backs of his fingers, and it was hot and smooth, like the skin of a ripe peach. What the hell was he doing? And why had he ever imagined this would be easy?

“We are both so tired,” he gently explained, “and I’m pretty sure if we share a bed tonight, neither of us will get any sleep. There’ll be other nights….” Was it a lie? He didn’t even know for sure. And if it was, why did it come so easily to him? He wasn’t—or never had been—a dishonest man. “We’ll have plenty of time. When I get back. Tonight…you just rest, okay?” He ducked his head and touched his lips to her forehead. He’d never felt so confused and ashamed of himself. “Get some sleep,” he said huskily, and walked away and left her there.

Leila woke up in a very large bed and for a moment could not think where she was. She felt sweaty and her heart pounded the way it had sometimes done when she was a very little girl, waking from a nightmare she could not remember.

But she was not a little girl, and there was no Salma to stroke her hair and kiss her cheek and tell her everything was all right. And besides, she remembered it all, now. She was in Texas, in America, and the wife of a man named Cade Gallagher, whom she did not know. And did not understand at all!

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