Gambling With the Crown Read online

  “You pay me to keep your life in order, not to advise you on it.”

  “And yet you wanted to say something. I could see it in your expression. The way your lips pursed ever so slightly. The downward tilt of your eyebrows, the flare of your nostrils. The green fire in your eyes. I would like to know what it was.”

  “I prefer to keep my job.” Her voice contained an edge of tartness that she couldn’t quite control. The green fire in her eyes?

  “And you shall. I give you leave to say what you wish. I’d rather not have you pop from holding it in, Miss Bryant.”

  Emily sighed. He wasn’t going to give up until she’d spoken. If she knew anything about this man, she knew that. She’d watched him in negotiations, watched the way he closed in on his prey like a hawk, circling ever closer, until the moment he snatched them up and got precisely what he wanted, whether it was a bargain on steel, a commitment to sell only to him, incentives on a piece of land or a premium from someone who desperately wanted his company to build their new skyscraper.

  “I was going to say that it was ridiculous to expect more of the same. That perhaps if you conducted your, er, affairs a little differently, they might not get to this stage.”

  He looked amused. Heat flared in her belly.

  “And how should I conduct my affairs? I would imagine that swearing off women for good would do it. But so far as I like women—and I certainly do—there will always be some who think I am going to make them my princess. They never take it kindly when they find out it is not going to happen.”

  “Then perhaps you should choose women based on their intellect and not their bra size.”

  He burst out laughing and a prickle of something ran up her spine. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even embarrassment. Perhaps it was relief. Relief that she’d said the words after all.

  “I will take your charming suggestion under advisement, I assure you.”

  “You did ask.”

  “Indeed I did.” He raised his arms, stretching like a supple, sleek cat. The robe fell open to reveal the tight muscles of his abdomen—along with that damn arrow of hair again. Thankfully, he was wearing a pair of black silk boxers that were perfectly decent. Emily averted her gaze as her heart rate picked up once more. Fresh fire licked across her skin, shortened her breath.

  She forced it down again, buried it beneath the mountain of decorum and duty she always lived by. She was not the sort of person to be ruled by urges. She was not the sort of person to have urges—not anymore. She’d worked very hard to make sure of that.

  So what on earth was the matter with her today? He was devilishly attractive, but that was nothing new. She’d thought herself inoculated a long time ago. Apparently, he could still rev up her pulse under the right circumstances.

  Perhaps she should make an appointment with her doctor. Her hormones were surely out of whack or something. It was the only explanation.

  Kadir moved with liquid grace, sauntering back into his bedroom while Emily stood and gulped in air. He didn’t close the door and she soon heard the sound of the shower. She imagined him dropping the robe, sliding the silk boxers down his lean, hard thighs—

  Emily gripped her notebook hard enough to make her fingers ache. Then she smoothed her hair, straightened her clothing even though it was perfectly straight already, and went to check on Kadir’s breakfast.

  *

  The day had been long and productive. Kadir sat in the limo as it moved through the brightly lit streets of Paris and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, easing the kinks of sitting at a desk for the past few hours. He’d been going over the projections for his newest project. This office building in Paris’s business district was simply the latest in a series of buildings he’d constructed over the past couple of years.

  But he loved the process, loved watching the steel skeleton rise high above the city and take on a life of its own. This building wasn’t as tall as some he’d built, but it was modern and sleek and efficient. The company that had hired him would be very pleased when he was finished. He prided himself upon it.

  Beside him, his assistant typed away on her laptop. He slanted a glance toward her. Miss Emily Bryant was quite possibly the best assistant he’d ever had. She was eager to work, professional, and she’d taken over his life with the kind of efficiency he valued.

  Nothing escaped her notice. Nothing remained undone. In spite of this morning’s episode, a thousand Lenores could not ruffle her calm for long.

  He’d come to look forward to her marching into his room, in whatever city they might be staying in, and standing over him in her crisp black-and-white—or sometimes navy-blue or gray—business suits and ugly shoes as she told him about his day.

  Emily was blessedly uncomplicated. The only female in his life who was. Thank goodness he wasn’t attracted to her, or he would no doubt ruin what was the longest relationship with a woman—unrelated to him—that he’d ever had.

  He thought of her this morning, telling him to choose women based on intellect rather than bra size, and wanted to laugh again. She’d shocked and amused him at the same time. He’d asked her opinion, but that was not the answer he’d expected. Emily was always so circumspect that it hadn’t crossed his mind she had anything remotely sarcastic to say.

  He’d loved it because it was so unexpected from his proper assistant. That was something he almost never got in his relationships with anyone: honesty. No one wanted to disagree with a prince.

  His mobile phone began to buzz. He took it from his pocket and handed it to Emily. He was too tired to deal with anyone just now. She answered with that voice of hers that sounded so young and fresh, as though she was still sixteen instead of twenty-five. Kadir closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. Tonight, he would sleep the sleep of the dead. No parties, no manipulative fashion models, no distractions.

  “Your Highness.” Emily sounded a touch breathless. Her pale green eyes were wide as she held out the phone. “It’s your father.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  KADIR GRIPPED THE balcony’s iron railing with both hands as he stared at Paris spread out below. The Eiffel Tower glowed ocher against the skyline as cars slid through the streets. He could hear laughter coming from somewhere in the hotel where he’d booked an entire floor, and a soft breeze slid across his skin, cooling him.

  His father was dying. The phone call tonight played again and again in his head, filling him with so many emotions that he could hardly sort them all. He remembered a lion of a man when he was a child, a man who had both frightened and awed him. He remembered wanting to be important to that man, wanting his attention and doing nearly anything to get it.

  If his father had had a favorite son, he was it. Not that that was saying much, since he’d often felt his father’s belt against his skin. But Rashid had felt it more. And Kadir had been so convinced as a child that if his father was angry with Rashid, then he might be pleased with Kadir—not to mention, if his father’s attention were on Rashid, Kadir would escape the harsh punishments his father meted out. So he’d encouraged his father to be angry with Rashid in any way he could.

  Kadir raked a hand through his hair and thought about ordering a glass of some type of strong liquor. But he did not drink when he was alone, so that was out of the question. It was a matter of self-discipline and he would not violate his own rule.

  He picked up his phone from where he’d set it on the table and willed it to ring. He knew Rashid would call him. Because Rashid would know that Kadir had been told the news first.

  When he and Rashid had been children, he’d taken shameless advantage of his father’s apparently strong dislike of Rashid. When Kadir let the horses out of the stables, his father blamed Rashid. When he released his father’s prized hawk, Rashid got blamed. When he accidentally poisoned his father’s favorite hound—who thankfully recovered—their father had blamed Rashid for that as well.

  Rashid always took the punishment stoically and without complaint.
He never cried during the beatings, but he would return to their shared quarters red faced and angry. Kadir shuddered with the memories of what he’d caused Rashid to endure.

  It was a wonder Rashid did not hate him. He always felt such a dark and abiding shame in his brother’s presence, though Rashid did not ever speak about anything that had happened in their father’s palace. It was as if, for Rashid, it did not exist.

  Kadir wished it were the same for him.

  He stood there for another hour in the dark, waiting and brooding. And then his phone rang and an odd combination of regret and relief surged inside him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said by way of greeting.

  There was a long pause on the other end. “It is good to talk to you, too, brother.”

  “Rashid.” He sighed. He could never say everything he wished to say to his brother. His throat closed up whenever he thought about it.

  I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. I’m sorry for everything. And then, Why don’t you hate me?

  Instead, he said the one thing he could say. “You know I don’t want the throne. I’ve never wanted it.”

  In Kyr, the throne usually passed to the eldest—but it didn’t have to. The king could choose his successor from among his sons, and that was precisely what their father was proposing to do. Kadir couldn’t begin to express how much this angered him.

  Or worried him. He was not, in his opinion, suited to be a king. Because he did not want it. For one thing, to be king would mean being trapped for the rest of his life. For another, it would feel like the ultimate dirty trick to be played against Rashid.

  “You are as qualified as I,” Rashid said with that icy-cool voice of his, his emotions wrapped tight as always. To talk to Rashid was to think you were talking to an iceberg. It was only when you saw him that you realized he blazed like the desert.

  “Yes, but I have a business to run. Being king means living in Kyr year-round. I am not willing.”

  That was the reason he could voice. The other reasons went deeper.

  “And what makes you think I am?” There was a flash of heat that time. “I left Kyr years ago. And I, too, have a business.”

  “Oil is your business. It is also the business of Kyr.”

  Rashid made a noise. “He only wants the appearance of fairness, Kadir. We already know his choice.”

  Kadir’s throat was tight. He feared the same. And yet he could not accept the throne without a fight for what he knew was right.

  “He’s dying. Do you really plan not to go, not to see him one last time?”

  If anger had substance, then Kadir could feel the weight of his brother’s anger across the distance separating them. “So he can express his disappointment in me yet again? So he can hold out the promise of Kyr and then have the satisfaction of giving it to you while I can do nothing?”

  Kadir felt his brother’s words like a blow. He’d done nothing to deserve Kyr and everything to drive a wedge between his father and his brother while protecting his own skin, though he had not really known the gravity of his actions at the time. Still, being a child did not excuse him.

  “You don’t know this is his plan.”

  Rashid blew out a breath and Kadir could almost hear the derision. “It has been this way since we were children. He hasn’t changed. You are the one he prefers.”

  As if being the preferred one had made life as one of King Zaid’s sons any easier. Their father did not possess a warm bone in his body.

  “I am not the best man to be king. You are.” He could say that without regret or shame. His particular gift was in building structures, in turning steel and glass into something beautiful and functional. He loved the challenge of it, of figuring out the math and science to support what he wanted to do.

  He enjoyed his life, enjoyed being always on the move, always in demand. If he were the king of Kyr, he would not be able to do this any longer.

  Oh, he could build skyscrapers in Kyr—but Kyr was not the world. And a king had many other things to tend to. He loved his country. But he felt its responsibility like a yoke, not a gift.

  Rashid, however, wanted to rule. Had wanted to do so since they were boys. He’d always thought he would be the one to inherit the throne by virtue of his position as eldest—everyone had—until their father announced one day that he had not yet chosen a successor. And would not until the time came.

  If King Zaid had died without choosing, the governing council would have made the choice. There had been no danger of Kyr being leaderless.

  But it had always been a carrot to dangle over Rashid’s head, to make him jump to the tune King Zaid wanted.

  Rashid had not jumped. He’d walked out. To Kadir’s knowledge, his father and Rashid had not spoken in at least ten years. Kadir maintained a distantly cordial relationship with his father, but it was not always easy to do.

  “Be the better man, Rashid. Go and see a dying old man one last time. Give him what he wants and Kyr will be yours.”

  Rashid didn’t speak for a long moment. “I will go, Kadir. But for you. Not for him. And when it turns out as I said, when you are crowned king of Kyr, do not blame me for your fate. It is not I who will have caused it.”

  *

  Emily nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock on her door. She’d fallen asleep on the couch of her small suite. A sheaf of papers fell to the floor as she bolted to a sitting position, her heart hammering with adrenaline.

  She grabbed her phone where it lay on the coffee table. It was a few minutes after midnight. The knock sounded again and she scrambled upright, looked askance at the papers—there was no time to straighten them—and then whipped the long tangle of her hair out of her face and shoved it over her shoulders.

  She’d changed into her usual sleep set—a tank top and pajama pants—which wasn’t in the least presentable. But the knock was insistent and she moved toward the door once her brain kicked into gear. Something must have happened to Kadir or no one would be outside her door at this hour. If Kadir wanted her, he would call.

  She whipped the door back, unconcerned about criminals—since Kadir’s security had locked down the entire floor they were on—though she was careful to keep the bulk of her body behind the door.

  Kadir stood on the other side, looking handsome and moody, and a wash of heat and confusion flooded her at once. Her stomach knotted even as her brain tried to work out a logical reason for his appearance at her door.

  “Your Highness? Is there a problem?”

  “There is indeed. I need to talk to you.”

  “I—I will come to your suite. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and—”

  “No. There is no time for that.” His hand was on her door, his big masculine body poised to enter her room. She’d worked for him for four years. She knew he was strong and big and not in the least bit soft, but she’d never quite felt the intensity of his body until this moment.

  A rush of flame slid through her at the thought of facing her boss in her pajamas, but she pulled the door back and let him in. She’d seen him in less, after all. To him, meetings in various stages of undress were completely acceptable.

  He came inside, all darkness and intensity and coiled strength as he paced across her floor. She could only watch as he moved like a trapped panther in her small space, her heart thrumming at his nearness and beauty.

  Emily tried to smooth her hair. And then she crossed her arms when she realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she was in any danger of wowing Kadir al-Hassan with her B cups, but she’d be more comfortable if she was wearing one of her suits. Fully bra-ed and covered from neck to knee.

  He stopped pacing and turned to face her. If she hadn’t been watching him, she wouldn’t have believed the look of surprise that crossed his face. Her cheeks flamed even more and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

  “Did you need me to draft a letter for you? Make a call to the States? It’s still early there, and—”r />
  “No.”

  Emily shifted from foot to foot. The papers scattered across the floor irritated her sense of order. And Kadir, a prince, standing before her in trousers and a custom-fit shirt while she was a disheveled mess in her pajamas, did not bear thinking about.

  His pewter gaze slipped over her and his expression grew tight. “I have disturbed you.”

  “I fell asleep on the couch.” God, could she be any more inane?

  He moved closer to her, and she felt his presence like a wave. A giant, engulfing wave of heat and sharp masculinity. This was not her urbane, sophisticated boss standing before her. This man was a prince of the desert, a man who stood on the edge of a precipice between civilization and the wild, untamed dunes.

  She gave herself a mental shake. She knew better than that. He might be an Arab male, but that didn’t make him uncivilized. That was as ridiculous as saying all Americans wore cowboy hats and said yee-haw.

  Kadir was a man. Just a man.

  Her pulse raced even while she had the oddest sensation of her blood beating heavily in her veins. And her brain whispered back to her that Kadir al-Hassan was not just a man by anyone’s definition.

  “You are…rumpled, Miss Bryant.” He said it almost wonderingly, and a flash of irritation rolled through her.

  “Well, I was asleep. And you usually phone if you want something.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair then, and she saw that he was not quite himself. Not the cool thinker she was accustomed to dealing with.

  “We are going to Kyr.”

  She felt the force of those words deep in her gut. In four years, he had never once gone to Kyr. If she hadn’t looked it up on a map, she’d have almost thought it didn’t exist. But it was there, a slice of sand on the Persian Gulf. It was oil rich, as were so many of the countries in that region, and ruled by a king. By Kadir’s father.

  She had never spoken to the king until today. Until he’d phoned his son while they’d been riding across Paris and Kadir had handed her his phone, as he so often did when he didn’t want to deal with anyone. She could still hear that raspy voice, the note of command as he’d told her he wished to speak to his son. He had been imperious and polite all at once, though she had not fooled herself that politeness would win out should she attempt to take a message.