Читать книгу His Royal Prize - Debbi Rawlins, Debbi Rawlins - Страница 11

A woman!

Stunned, Sharif propped himself up on one elbow. He should have known, should have sensed somehow that this wisp of a female was not a boy. Without having her soft feminine flesh fill his palm.

He was reminded of her unexpected warmth as he stared up into striking violet eyes. Bewitching eyes that flooded him with wariness.

Laughing eyes.

He straightened, aware suddenly of the undignified way he lay sprawled on the ground. Hay fell from his hair. Mud splattered the front of his shirt, making the fabric cling to his skin.

Sharif sniffed and cursed. There was more than mud ruining the expensive silk.

“If you’re waiting for an apology, you’ll be sitting there for one heck of a long time.” She stuck out her hand, and when he scowled, she shrugged and backed up. “Suit yourself.”

Slowly he started to raise himself. Arms folded across her chest, head cocked slightly to the side, she watched him, looking more amused than alarmed when he finally got to his feet and towered nearly a foot over her.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

She paused with a considering expression, then shrugged. “Not exactly.” At her indifference, his anger grew. “Want me to call your flunky?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“Your servant?” Her eyes widened in innocence, mocked by her tone. “Or can you handle this by yourself?”

The violet color was extraordinary, but her mouth was tarter than a lemon. He wondered what shade her hair was, all tucked under that hat. Wisps of light brown stuck out here and there, and an occasional blond strand. He could order her to remove the ugly tan hat. He doubted she would obey.

That anyone would dare oppose him was a staggering thought. And a woman? Almost unthinkable. But of course, this was America, a country of strange customs.

“Why do you pose yourself as a boy?” Sharif asked as he begun unbuttoning his shirt.

Her gaze settled on his right hand, turning increasingly wary with each button he unfastened. Apprehension darkened her eyes and gave him enormous satisfaction. Without the smug look she was even prettier.

“For your information, lots of girls dress like this here. We don’t go prancing around in stuff that looks like night clothes and flimsy veils for your benefit.” She briefly looked from his hand to his face and back again. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, so you do know who I am and where I come from.” He shrugged off the shirt.

She took a step back. “I don’t know who you are.” Her gaze leveled on his bare chest, and she blinked. “What are you, some kind of sheikh or prince?”

He tossed the shirt over the side of the stall, mostly to distance himself from the slight odor, and advanced toward her.

She ducked behind the horse. “We have laws here, you know. Just because you’re some sheikh, or whatever, you can’t just do what you want.”

He moved around to the front of the horse.

She scurried toward its left flank. “You don’t intimidate me, so don’t even try.”

He stopped and focused on the horse, virtually ignoring her except to ask, “What is this animal’s name?”

“Quit calling him an animal. This is Khalid.”

Sharif nearly smiled at the relief she could not keep from softening her voice. And when she stepped around to reverently stroke Khalid’s side, Sharif felt a swell of admiration edging out his irritation with her. In his experience, women seldom found animals so captivating.

“And I bet he comes from more royal stock than you do,” she added with a sidelong glance that did not make it higher than his chest.

Her obvious appreciation of him should have inspired satisfaction, but her remark stung. All his life he had known exactly who he was. Or thought he had. In minutes everything had changed. His mother was American. Rich but not of royal blood.

He did not want to think about this dilemma now. He had come looking for distraction. His gaze drew back to the woman. “And you? What are you called?”

“Olivia Smith.” She lifted her chin. “You may call me Ms. Smith.”

A smile breached Sharif’s lips. She was a most unusual woman. “Well, Ms. Smith, tell me about Khalid.”

She gave him a sour look and mumbled, “Livy. Everyone calls me Livy.” Adjusting her hat, she turned to remove the horse’s bit. More light brown strands floated around her face. Chopped, uneven strands. He detested short hair on women. Another American and European custom with which he did not agree.

“In this country, when someone tells you their name you’re supposed to return the favor,” she said, her attention entirely focused on removing Khalid’s bridle.

Sharif hesitated, unfamiliar with her phrasing. Having been educated in London, he had excellent command of the English language, but this woman bewildered him. In many ways.

She continued to concentrate on Khalid, unbuckling the throatlatch and noseband with a firm but loving hand even though Sharif could tell she was annoyed with him. Another puzzle. In his country, even in London and Monte Carlo, women sought him out. Beautiful women. Accomplished women. They strove to please him in every way.

He thought again about what she had said. Return the favor. “I am Sharif Asad Al Farid,” he said proudly, guessing, not wishing to ask her to explain.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Huh?”

He grunted his impatience. Did she really not know who he was? Back in his country, the entire palace staff would have been advised of an important arrival. Of course King Zak and Rose were concerned about reporters. Sharif himself was not anxious to be their prey as he had been in the past.

“That’s a whole lot of names. What am I supposed to call you?” She looked utterly perplexed. And charming. “And don’t say, Your Royal Highness. That’s too big a mouthful…besides being weird.”

“Then just Your Highness will do fine.” The teasing words left his lips before Sharif realized he had the capacity to jest. The result was pleasing, however, when Livy stared at him in openmouthed surprise.

She had a fine mouth. Straight white teeth, lush pink lips that needed no artificial color. Lips that suddenly curved.

“I thought you were serious for a minute,” she said, “until I saw that little twinkle in your eye.”

His good humor fled and he straightened. “My eyes do not twinkle.”

“Sure they do.” She slowly eased the bit out of Khalid’s mouth, then stopped to study Sharif a moment. “But right now you look like a mean old grizzly bear. You really ought to smile and twinkle more. You look so much more handsome. Of course you already know how beautiful you are.”

Her frank, unguarded expression startled him almost as much as her heartfelt words. Judging by the pink color seeping into her cheeks, they had surprised her, as well. Quickly she averted her gaze and tended to the tack, her movements slightly awkward.

Since he was a child he had been lavished with compliments and flattery, but none he could remember that affected him more. Her earnestness touched a place deep inside him, buried beneath the artifice privilege and wealth often fostered. Unlike many others, she did not use her honeyed words to curry favor. She spoke impulsively with the openness of a child.

After she made sure Khalid was secure in his stall, she eyed the barn door. She was about to flee, Sharif was sure of it, but he did not want her to go. When she made a sudden move, he reached for her arm. It was so small and fragile, he immediately loosened his grip, afraid he would hurt her.

“What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”

She tried to twist out of his grasp, but she was no match for him.

“I do not intend to hurt you. I only want—” Sharif stared into her anxious eyes. What did he want? To erase the past week when his entire life had changed? This girl could not help him. No one could. His demons were his alone to battle. “I want you to take off your hat.”

“Excuse me?”

He raised his free hand to accomplish the task himself, but she ducked away. “It is you who are beautiful. You should not dress like a boy.”

“I’m not dressed like a—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “What did you say?” Anger tinged her voice and she stared at him as though he were the devil himself.

Her unexpected reaction caught him off guard, so when she jerked away, he lost his grip and she used her freed hand to jam her hat more securely on her head. “Never mind. Don’t you dare repeat it,” she said, her voice breaking. “That was low, really low. Even for someone like you.”

“Wait.” He blocked her path, then when she tried to get around him, he held her by the shoulders. “I do not understand.”

“I know I don’t act or look like other girls, but I don’t need you pointing it out, buster.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “And for your information, not every girl wants to be beautiful. I’m fine just the way I am.”

He fisted a hand around hers before she jabbed him again. Her nails were short, but they were ragged and chafed his skin. She tensed under his touch. “I will not hurt you,” he repeated.

“You already have,” she muttered, and he promptly released her. “I have to get back to work.” She briefly glanced over her shoulder. “I can clean your shirt, if you want. I feel partly responsible.”

He waved a dismissive hand. He had many more like them. “I want to understand why I have angered you. In my country, women like to be told they are beautiful.”

She sighed. “Here, they like to be told the truth.” One side of her mouth lifted. “Most of them.” She shrugged. “Okay, most of the time we do.”

She sighed again and looked at him with an odd longing in her eyes. This was not a woman who tried to hide her feelings. A new experience for him that was both refreshing and unsettling.

“Olivia Smith, take off your hat.” She scowled at his command, and he grudgingly added, “Please.” Not a word he used often, it rolled gruffly off his tongue.

She touched the rim uncertainly. “Why?”

“It hides your face and hair.”

“That could be a good thing. Trust me.”

“No.” He slowly moved his hand toward the hat. “Trust me.”

Livy froze, closing her eyes, barely able to breathe as he gently lifted the hat off her head. His movement was so smooth and unhurried, it seemed sensual somehow, and for one glorious moment, she did feel beautiful and feminine. Which was ridiculous, except Livy never wasted the opportunity for a good fantasy. She wondered if this was the way Cinderella had felt when her prince slipped on the glass slipper.

Of course a gorgeous, sparkling glass slipper was a far cry from a stained secondhand Stetson. Reluctantly she opened her eyes, forcing herself to give up the brief daydream.

His smile stole her breath again. Her chest tightened until it hurt. And then she saw her hand, as though it were no longer a part of her body, lying against his bare skin, his hardening nipple pressing into the center of her palm.

She gasped, snatched her hand back and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Humiliation burned in her cheeks. How had this happened? How had she gotten so carried away? How could she ever look at him again?

She couldn’t. That’s all there was to it. Taking a blind step back, she felt around for her hat, ready to yank it out of his hand and run. She found a belt buckle instead. And it wasn’t hers.

“Oh, my God.” Her eyes flew open and she pulled back her hand as if she’d just touched a red-hot burner. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—I—” The heck with the hat. She started to turn to sprint for the door.

He stopped her with a firm hand. “Stay.”

“Not a chance.”

He hooked a finger under her chin and, when she tried to jerk away, he forced her head up. She closed her eyes and refused to meet the dark, steely blue of his gaze. If he laughed at her, sheikh or no sheikh, she’d slug him. She swore she would.

Warm breath tickled her cheek and her lids involuntarily lifted. “What are you doing?”

He lowered his mouth to hers and pressed a gentle kiss against her lips. When he pulled back, her throat closed at the look she saw in his eyes. She’d never seen a man look like that before, his pupils dilated so much that his eyes looked more black than blue. Maybe in the movies she’d seen it, but not in person, and certainly not directed at her. It made her feel all funny and squishy inside.

When his hold on her arm tightened she should have been frightened, but she was too fascinated by the way his jaw clenched, like Mickey’s did when he was really angry or excited and was trying to hold back from popping someone or doing something crazy. But this man wasn’t angry. He was…

She wasn’t quite sure what, but just watching him look at her made her embarrassingly damp in a place she didn’t expect.

“I didn’t say you could kiss me,” she said without the slightest hint of conviction, and wondered what it would take for him to do it again. She’d only kissed three boys before today, and none of those times seemed to count anymore.

His mouth lifted in a slight curve. “Had I asked, what would you have said?”

“No way.”

“May I kiss you again?”

“Okay.”

His smile broadened a little and Livy swallowed, not sure what she should do. Was she supposed to pucker up, or wait until he lowered his head again? Was it all right to lay her hand on his chest? She liked the feel of his smooth taut skin, and figured if she was going to let him kiss her again, what difference did it make where her hand landed.

He relieved her of the decision by placing her arms around his neck. Her breasts flattened against him and her head got a little fuzzy. The sudden shocking wish that they were bare skin to bare skin sobered her a little and she stiffened.

Stroking her back, he whispered something in a strange language. When she tilted her head back to look at him, he said, “You have the most magnificent eyes.”

And then his gaze fell to her lips and she didn’t think she’d ever wanted anyone to kiss her more than she did at this very moment. A few feet away Khalid whinnied, and she vaguely recalled where she was, that she was supposed to be working, that Mickey or any of the others could walk in at any time. But she just couldn’t pull herself away.

This was her dream come to life—a handsome Prince Charming, words and looks that made her feel wanted and beautiful, and her need was so great, she brazenly stretched up to meet her fantasy.

His lips weren’t so gentle this time. Her breath caught at the almost savage way he crushed her to him, as though he were being driven by some unknown force. The intensity both frightened and thrilled her. It was like something out of the movies, or in those romance books she sometimes read.

When his tongue slid along the seam of her lips, slowly applying pressure, looking for entry, she tensed again. Long enough for sanity to surface, and she pulled her arms from around his neck and shoved him back.

He looked dazed for a moment, and then he frowned. “You did not want my kiss?”

She rubbed her arms. “I’m not sure.” She did, and she didn’t. Mostly it was her own reaction that upset her. But the look of shock on his face eased her tension and she chuckled.

“Don’t take it personally. It’s just that I’m not very—” She clamped her mouth shut. The truth about her lack of experience was far more than he needed to know.

“I think I’d better go get that stain out of your shirt.” She turned to leave, but stopped when he touched her hair.

Her hair!

Flattening her palms against her scalp, she groaned. She knew darn well how her hair looked after removing her hat. What in the world was she thinking?

She wasn’t thinking. That was the problem. This man had her all tied up in knots. She liked living and working at the Desert Rose. Finally she’d found a place where she felt she belonged, where she was truly one of the team. But if anyone walked in and found them, in a second it could all be over.

Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her hands away from her head. “Why do you hide?” he asked, rubbing some strands of hair between his fingers. “Your hair is the color of honey. It could be very beautiful.”

She didn’t miss the “could be.” In a last-ditch effort not to look like a total hag, she fluffed out her bangs, ran her fingers through the crown as she took a couple of steps back.

“I still don’t know what to call you,” she mumbled.

He stared at her in that intense way she found so fascinating. As if no one else existed in the entire state of Texas. “Sharif.”

“Is that your first name?”

He nodded and reached for her hair again.

She ducked and patted it down. What in the heck did he find so interesting about a ratty clump of squashed hair? Given the chance, she’d trade her new pocketknife for a mirror about now. “Does everyone call you Sharif? Or do you have a nickname?”

He frowned and absently scratched his chest, a movement she found so ridiculously exciting that she had to take a deep breath. “Why do you Americans have this obsession with nicknames? Is it not enough to be called the name given you by your mother?”

She made a face. “Sometimes a shorter name sounds more friendly, I suppose.”

“Your mother, did she call you Livy?”

“I don’t have a mother.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Everyone has a mother.”

“Not if she gives you away.” Livy blinked at how pathetic she sounded. She really hadn’t meant to, she was more concerned with the way he was inching closer again. But her words stopped him.

“And your father?”

“I have to get back to work now.” She rubbed her palms down the front of her jeans and moved toward the door.

“Olivia? Your hat.”

The way he said her name with a slight accent made her shiver, and she seriously thought about forgetting the Stetson. Especially when she turned around and saw the play of muscles across his tanned back as he bent to pick it up.

“Uh, thanks.” She tried to grab the hat when he held it up to her, but he kept it a few inches out of reach. “That isn’t very gentlemanly.”

His eyebrows rose in phony surprise. “Did I claim to be a gentleman?” Smugness lifted his lips in a half smile. “One kiss, for one hat.”

“Talk about obsessions. What’s with you and kissing?”

“Ah, you do not like the sport.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Sport?” She threw up her hands. “That’s the problem with guys like you. You think…you think…kissing is a…is a sport. No thanks.”

Great. Now she was a liar and unoriginal. Because, despite her words to the contrary, she very much wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted to feel breathless, and get that squishy feeling again that made her insides turn into Jell-O.

“We have known each other for only twenty minutes.” He slid the rim of her hat between two fingers in an unhurried, annoying fashion. “What would you call it?”

The truth stung. She held out her hand. “Give me the hat.”

He smiled. “I had forgotten how interesting you Americans can be. In my country, the women do not play these games.”

“Do they have a choice?”

His expression tightened. “How much do you know about my country? Are you that wise in other cultures?”

Livy grimaced. Apart from the fact she had no idea where Sharif was actually from, she sure as heck didn’t know much about geography or other countries, period. She’d only squeaked her way through school because Father Mike would have tarred and feathered her if she hadn’t. Riding horses had been a much preferable pastime.

Remembering how his servant dressed like something out of the movies, she said, “I bet you have a harem.”

His eyes darkened, and his voice was low and edgy. “I force no one. Women come to me freely.”

“You do have a harem?” She’d spoken impulsively, not truly believing such a thing existed, but from the look on his face…“Holy cow! You are something else.”

“And you have a very vivid imagination.”

“Which is about to leak out without my hat on. Hand it over.”

“You know the terms.” He dangled it just out of reach.

“I thought you didn’t have to force women.”

“Do you truly feel coerced?” He was looking at her like that again, studying her face with an eerie single-mindedness, lingering on her lips as if she was some kind of dessert.

And like a darn fool, her entire body was getting all feeble again. “I think I’ll call you Shay. I went to school with a kid named Shay and he was a royal pain, too.” She chuckled at her little joke. He didn’t. “It’s close enough to Sharif.”

Just as she’d hoped, he forgot all about the hat and scowled at her. “I forbid you to call me by that name.”

“Really?” She jumped up and snatched the Stetson out of his hand. “Thank you very much,” she said with a sarcastic grin, while walking backward away from him. “Shay.”

If she’d only kept the taunt to herself she probably could have made it out of the barn. But her hesitation allowed him to lunge forward and grab her around the waist. She dropped the hat, lost her footing and they both tumbled to the ground.

She scrambled to keep from being pinned beneath him, but she wasn’t quick enough. “Get off. You’re squashing the life out of my windpipe.”

That wasn’t all. Her breasts were crushed against his shoulder, and the really scary part was she kind of liked it.

He eased up, and just when she thought he was going to let her go, he repositioned himself, straddling her, keeping her back flat to the ground. His fingers locked around her wrists as he stared down at her with a triumphant smile.

“What did you call me?” The slight cocky lift of his left eyebrow made her see red.

She glared back at him, weighing the use of a threat against indifference. Except she was far too aware of the strength in his thighs pressing against her hips, and she couldn’t think all that straight.

“This is very undignified, Your Highness,” she finally said, and was pleased to see his jaw clench.

“True,” he said, with a slight shift of his hips. “But quite pleasant.”

Boy, howdy. She swallowed. This was so unreal. Not a blessed guy she knew would ever think of manhandling her this way. “Aren’t you afraid your flunky will come in here and find you bullying me?”

“If you really wanted to end this, you would simply call me Sharif.”

The truth brought a wave of realization and shame that made Livy’s cheeks burn. “Sharif,” she quickly murmured.

But it was too late. He knew she’d enjoyed his attention, the brief taboo run on the wild side. His expression didn’t show it, though, and for that she was grateful.

As soon as she started to move, he got off. When he offered a hand, she took it. He pulled her to her feet but didn’t immediately let her go. His gaze holding hers, he touched her shoulder. His warm fingertips met with bare skin.

She realized then that she’d lost a button and her too-big shirt had slid off her shoulder. He surprised her by gently pulling the fabric in place. Then he kissed her.

Just as her stubborn shirt slipped down again, a flash went off at the barn door.