Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage

“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but what she knew of America came mostly from movies and very old television programs, and she was, she feared, badly out-of-date.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.