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Somehow.
But first...
Omar glanced at Dr. Farraday, now sitting beside him in the backseat of the luxury SUV. His driver in the front, sitting beside the bodyguard, had managed to escape the paparazzi with skillful driving and death-defying turns down dark alleyways. Omar and Dr. Farraday—Edith—had already enjoyed a brief private, after-hours tour of the Louvre. He’d seen her beautiful face light up when she’d seen the famous Mona Lisa. He’d enjoyed watching her. Very much.
Now, as they drove back through the dark streets of Paris, it was very late. The privacy screen was up in the SUV, and the two of them were alone.
For better. Or for worse.
He glanced down at her, so impossibly desirable in her diaphanous silk sapphire gown that fit perfectly against her hourglass figure, lingering against her wide hips, her tiny waist, her deliciously full breasts. She was petite, feminine, perfect. He caught the scent of vanilla and strawberries in her light brown hair, falling sleekly down her shoulders, over the sensuous faux fur of her jacket.
Their thighs were just inches apart on the soft, supple leather of the car seat. His whole body was aware of her every movement. Her every breath. I
t was all he could do not to turn to her, push her back against the seat and crush her body with his own, plundering those sweet red lips in a hungry kiss.
Omar’s body felt taut just thinking of it. He forced himself to look out at the passing lights of Paris. He knew Dr. Edith Farraday was too tactless and forthright to be his queen, if she even were willing to give up her career to be a full-time diplomat, wife and mother, which he doubted. He would not dishonor her—or himself—by betraying the laws of tradition, and giving in to his desire.
No, he’d done that once before, when he was too young and arrogant to know better, and it had ended one life and changed others forever, including his own. Never, ever again would he try to take what he did not earn.
“Where are we going now? Back to the mansion?”
Her voice trembled. She met his gaze nervously, before her long dark lashes trembled shyly against her rosy cheeks.
He smiled. “You mentioned the Eiffel Tower.”
She blinked. “You remembered?”
“How could I not?”
She looked down at her hands folded in her lap as she mumbled, “I’m not used to men paying attention.”
His gaze traced the adorable smattering of freckles across her nose. “You spend too much time in the lab.”
Her gaze flashed up at his in chagrin.
“Edith—”
“Beth,” she whispered.
Omar frowned. “What?”
She lifted her gaze to his. “My friends call me Beth.”
“Beth?”
“It’s—it’s a nickname.”
There was something strange in her voice that he didn’t understand, especially since her eyes shone at him with honesty. More mystery, he thought, and unwillingly leaned forward in the back seat of the SUV, searching her gaze in the moonlit Paris night. “As you wish. Beth.”
She looked relieved, and then a wicked gleam came into her eyes as she murmured, tilting her head, “And shall I call you Omar?”
He narrowed his eyes at the breach in protocol. As he was king, no one was ever allowed to use his first name, unless and until expressly invited. Had no one told her?
Then he saw her mischievous grin and realized she was teasing. She expected him to refuse. She was counting on it.
Humor. The one thing no other woman had tried today.
“Of course,” he replied with equal innocence. “Omar.”
