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CHAPTER ONE
‘INAROOM full of peacocks, you are the only exotic bird.’
The voice whispered against her cheek, words murmured from behind, his accent spiced, tone deep. The flesh on India’s arms lifted in a fine covering of goosebumps even before she’d turned around to see who was speaking to her. His appearance didn’t help matters. She’d expected another boring banker type, dressed to the nines and swelled up with their own importance, and instead she’d come face to face with—
But it was impossible to put into words the effect of this man’s beauty. He was tall and broad, with swarthy skin and dark hair that brushed his collar, a slight kick at the bottom. His brows were thick and dark, his bone structure symmetrical, his jawline square, covered with stubble, his lips generous and wide, his nose straight and long. He had eyes that were like never-ending tunnels, deep and fascinating, flecked with brown and black and gold, rimmed in thick, dark lashes that gave him the appearance of wearing eyeliner. She stared up at him breathlessly, completely unprepared for this, almost forgetting where she was and what she was doing.
But the amnesia was temporary.
India was working, and she couldn’t afford to do anything to mess up this job—or any job—so she blinked, pushing her features into a politely dismissive smile. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, turning her attention back to the bar just in time to see another woman—one of the peacocks this man had alluded to—sweeping in front of her and grabbing the barman’s attention.
‘Damn it,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘What is it you would like to drink?’ His voice was like treacle—completely smooth and addictive. She bit back an irrational desire to suggest he could have a second career as an audiobook narrator, because if this man was here, at this thousand-dollars-a-head charity event, it was unlikely he was in need of a supplemental income.
‘It’s fine,’ she dismissed. ‘I’m next in line.’
‘You were next in line before too,’ he pointed out.
She slid him a glance. ‘Yes, and if you hadn’t distracted me, I would have ordered by now.’
In response, his lips curled in a smile of undisguised appreciation. ‘Allow me,’ he murmured, putting a hand in the small of her back and drawing her closer to him. Shocked, her body moved without her brain’s consent, so her side connected with his, and she startled, her eyes leaping to his in surprise as sparks flared beneath her skin. Somehow, he found a small gap at the front of the bar and moved them towards it, lifting a hand at the same time.
To India’s surprise, a waitress appeared immediately. ‘Good evening, sir.’ She dipped her head forward deferentially, so India’s gaze flicked back to the stranger’s face. ‘May I get you a drink?’
‘The lady would like to order,’ he said, his fingers moving gently over her back now, the pattern he was drawing there rhythmic and distracting, so that when India opened her mouth to speak her voice emerged stilted.
‘A mineral water for me, please, but in a champagne flute, and a glass of pinot noir.’
‘And for you, Your Highness?’ The waitress looked up at him.
India startled once more. Your Highness? The man’s eyes caught hers, amusement in those never-ending depths, and embarrassment curdled her belly. Was he enjoying her surprise? The fact she had no idea who he was? No doubt he moved in these circles all the time, whereas India was an occasional guest, when the agency was in a jam and had to send her on a blue-chip date—usually reserved for the escorts who’d worked at the agency the longest. Her tenure was only new—twelve months ago the bottom had fallen out of her world, and she’d been doing whatever she could to make ends meet since then. She’d do whatever was necessary to keep her beloved younger brother in college. He’d already lost so much; she wouldn’t allow him to lose his degree as well.
‘A mineral water as well, but not in a champagne flute.’
‘Your Highness?’ India queried, while the waitress disappeared to prepare their drinks.
‘Yes?’
She narrowed her gaze. ‘You’re royalty?’
‘It would appear so.’
‘Are you being deliberately secretive?’
‘That’s something I’ve never been called before.’
‘Perhaps not to your face.’
He laughed then, a rich sound that had more than one head turning in their direction and which set India’s pulse into overdrive. Not just her pulse. Every cell in her body was trembling with awareness, and she was secretly glad that the crowd pushing towards the bar meant they were being jostled closer together, her body shifting nearer to his big, broad frame until they were touching.
‘Who are you?’ she repeated, curiosity spreading through her.
‘My name is Khalil,’ he said.
‘But should I call you “Your Highness”?’
‘No, that would not be appropriate.’
