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Her brow furrowed in confusion. ‘But if you’re a king...?’
‘I am not yet a king,’ he said, half dismissively, so she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing somehow. But then he was moving closer, his head lowering to her ear, so he could whisper against her flesh. ‘And I would like to hear my name on your lips, rather than my title.’
It was just a throwaway comment, and yet something about the way he’d phrased it and the timbre of his voice set her nerves jangling. A slick of heat flooded her body, low in her abdomen, so she was conscious of the way her nipples strained against the soft silk of her dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra—she didn’t possess one that worked with the lines of the dress—and so her breasts were crushed against the hard warmth of his chest, every nerve-ending tantalisingly aware of his proximity and raw charisma.
His eyes flicked to her mouth and her lips parted as if by magic, her heart rate as fast as if she’d just run a marathon. Her lips tingled all over. She was overcome with sensations she’d never known before. Surrounded by the crush of New York’s elite and somewhere, only a few feet away, the date who was paying handsomely for her time, all she could think of was the man before her.
‘Khalil,’ she said, as if to stir herself from the strange dream that was wrapping tentacles around her.
His eyes flared with unmistakable desire. Her stomach swooped. ‘And your name?’ The question was said with a tone of command.
‘I-India,’ she stammered for the first time in years, since a speech pathologist had helped her overcome the childhood impediment.
‘India.’ His hand shifted to her hip, holding her close to him, promising things she desperately wanted to experience. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Here are your drinks, sir, ma’am.’ The waitress’s appearance was a welcome interruption. India’s eyes flared wide and she would have stood back a little, if she could have. But there were too many people crowding around them, so India told herself she had no choice but to stay right where she was: for now—it was a convenient excuse, because she didn’t really want to put any space between them anyway.
‘Leave them on the bar.’ He didn’t take his eyes off India’s face. She felt warm and desirable, and a thousand kinds of need. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
India blinked, she’d never been asked this question, not on any of the agency dates she’d attended in the past year.
‘I suspect it would be far more interesting if you told me about yourself,’ she said truthfully, ignoring the glass of pinot noir to her right—due to be delivered to her date at any moment.
‘Why is that?’
‘Well, you’re the first royal I’ve ever met,’ she said with a lift of one shoulder. It drew his gaze downwards, and from the creamy flesh of her shoulder sideways, to the exposed decolletage and valley between her breasts. India sucked in a sharp breath, butterflies colonising her belly. His interest was unmistakable, but her own physical response bowled her over.
‘And you are the first woman named India I have ever met. What is your point?’
Her cheeks flooded with warmth. She was heart-stoppingly attracted to him, and that was a disaster. Or, at the very least, hugely inconvenient, because she was on a date with a client and she wasn’t being paid to flirt with another man. She could imagine the complaint Ethan—who seemed as if he had definite jerk potential—would make to the agency if he saw her locked in intimate conversation with another man—particularly one like this. She couldn’t say why she knew that this man in particular would be incendiary, except that he was so hyper-masculine. She suspected he was intimidating to all other males.
And very likely knew it.
‘My point...’ she pulled away from him with difficulty, curling her fingers around the drinks ‘...is that I should think your life story would outdo mine any day.’ She offered him a small smile. ‘But unfortunately, I can’t stay to hear it. I’m here with someone.’
His eyes flashed with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Annoyance? Impatience? Irritation?
She understood all three. But her work was hugely important—she’d already spent tonight’s pay cheque three times over, and the very thought of the college-fee notice stuck to the fridge door had her breaking out in a cold sweat.
‘Someone you’d prefer to be with?’ he prompted with easy confidence. What must it have been like to be so self-assured? Oh, he was right, of course. She’d have given anything to swap out her dates, but this was business, not pleasure, and so her own needs had to take a back seat.
It wasn’t a fair question. ‘I came here with someone else.’
‘It does not follow you must leave with him, azeezi.’
‘Actually, it does.’ She flicked a glance downwards, regret in her heart. On this night, of all nights—her twenty-fourth birthday—what she wouldn’t have given to indulge her own wants, just for once! The day had been so lonely, in stark contrast to the way her mother, stepfather and brother used to make a fuss each year. Oh, Jackson had still called, and they’d spoken for almost an hour—his happiness had lifted her heart for a time. But beyond that, it was just India in a big, empty home, thinking of the family she’d used to have, the way things used to be. Flirting with this incredibly handsome stranger would have been the perfect present to herself, but what she needed, more than anything, was the payment for tonight. She couldn’t do anything to risk the job. With true remorse, she offered him a parting smile. ‘It was nice to meet you, Your Highness.’
But he wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘I asked you to call me Khalil,’ he reminded her softly. His thumb pressed beneath her chin, lifting her face to his, so their eyes locked and the world seemed to disappear, tipping away, leaving just the two of them on a precipice of time and space.
‘I can’t call you anything,’ she said, her voice lacking the firmness she needed despite her resolve. ‘I must go.’
‘Is it what you want?’
‘Don’t keep asking me that.’
‘Have I already?’
‘More or less.’ She sighed, but didn’t look away. ‘My date will be waiting for me.’
