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Thank goodness.
‘You’re an exceptional horsewoman, Liah,’ her father added. ‘And, maybe if your mother and I had known you’d been working with Ashreen ever since you returned from college, we wouldn’t have both shaved several years off our lives watching you shoot round that track as if you had wings...’
She heard the pride in his voice, which had always been there, ever since she’d been a little girl and he’d believed she could do anything if she put her mind to it. ‘But if you ever do anything like that again,’ he continued, thrusting his fingers through his thick dark hair, the strands of grey at the temples making him look even more distinguished than he had when she’d been a child, ‘I may have to ground you for the rest of your life.’
‘Point taken.’ She huffed out a laugh. It was an empty threat. They both knew it. But she could hear his anxiety.
Okay, she owed him one.
‘I promise I’ll be the perfect hostess with Prince Kamal this evening.’Aka Prince Rat.‘And I’ll do my absolute best not to tell him what an ass he is,’ she added, which, in all honesty, would require every molecule of self-restraint she possessed.
Kamal heard the knock on the door and swore under his breath as he stared at the scrap of black cloth hanging limply around his neck. It would probably be one of Khan’s staff waiting to escort him to the event downstairs.
The event he did not wish to attend—at all.
The black tuxedo trousers and fitted white shirt had been expertly tailored to fit his muscular frame, but still he felt like a fraud. He was not used to formal western evening wear, much preferring the loose robes of the desert. But he knew he needed to become accustomed to such things for the European trade tour he had planned as a precursor to his coronation. Assuming, of course, he could find himself a convenient bride.
He scowled at his reflection in the floor-length mirror. At least the trousers and shirt had been straightforward. The tie, though, had completely confounded him. Khan’s wife had offered to supply him with someone to help him dress, but he had declined, thinking the concept absurd—he had been dressing himself for as long as he could remember. Now he wished he had not been so hasty.
The knock sounded again.
He marched through the suite of rooms to the door, the last of his patience evaporating.
He swung open the heavy oak door. ‘Yes?’
The vicious spear of lust he had been suppressing all evening—ever since Princess Kaliah had been wriggling on his lap—shot back into his groin.
Her.Again. This time not dressed as a jockey but as a princess. A nearly naked princess.
A stunning red satin creation draped down to her ankles, but had a plunging neckline and a slit up one side which highlighted her modest cleavage and mile-long legs, while the jewelled shoulder-straps appeared flimsy enough to snap at any minute. His gaze swept over her, from the artfully arranged curls piled on top of her head to the peak of painted toes in heeled sandals.
She cleared her throat and his gaze jerked to her face. Her sapphire eyes had been enhanced by some kind of glittery, smoky stuff, while her full lips glistened in the dim lighting of the palace’s courtyard, making them look even more kissable.
‘Prince Kamal, I presume?’ she began, her voice a little breathless.
He knew how she felt. He had not been expecting her—and especially not dressed likethis. She certainly did not look like a boy any more. Not that she ever really had.
‘What do you want?’ he asked more rudely than he had intended. But she had him at a disadvantage, the uncomfortable awareness from earlier now turbo-charged, and he did not like it.
If he had briefly entertained the idea Princess Kaliah might be a possible candidate to become his queen, he had dismissed the thought as soon as he had realised who was the rider he had rescued.
As much as he had enjoyed getting some payback for the long-ago humiliation he had suffered at her hands—and watching her ice blue irises turn to hot steel while she’d attempted to struggle out of his lap—he had also realised the princess’s reputation as a wild child had been well-earned. Kaliah Khan was clearly completely undisciplined, headstrong and spoilt. He needed a queen who would do as he told her, who would respect his authority and be a good role model, not an unruly girl who seemed to have no control over her behaviour whatsoever.
So proposing to her was out.
His gaze raked over the revealing dress again. Not only was her reckless behaviour a problem but he also doubted she was a virgin. She was far too confident and aware of her sexual allure. And, while he didn’t much care for the double standard required of him in his position, he had no intention of offering for a woman who was not untouched. He was not about to give Uttram Aziz and the other more conservative elders a chance to reject his bride on a technicality.
He could see the spark of temper in her eyes now, but she masked it—mostly—before she replied, her voice an annoyingly husky purr. ‘My father requested that I escort you to the reception and introduce you to the other guests.’
So she was here under duress. It figured.
‘Requested or demanded?’ he asked.
Surely she had no wish to accompany him any more than he wished to have her as his guide? He had enjoyed baiting her earlier. But the payback he had wanted had now been fulfilled.
As she had left the arena, haughty fury emanating from each regal stride, he had been unable to unglue his gaze from her pert backside. Which was problematic, because he had already dismissed her as a prospect for marriage.
He also recalled now how she had felt on his lap, her back rigid, her breasts rising and falling in an erratic rhythm beneath the jockey silks, her wild hair clinging to the graceful line of her neck, and also recalled the scent of her—the musty spice of subtle perfume and female sweat, all but addictive.
