Gambling with the Crown. Lynn Raye Harris
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don’t know this is his plan.”
Rashid blew out a breath and Kadir could almost hear the derision. “It has been this way since we were children. He hasn’t changed. You are the one he prefers.”
As if being the preferred one had made life as one of King Zaid’s sons any easier. Their father did not possess a warm bone in his body.
“I am not the best man to be king. You are.” He could say that without regret or shame. His particular gift was in building structures, in turning steel and glass into something beautiful and functional. He loved the challenge of it, of figuring out the math and science to support what he wanted to do.
He enjoyed his life, enjoyed being always on the move, always in demand. If he were the king of Kyr, he would not be able to do this any longer.
Oh, he could build skyscrapers in Kyr—but Kyr was not the world. And a king had many other things to tend to. He loved his country. But he felt its responsibility like a yoke, not a gift.
Rashid, however, wanted to rule. Had wanted to do so since they were boys. He’d always thought he would be the one to inherit the throne by virtue of his position as eldest—everyone had—until their father announced one day that he had not yet chosen a successor. And would not until the time came.
If King Zaid had died without choosing, the governing council would have made the choice. There had been no danger of Kyr being leaderless.
But it had always been a carrot to dangle over Rashid’s head, to make him jump to the tune King Zaid wanted.
Rashid had not jumped. He’d walked out. To Kadir’s knowledge, his father and Rashid had not spoken in at least ten years. Kadir maintained a distantly cordial relationship with his father, but it was not always easy to do.
“Be the better man, Rashid. Go and see a dying old man one last time. Give him what he wants and Kyr will be yours.”
Rashid didn’t speak for a long moment. “I will go, Kadir. But for you. Not for him. And when it turns out as I said, when you are crowned king of Kyr, do not blame me for your fate. It is not I who will have caused it.”
* * *
Emily nearly jumped out of her skin when there was a knock on her door. She’d fallen asleep on the couch of her small suite. A sheaf of papers fell to the floor as she bolted to a sitting position, her heart hammering with adrenaline.
She grabbed her phone where it lay on the coffee table. It was a few minutes after midnight. The knock sounded again and she scrambled upright, looked askance at the papers—there was no time to straighten them—and then whipped the long tangle of her hair out of her face and shoved it over her shoulders.
She’d changed into her usual sleep set—a tank top and pajama pants—which wasn’t in the least presentable. But the knock was insistent and she moved toward the door once her brain kicked into gear. Something must have happened to Kadir or no one would be outside her door at this hour. If Kadir wanted her, he would call.
She whipped the door back, unconcerned about criminals—since Kadir’s security had locked down the entire floor they were on—though she was careful to keep the bulk of her body behind the door.
Kadir stood on the other side, looking handsome and moody, and a wash of heat and confusion flooded her at once. Her stomach knotted even as her brain tried to work out a logical reason for his appearance at her door.
“Your Highness? Is there a problem?”
“There is indeed. I need to talk to you.”
“I—I will come to your suite. Give me a few minutes to get dressed and—”
“No. There is no time for that.” His hand was on her door, his big masculine body poised to enter her room. She’d worked for him for four years. She knew he was strong and big and not in the least bit soft, but she’d never quite felt the intensity of his body until this moment.
A rush of flame slid through her at the thought of facing her boss in her pajamas, but she pulled the door back and let him in. She’d seen him in less, after all. To him, meetings in various stages of undress were completely acceptable.
He came inside, all darkness and intensity and coiled strength as he paced across her floor. She could only watch as he moved like a trapped panther in her small space, her heart thrumming at his nearness and beauty.
Emily tried to smooth her hair. And then she crossed her arms when she realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. Not that she was in any danger of wowing Kadir al-Hassan with her B cups, but she’d be more comfortable if she was wearing one of her suits. Fully bra-ed and covered from neck to knee.
He stopped pacing and turned to face her. If she hadn’t been watching him, she wouldn’t have believed the look of surprise that crossed his face. Her cheeks flamed even more and she wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
“Did you need me to draft a letter for you? Make a call to the States? It’s still early there, and—”
“No.”
Emily shifted from foot to foot. The papers scattered across the floor irritated her sense of order. And Kadir, a prince, standing before her in trousers and a custom-fit shirt while she was a disheveled mess in her pajamas, did not bear thinking about.
His pewter gaze slipped over her and his expression grew tight. “I have disturbed you.”
“I fell asleep on the couch.” God, could she be any more inane?
He moved closer to her, and she felt his presence like a wave. A giant, engulfing wave of heat and sharp masculinity. This was not her urbane, sophisticated boss standing before her. This man was a prince of the desert, a man who stood on the edge of a precipice between civilization and the wild, untamed dunes.
She gave herself a mental shake. She knew better than that. He might be an Arab male, but that didn’t make him uncivilized. That was as ridiculous as saying all Americans wore cowboy hats and said yee-haw.
Kadir was a man. Just a man.
Her pulse raced even while she had the oddest sensation of her blood beating heavily in her veins. And her brain whispered back to her that Kadir al-Hassan was not just a man by anyone’s definition.
“You are...rumpled, Miss Bryant.” He said it almost wonderingly, and a flash of irritation rolled through her.
“Well, I was asleep. And you usually phone if you want something.”
He shoved a hand through his hair then, and she saw that he was not quite himself. Not the cool thinker she was accustomed to dealing with.
“We are going to Kyr.”
She felt the force of those words deep in her gut. In four years, he had never once gone to Kyr. If she hadn’t looked it up on a map, she’d have almost thought it didn’t exist. But it was there, a slice of sand on the Persian Gulf. It was oil rich, as were so many of the countries in that region, and ruled by a king. By Kadir’s father.
She had never spoken to the king until today. Until he’d phoned his son while they’d been riding across Paris and Kadir had handed her his phone, as he so often did when he didn’t want to deal with anyone. She could still hear that raspy voice, the note of command as he’d told her he wished to speak to his son. He had been imperious and polite all at once, though she had not fooled herself that politeness would win out should she attempt to take a message.
Kyr. My God.
It was perhaps the most foreign of any location he had ever taken her to, with the exception of Singapore and Hong Kong.
“When?”
Kadir blinked, and she wished she had her notebook. She felt professional with her notebook and pen. She also had a tablet computer, of course, but she liked the feel of the pen scratching over the paper as she made quick notes—and then she transferred them later so that she could access everything