His Royal Prize. Debbi Rawlins
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Two
A woman!
Stunned, Sharif propped himself up on one elbow. He should have known, should have sensed somehow that this wisp of a female was not a boy. Without having her soft feminine flesh fill his palm.
He was reminded of her unexpected warmth as he stared up into striking violet eyes. Bewitching eyes that flooded him with wariness.
Laughing eyes.
He straightened, aware suddenly of the undignified way he lay sprawled on the ground. Hay fell from his hair. Mud splattered the front of his shirt, making the fabric cling to his skin.
Sharif sniffed and cursed. There was more than mud ruining the expensive silk.
“If you’re waiting for an apology, you’ll be sitting there for one heck of a long time.” She stuck out her hand, and when he scowled, she shrugged and backed up. “Suit yourself.”
Slowly he started to raise himself. Arms folded across her chest, head cocked slightly to the side, she watched him, looking more amused than alarmed when he finally got to his feet and towered nearly a foot over her.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.
She paused with a considering expression, then shrugged. “Not exactly.” At her indifference, his anger grew. “Want me to call your flunky?”
He frowned at the unfamiliar word.
“Your servant?” Her eyes widened in innocence, mocked by her tone. “Or can you handle this by yourself?”
The violet color was extraordinary, but her mouth was tarter than a lemon. He wondered what shade her hair was, all tucked under that hat. Wisps of light brown stuck out here and there, and an occasional blond strand. He could order her to remove the ugly tan hat. He doubted she would obey.
That anyone would dare oppose him was a staggering thought. And a woman? Almost unthinkable. But of course, this was America, a country of strange customs.
“Why do you pose yourself as a boy?” Sharif asked as he begun unbuttoning his shirt.
Her gaze settled on his right hand, turning increasingly wary with each button he unfastened. Apprehension darkened her eyes and gave him enormous satisfaction. Without the smug look she was even prettier.
“For your information, lots of girls dress like this here. We don’t go prancing around in stuff that looks like night clothes and flimsy veils for your benefit.” She briefly looked from his hand to his face and back again. “What are you doing?”
“Ah, so you do know who I am and where I come from.” He shrugged off the shirt.
She took a step back. “I don’t know who you are.” Her gaze leveled on his bare chest, and she blinked. “What are you, some kind of sheikh or prince?”
He tossed the shirt over the side of the stall, mostly to distance himself from the slight odor, and advanced toward her.
She ducked behind the horse. “We have laws here, you know. Just because you’re some sheikh, or whatever, you can’t just do what you want.”
He moved around to the front of the horse.
She scurried toward its left flank. “You don’t intimidate me, so don’t even try.”
He stopped and focused on the horse, virtually ignoring her except to ask, “What is this animal’s name?”
“Quit calling him an animal. This is Khalid.”
Sharif nearly smiled at the relief she could not keep from softening her voice. And when she stepped around to reverently stroke Khalid’s side, Sharif felt a swell of admiration edging out his irritation with her. In his experience, women seldom found animals so captivating.
“And I bet he comes from more royal stock than you do,” she added with a sidelong glance that did not make it higher than his chest.
Her obvious appreciation of him should have inspired satisfaction, but her remark stung. All his life he had known exactly who he was. Or thought he had. In minutes everything had changed. His mother was American. Rich but not of royal blood.
He did not want to think about this dilemma now. He had come looking for distraction. His gaze drew back to the woman. “And you? What are you called?”
“Olivia Smith.” She lifted her chin. “You may call me Ms. Smith.”
A smile breached Sharif’s lips. She was a most unusual woman. “Well, Ms. Smith, tell me about Khalid.”
She gave him a sour look and mumbled, “Livy. Everyone calls me Livy.” Adjusting her hat, she turned to remove the horse’s bit. More light brown strands floated around her face. Chopped, uneven strands. He detested short hair on women. Another American and European custom with which he did not agree.
“In this country, when someone tells you their name you’re supposed to return the favor,” she said, her attention entirely focused on removing Khalid’s bridle.
Sharif hesitated, unfamiliar with her phrasing. Having been educated in London, he had excellent command of the English language, but this woman bewildered him. In many ways.
She continued to concentrate on Khalid, unbuckling the throatlatch and noseband with a firm but loving hand even though Sharif could tell she was annoyed with him. Another puzzle. In his country, even in London and Monte Carlo, women sought him out. Beautiful women. Accomplished women. They strove to please him in every way.
He thought again about what she had said. Return the favor. “I am Sharif Asad Al Farid,” he said proudly, guessing, not wishing to ask her to explain.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Huh?”
He grunted his impatience. Did she really not know who he was? Back in his country, the entire palace staff would have been advised of an important arrival. Of course King Zak and Rose were concerned about reporters. Sharif himself was not anxious to be their prey as he had been in the past.
“That’s a whole lot of names. What am I supposed to call you?” She looked utterly perplexed. And charming. “And don’t say, Your Royal Highness. That’s too big a mouthful…besides being weird.”
“Then just Your Highness will do fine.” The teasing words left his lips before Sharif realized he had the capacity to jest. The result was pleasing, however, when Livy stared at him in openmouthed surprise.
She had a fine mouth. Straight white teeth, lush pink lips that needed no artificial color. Lips that suddenly curved.
“I thought you were serious for a minute,” she said, “until I saw that little twinkle in your eye.”
His good humor fled and he straightened. “My eyes do not twinkle.”
“Sure they do.” She slowly eased the bit out of Khalid’s mouth, then stopped to study Sharif a moment. “But right now you look like a mean old grizzly bear. You really ought to smile and twinkle more. You look so much more handsome. Of course you already know how beautiful you are.”
Her frank, unguarded expression startled him almost as much as her heartfelt words. Judging by the pink color seeping into her cheeks, they had surprised her, as well. Quickly she averted her gaze and tended to the tack, her movements slightly awkward.
Since he was a child he had been lavished with compliments and flattery, but none he could remember that affected him more. Her earnestness touched a place deep inside him, buried beneath the artifice privilege and wealth often fostered. Unlike many others, she did not use her honeyed words to curry favor. She spoke impulsively with the openness of a child.
After she made sure Khalid was secure in his stall, she eyed the barn door. She was about to flee, Sharif was sure of it, but he did not want her to go. When she made a sudden move, he reached for her arm. It was so small and fragile, he immediately loosened his grip, afraid he would hurt her.
“What