sell millions.”
She grabbed her ponytail, wagged it at him. “I’m not blonde, Your Horrid Highness.”
“Technicalities, Your Venerable Vileness.”
Her grin widened as she noticed that everyone had left their prince to his sparring match.
“Where’s Prince Ass-ef?” he said offhandedly. “Couldn’t wake up early after a nightlong taxing game of solitaire?”
A chuckle burst out of her at his double pun. In Arabic Prince Ass-ef meant the Sorry Prince. In English …
She giggled again. “He is Ass-ef, that he can’t come.”
Everything about him seemed to hit pause. She felt as if the whole desert froze, bating its breath for his reaction.
When it came, it sent a frisson sliding through her spine. His narrowed eyes became laserlike slits. “He isn’t coming at all?”
Weird. That his annoyance would be so great that it would show.
“He recently had pneumonia and his doctors feared a relapse with exposure to unfavorable weather conditions.” She smiled coaxingly. “But isn’t it your lucky day he sent me in his place?”
His spectacularly sculpted lips twisted with disdain. “It feels like every unwanted present I’ve been cursed to receive has burst open in my face at once.”
Relieved that he’d gotten back to searing sarcasm, she chuckled. “Oh, I love it when you try to be mean.”
“I assure you, when I do try, you won’t love it that much.”
“Take your best shot, Prince Abrad.”
At her taunt, another pun meaning meanest or coldest, those obsidian pupils that seemed to respond to his whims overpowered the sun’s constriction, almost obliterating his irises. “You wouldn’t survive it … Princess Kalam.”
She hooted. “I’d thrive on it. Go ahead, see if I’m ‘All Talk.’”
“Where’s the fun if you’re impervious, Princess Rokham?”
She struggled with the urge to reach up to grab his raven mane, drag his witty venom-dripping lips down to hers.
She sighed her frustration. “It won’t be because I’m made of marble that your barbs won’t penetrate me.”
At her last two words, his pupils almost vanished, leaving his eyes blazing emerald.
She hadn’t meant it that way! But she wasn’t babbling a qualification.
“And the pathetic thing is, your tactics work spectacularly with men.” He shook his head. “I’m deeply ashamed of my gender.”
“Don’t be a boor, Amjad,” she chided, fighting another urge to pinch his chiseled cheeks.
“But Mo-om! I am a boor.” His whiney-boy impersonation tickled her. “But chin up, no one has died of my boor-dom. Yet.”
She couldn’t help it. She stuck her tongue out at him.
That stopped him in his tracks.
She pressed her advantage. “You’re delightful when you’re boor-ing, but I’m not as genetically equipped as you are to handle the desert.”
He jerked one formidable shoulder. “You’re standing four paces away from a climate-controlled cocoon. Put one foot in front of the other and take your genetically deficient self into its protection.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Okay, let’s try this again. Do pretend host-dom this time.”
He tsked. “What? You expect me to carry you across the threshold?”
“I drove two hundred miles to come here, after an hour’s flight. It would be the least you could do.”
“First, I’m not this little do’s host, I’m its warden. Second, I don’t lug gate-crashers around.”
“God forbid your reputation be tarnished by an act of chivalry, eh?”
“You got it.”
She grinned. “Oh, well, I guess I can take four more steps under my own power.”
With that she brushed past him, opened the tent’s door and stepped into a shock of blessed dimness and fragrant coolness.
She took in the twenty-foot-high interior with its sumptuous, bedouin-inspired decor and furnishings, heard the almost-inaudible burr of the AC and electricity generators. She swung around, afraid Amjad had let her enter alone. She breathed in relief to find him standing at the tent’s now-closed entrance, thumbs hooked at his waistband, eyes crackling a more intense emerald in the dimness.
Her shiver had nothing to do with the drop in temperature.
She couldn’t fight the urge to counter one of his previous statements/accusations. “By the way, I don’t have tactics.”
His gaze didn’t waver on a change of expression. “You do. They are unique to you, making them even more dangerous—and devious.”
“I’m the farthest thing from either,” she said patiently. “And what would I need tactics for? They don’t work on the only one of your ‘gender’ I’m interested in. You.”
Her straightforwardness gained her a grimace. “And the only one of your gender I’m interested in is—wait! I’m not interested in any of you.”
She nodded vigorously. “With good reason.”
One eyebrow rose in mockery. “Ah, so kind of you to sanction it. It is the best, isn’t it?”
“Ingeniously evil, yes.”
“Indeed. But you don’t think I’m so pathetic that I’d hang on to my ‘complex’ for this long, hold one woman’s crimes against the whole sex, do you?”
She advanced on him, secure that he wouldn’t step back to keep his distance. “No. You’re too penetr … uh … discerning, too cerebral to turn your deservedly atrocious opinion of one into a generalization you know is bound to be faulty.”
He didn’t need to back off. The look in his eyes was enough to keep her paces away. “Problem is, I only stumble across women who reinforce my ‘deservedly atrocious opinion.’ Not that they’re cold-blooded criminals. Seems I’m not about to get that lucky twice in one nearly aborted lifetime. But I draw only those with a toxic level of self-serving cunning and hunger for power. So my generalization has yet to be proven faulty.”
“You mean women—other than me—were brave enough to come near you?”
“Some, under the compulsion of my status and holdings, were as foolhardy. Very briefly, though. Their survival instinct kicked in, overwhelming even their avarice.”
“Doesn’t one exception prove the generalization wrong?”
He barked a denigrating laugh. “You being said exception?”
She smiled into his eyes, unfazed by the expected ridicule. “I certainly don’t have a toxic level of anything, and I have levels in the negative when it comes to avarice and power hunger.”
“Says the woman who married a ruling prince and then an heir to a shipping empire. Killed one off and divorced the other after getting him disinherited.”
That made her smile falter. “Uh … we’re still in the zone of obnoxious one-upmanship, right?”
“We’re in the zone of stating facts.”
She raised both eyebrows in answering challenge. “My killing off Uncle Ziad and getting Brad disinherited are ‘facts’? On the M-class Planet Paranoia, where you make up a population of one?”
He