sound she made was breathy and frightened, but he felt the uniquely feminine, seeking arch of her body, and the hot rush of blood through his in automatic masculine response. With a growl of triumph, unthinking he brought his mouth back to hers. Still gently but inexorably now as water finding its own course, his mouth began to follow the shapes and contours of hers…his tongue found its way to the soft inside. She whimpered.
How can this be? Leila thought. I cannot breathe, my heart is racing so. I feel as if I am drowning…dying…and yet I cannot stop myself—don’t want to stop myself—or him. If I am dying, then this must be heaven, because I don’t want it to stop…ever.
Her skin felt hot and prickly all over, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. And yet…she shivered. Her head—her heart—felt light as air, lighter than butterflies and wind-carried chaff, yet her body felt weighted, too heavy to move.
His body was a hard, unyielding weight against her breasts, breasts that had become so sensitive she could feel every ridge and fold of his jacket, the warp and woof of the cloth. Even the rub of her own clothing seemed an intolerable abrasion.
Panting, she tore her mouth free of his and arched her throat, offering that to him instead. And how had she known to do such a thing? Even as she wondered, she felt the press of his lips against the pounding of her pulse, and mounting pressure…and terrifying weakness.
And then the pressure was gone. From a great distance came a raw, anguished sound, and the weight lifted from her breasts. Her throat and lips felt cold, and throbbed with her racing pulse. Swamped with dizziness, afraid she might fall, she clung with desperate fingers to the arms that held her and fearfully opened her eyes. Eyes stared down into hers…eyes that burned with a golden gleam…eyes that burned her soul like fire.
“What—” She meant to whisper, but it was a tiny squeak, like the mew of a kitten.
His voice was so ragged she could hardly understand him. “Princess—I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t…”
When she felt his arms shift, depriving her of their support, she gasped and caught at his sleeves. His fingers bit into the flesh of her arms as, grim-faced, he held her away from him, then with great care stood her upright and steadied her like a precariously balanced statue. Once more his eyes lashed across her, and she flinched as though from the sting of a whip.
“Dammit,” he fiercely muttered, and then, as he turned, added with soft regret, “Another time, maybe…another place.”
And he was gone.
Left alone, Leila stood where she was, trembling, hardly daring to move, until the scrape of footsteps on stone had been swallowed up in the shusshing of waves and the whisper of wind.
Foolish…foolish…The whispers mocked her. Serves you right. This is what happens to pushy women.
But…what had happened, exactly?
Hugging herself, Leila whirled to face the glittering indigo vastness of sky and sea. She was shivering still, no longer with shock, but a strange, fierce excitement. Cade Gallagher had kissed her! Kissed her in a way she was quite certain no man should ever kiss a woman who was not his wife.
And that she had allowed it…? Fear and guilt added layers to her excitement, but did not banish it. That she had allowed such a thing to happen was unpardonable.
She knew she should feel frightened, terrified, ashamed. So why was she smiling? Smiling, lightheaded, and absolutely giddy with excitement?
Another time…another place.
That was what he had said. She remembered his exact words. Understanding came; certainty settled around her, comforting as a cashmere shawl.
Back in his own room at last, Cade slipped out of his tux jacket with a grateful sigh. One helluva day, he thought as he tossed the jacket onto the cushions of the surprisingly trendy brown-and-white striped sofa. And thank God it was over. Tomorrow he’d be back in familiar territory, home country. The world of business was where he belonged, where he felt comfortable. It was what he was good at—doing deals, making plans, working out compromises. All this formal socializing, rubbing elbows with royalty—that wasn’t his style. Oh, he knew a certain amount of that stuff was unavoidable from time to time, but he was always glad when it was time to roll up his sleeves and get down to the real work, down and dirty sometimes, rough as a bare-knuckle brawl, but that was what he liked about it—the excitement of the game. That, and the satisfaction that came with winning.
Anyway, for sheer stress, all that was a piece of cake compared to what he’d just been through. He’d rather spend three days in cutthroat negotiations than three hours at a formal reception—and in this case, formal was putting it mildly. Not that it hadn’t been impressive as hell, the palace ballroom lit up like Christmas, the food delicious, the music tolerable, if you went in for that sort of thing. And he’d never seen so many purple sashes and gold medals in one place in all his life, or so many beautiful people—especially the women. Everywhere he looked was a feast for a man’s eyes. But there was something about it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Undercurrents.
Undercurrents. Yeah, he thought, that about described it, all right. Underneath all the bright lights and highbrow music, the dazzling smiles and graceful bows, elegant tuxes and designer gowns in rainbow colors swirled together like ribbons in a washing machine…under all that, like a subterranean river, ran a ribbon of tension, a hum of intrigue he could feel in his bones. He wondered whether it was something going on between these Tamiri people and their nearest neighbors, the Montebellans, or if it was just standard operating procedure for royal courts. Not unlike what goes on every day in Washington, D.C., he thought, or for that matter, any state capitol back home.
This thing with Leila Kamal, though…that was another story. That particular intrigue was entirely personal, and the tension a steel rod running straight down the back of his neck. It had made for one helluva nerve-wracking evening, trying to avoid eye contact—or any sort of contact whatsoever—with the woman, while being at the same time aware of her with every nerve in his body. Nervewracking…intense…but now, thank God, it was over. Finally, he could relax.
With another gusty exhalation, he peeled off his necktie and headed for the bathroom. There, while his fingers dealt with the studs on his shirt, his eyes gazed dispassionately back at him from the ornately framed mirror above the sink.
You were damned lucky, Gallagher.
Oh yeah. He knew just how lucky he’d been. He’d played with fire and somehow managed not to get burned.
That narrow brush with disaster had left him shaken, but he’d managed to put it behind him. All he needed now was a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow some mutually advantageous wheeling and dealing with the old sheik, and he’d be himself again.
Stripping off his shirt, he briefly considered another shower. But he was tired, just wanted to hit the sack, so he turned on the tap above the sink instead. He was hunched over the bowl, cupped hands filling up with water to splash over his face, when he heard a light tapping on his chamber door.
What now? One of the servants, probably, they were always bringing him something—towels or fruit or herbal tea—though it seemed pretty late for that. Frowning, he turned off the faucet, grabbed a towel and went to open the door.
When he saw who was standing there, he wondered why he didn’t have a heart attack on the spot. At the very least, he was pretty sure he knew now what it might feel like to be speared in the belly with an icicle.
Chapter 4
“Princess—” It gusted from him before he could think. “What’re you—why—” And while he was sputtering like that she slipped past him and into his room.
He had a fleeting impression of a light, spicy scent, hair that flowed down her back like an ebony river, a gown made of something pale and floaty—she’d glow in the dark like a candle!