Acquiring Trouble (40 page)

The question seemed to jolt him. “Chinese what?”

“Food?” she added helpfully.

“Oh,” he visibly relaxed, “takeout.”

“Yes, there is a good place right around the corner that I know delivers -- unless you’d like me to try to find something else.”

“No.” He shook his head at some private joke. “Sorry, for a minute there I forgot.”
 
Hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels, still looking highly amused by his thoughts.

“Forgot what?” she couldn’t help but ask.

With unexpected tenderness, he slid one of her wayward curls behind her ear.
 
“That you’re exactly what I need.”
 
Before she could catch her breath, he stepped back and handed her far too much money, no matter what she ordered.
 
“Order some food while I take a shower.” His knock ‘
em
dead sex appeal returned as he chuckled and sauntered away, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ve heard I need one.”

Abby fanned her red face with the bills as she watched him climb the stairs two at a time. Not quite shaking herself free of the mental image of Mr. Armani naked beneath the steamy spray of the shower, Abby went in search of her purse and cell phone.
 

A man that sexy is just trouble.

Luckily it was highly unlikely that she would ever see him again after today.
 
They would share one quick meal and then she’d head back to Lil and reality.

Back to the quiet, predictable life she’d built for herself.

That thought held less appeal than usual.

……………

Excerpt from The Prince of Pleasure

Copyright 2012 by Sandra
Marton

CHAPTER ONE

His name was Khan
ibn
Zain
al
Hassad
.

That was what he called himself though in truth, his name was much longer and more elaborate.

In private, he winced at the sound of it. What man of the 21st century wanted to be known as His Royal Highness, Sheikh Khan
ibn
Zain
al
Hassad
, Crown Prince of
Altara
, Defender of its Ancient and Honorable Throne, Protector of His People, Leopard of the
Finarian
Hills?

All those antiquated titles…

Yes, he was proud of them. The blood of kings and warriors ran within his veins. It was just that the titles often preceded him. People bowed and scraped before they knew if he was worth the bowing or scraping.

Not that any man was worth that.

His father had always frowned and said his attitude came of having had an American mother. Worse, he'd attended an American college, an American university.
Two American universities, to be accurate.

In a sense, the old man had been right. Being half North American, Khan understood the need to move forward. Being half
Altaran
, he understood the importance of tradition.

Both parts of him knew that titles could be intimidating.

They could also make people fawn over him.

People who wanted to sell him things he didn't need or desire,
who
wanted to borrow money and, worst of all, people who wanted to bask in what they saw as his reflected glory.

Added
to  that
were the all women who thought it was original to gaze at him from under lowered lashes and whisper,
And ar
e you  a leopard in bed, my lord?

At eighteen, the question had been a challenge he'd been more than eager to prove, but he was thirty now, his father was dead and his life was one of responsibility and discipline. He was a king, even if he still preferred to call himself a prince.

Khan's green eyes narrowed.

And there were fools out there who called him only a fantastically rich playboy.

It infuriated him.

He was the leader of his people. 

Maybe rock stars enjoyed being sought after for their celebrity. All right, maybe he'd enjoyed it, too, years back, but he was older and wiser. Still, the gossip blogs and
Page Six
and
People
and half a dozen other gushing magazines loved to send photographers after him, to write lies about him, and to call him…

The damned word set his teeth on edge.

They called him 'gorgeous.' Such a lurid word, one you might use to describe a sunset or a mountain vista but to ascribe it to a man…

His looks were meaningless.

In truth, they had nothing to do with him.

Take a father of a certain height, a certain body type,
a
man descended from conquerors. Combine his DNA with that of a stunning supermodel.

Unless something went very wrong, you'd end up with a man who looked like him.

Six foot two. Leanly muscled body. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs.
Thickly-lashed
eyes the color of emeralds, square jaw, high cheekbones…

Add in all those anachronistic titles…

Khan's jaw tightened.

The only thing about him that was his, entirely his, was his fortune.

Forbes
called him one of the ten richest men in the world. He suspected it was true but the only reason it mattered was because, unlike his looks and his titles, he had earned that fortune on his own.

Well, he thought, smiling a little as he stood on the terrace of the Texas mansion called
El
Sueño
, well, not exactly.

The truth was, his old friend Travis Wilde had earned it for him.

The only credit he could take was for having been smart enough to
have handed
Travis the relatively modest inheritance his mother had left him, a decade ago.

"Do something with it," he'd said.

Travis had glanced at the check, then at him.

"Something safe?" he'd said, with a grin. "Or something risky?"

Khan had laughed.

"Have I ever done anything that was safe?"

Back then
,
he had not
.

He'd lived for risk. For the adrenaline high that came of sky diving, of kayaking rapids nobody sane would go near, of jumping out
of  hovering
helicopter into virgin snow and schussing down from what was surely the edge of the world..

But that had changed.

His father had died. Nobody had expected such a thing, not for years.

Running the kingdom of
Altara
had fallen to Khan.

His Council of Ministers had told him not to worry. They would take care of things.

Khan's mouth thinned.

And they had—with near-disastrous results. 

His father had ruled as if it were still the 19th century. The ministers, not content with that, had ruled as if it were the 15th century.

Khan was a prince, accustomed to a life of pleasure, but he was not a fool. His country and his people were inexorably part of him.

He'd waited a year. Then, with determination and commitment his ministers had not expected, he had assumed control. 

His life had changed, of course, but in his heart, he'd always known this was kismet, his destiny.

Under his guidance,
Altara
was moving forward, embracing science, technology, and a new infrastructure. Roads. Hospitals. Schools, all funded by the money his father had left
,  a
multi-billion dollar cache the old man had  amassed from the kingdom's  oil and mineral resources. His father had treated the money as if it were his own, an ancient custom followed by most of the kingdoms in the so-called Black Gold triangle along the Sapphire Sea.

Not anymore.

Khan held a view some of his ministers saw as quaint, even radical. 

He believed that
Altara's
wealth belonged to
Altara
.

A New Beginning for an Ancient Kingdom
, the
New York Times
had trumpeted. It was the first time he'd smiled at a headline that involved him.

But there were still those who preferred to see him as a stereotype, a libertine prince with too much money and too few morals.

He came across them all the time.

Tonight, for instance.

Dammit!

He was back to that. The woman.
The brunette in the house behind him.

A vein in his temple throbbed.

Ridiculous, that he should permit such an incident to anger him, especially this evening, when he had important business to conduct in Dallas as well as here, at the Wilde ranch.

A sea of oil lay under the endless sands of
Altara
but much of the drilling equipment was old and outdated. His engineers had tried to convince Khan's father to invest in new techniques but the older man had been deaf to their pleas.

Khan had listened.

He understood the benefits of looking beyond the Black Gold triangle for new environmental and ecological drilling techniques, and he knew that there were men in Texas who understood such things.

Men like the Wilde brothers.

They were his oldest friends, and for years, they had been among his most trusted advisors.

Jacob was the one to consult about the horses Khan bred on ranches in Brazil and in
Altara
. Caleb handled all his stateside legal affairs. Travis was the reason he had become almost embarrassingly rich even before he'd ascended the throne.

The four of them had met as undergrads at Columbia University. They'd been acquaintances.

Then, one memorable night, they'd become friends. The memory eased him, and made him smile.

Somehow, they'd ended up going out together after they'd all survived tough finals. The night had been a long journey through pleasure.

They'd ended it in a tough bar off   Amsterdam Avenue.

A bunch of punks had decided the three guys with the funny Southern drawls and the guy with the definitely un-American accent would be easy to take.

Wrong.

A couple of bloody noses later, the punks stumbled out into the night. Khan and the
Wildes
had grinned at each other, and then ordered a round of Buds for the crowd of admirers who'd stood back and watched the brawl.

As the night wore on, they'd talked about the future. Jake wanted to fly combat helicopters.
Travis, already a pilot, wanted to fly jets and do in the bad guys.
Caleb was talking with a recruiter for a hush-hush government agency.

"I'd tell you all about it," he'd said solemnly, "but then I'd have to kill you."

Everybody laughed. Then Caleb looked at Khan.

"So," he'd said, "what's it like to be a prince?"

By then, the heady combination of wine, women and a bar fight had loosened Khan's tongue.

"Actually," he'd said, "it sucks."

The
Wildes
had looked at each other.

"Such princely talk," Caleb had said.

"You wanted the truth. Well, that's the truth." The downside of too much of any indulgence was reality, and Khan had plummeted into a lake of it. "Men should not be judged by such arcane nonsense as titles."

Silence. Then Jake had raised his eyebrows.

"Arcane," he'd said, solemnly.

"Arcane," Travis had echoed.

Caleb had nodded.

"Easy for you to say," he'd muttered,   "even if nobody's sure what the hell it really means—unless you're complaining about that title pulling in more babes than any one man can handle."

It was the truth, but nobody had ever dared be that blunt about it. Nobody was ever blunt, when they dealt with a prince.

In a heartbeat, his mood had soared from zero to ten.

"Oh, I can handle them," Khan he'd said, modestly, "but if you guys play your cards right, I might just direct the overflow in your direction."

The
Wildes
, good-looking and rich and known for the ease with which they attracted women, had burst out laughing. Khan had, too, and after that, there were no barriers between them. In fact, once they knew how he felt about his string of titles, they only used them when things got slow and they wanted to piss him off. 

The only times he used them was when a little show of power was needed, and that wasn't very often.

Over the years, Khan had developed the ability to control virtually all situations with a look, a word,
a
natural air of quiet command. He never lost control, not in business, not in politics, not in bed.