LITMIR.BIZ

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night Layla had walked into the sea in a desperate attempt to get away. He was convinced of it. Today, she’d said he was being fed lies, and she’d said it in English.

      Now he had learned she was not truly a desirable bride.

      The bottom line was that Omar saw her as a throwaway gift. If Butrus felt the same way, the so-called peace arrangement would lie in ruins. The sultan would lose face. And Layla would die. Butrus would kill her and no one would raise a hand to stop him. Such things still took place in some parts of Al Ankhara.

      Was his father blind to all those possibilities, or didn’t he care?

      Khalil tossed aside the council’s plan, shot to his feet and paced his sitting room. He could not let any of it happen. Damn it, he would not let it happen!

      Twenty minutes and a few cell phone calls later, he had his own plan ready—but he would only implement it after assuring himself that Layla wasn’t trying to play him for a fool.

      And there was only one way to make that determination.

      Layla was being kept in the harem.

      That was a surprise. The harem had not been used in decades. His father had not changed many things after coming to power but he had changed the practice of taking concubines. One woman, he had said, was headache enough for any man.

      Khalil had often wondered if that was because his father had loved his mother or because he hadn’t. He supposed he would never know the answer; his mother had died when he was an infant.

      The harem was connected to the main portion of the palace through a heavy wooden door. He couldn’t recall it ever being locked, but today it was. He had to pound on it several times until someone—the thug—opened it.

      The man was obviously not happy to see him.

      “No one is permitted here.”

      Khalil eyed him coldly. If ever there had been a time for the nonsense of antiquated titles, this was it.

      “I am not ‘no one,’ I am Sheikh Khalil, Crown Prince of Al Ankhara. Stand aside.”

      He brushed past the man without waiting for an answer and headed briskly down the corridor. The thug fell in behind him.

      A second surprise.

      He’d often played here on rainy days when he was growing up. He remembered rich tapestries, polished marble floors, gilded furnishings and frescoed walls. All those things were still in place but they had not stood up well to the ravages of time. The harem was dark and dreary; it smelled of mildew and age.

      He thought of Layla, spending her days and nights here, and felt his jaw tighten as he swung toward her guard.

      “Where is your mistress?”

      “She is safe.”

      “I didn’t ask you that. Where is she? I wish to see her.”

      “You cannot see her. It is forbidden. She is betrothed. She belongs to—”

      “Do you want to die the death of a thousand cuts? Where is she?”

      Hate burned in the man’s tiny eyes but he jerked his head toward a closed door.

      Kahlil strode toward it. Part of him was on the alert; part wanted to burst out laughing. The death of a thousand cuts? What bad movie had that come from?

      Any desire to laugh vanished the moment he opened the door and saw Layla.

      She stood within the confines of a room that had once surely been elegant. Now the couch behind her was covered with a grimy blanket; the walls were gray with age.

      And yet Layla, standing straight and tall, hands fisted at her sides as if she were ready to take on the world, was magnificent.

      She made his breath catch.

      Her hair spilled like liquid sunshine over her shoulders. The day, and the room, were warm; her skin held a glint of moisture and the ivory silk gown clung to her body like a lover’s gentle kiss.

      “What do you want?”

      She said it in Arabic. Now, though, he could definitely tell that it wasn’t her native tongue. And though her voice trembled, she delivered the question with a rebellious lift of her chin.

      “The council sent me to tell you its plan.”

      “Do I look like I give a damn about its plan?”

      “Nevertheless, you will listen.”

      “To hell with you and the council! I will not—”

      “You will do as you’re told,” Khalil roared.

      “My lord,” Ahmet said, “I’ll deal with this.”

      “I will deal with it,” Khalil snarled. “Alone.”

      He slammed the door in the thug’s face. Then he moved quickly toward Layla, shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

      “Now,” he growled, raising his voice enough so the man outside the door would hear him, “you will behave yourself, woman.”

      Deliberately, she turned her back to him. Khalil clasped her shoulders and spun her around.

      “Did you hear what I said? Behave yourself, or—”

      She flew at him, all fists and nails. He grabbed her hands, folded them against his chest.

      “Stop it!”

      “Bastard,” she hissed, “mad al haram! You no-good, despicable—”

      Her words were all-American, and his reaction was all male. There was only one way to silence her and he took it, lifting her to him and capturing her lips with his.

      She struggled. She fought. He kept kissing her, told himself it was the best way to keep her quiet.

      Told himself that, even as he felt himself drowning in her taste, her scent, her heat.

      “Don’t fight me,” he whispered, against her lips.

      And, for one amazing moment, she obeyed. Her body softened. He let go of her fists and gathered her in his arms, bringing her tightly against him. Her lips softened, too, and parted just enough so he could slip the tip of his tongue into her mouth and savor its sweetness.

      Savor it, until he felt the sharp bite of her teeth.

      Khalil cursed, jerked back and dragged his handkerchief from his pocket. He put it against his lip, looked at the tiny crimson smear on the creamy white linen—and laughed.

      Layla stared at her attacker in disbelief. She’d bitten him and he’d laughed? Maybe she was losing her mind. It was the only thing that made sense.

      What had happened during the past week must have done it.

      She had been lured to Al Ankhara. Taken prisoner. Threatened. Tormented. Told, explicitly, what awaited her and told, too, that she would accept it or pay the price for disobedience.

      Now a stranger who thought he owned the universe had kissed her and she…and she had—

      Her breath caught.

      She had let him kiss her. Let herself lean into his strength, let herself feel the power of his embrace, the thrust of his erection against her belly…

      The doorknob rattled.

      “Lord Khalil?”

      The man—the prince, Lord Khalil—slapped one hand against the door and pulled her to him with the other.

      “Who are you?” he said in a low voice.

      Layla gasped with surprise. He was speaking English. He’d understood her, then. When she’d spoken to him in the garden this morning, the desperate words had tumbled from her lips in English. She hadn’t realized it until a long time after, and then

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