LITMIR.BIZ

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“Isn’t every woman?”

      This time he did laugh. “You’re a tease!”

      The artlessness evaporated. Only to be replaced with a sincerity that he found infinitely more disturbing. “Not really,” she confided, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Only with you. I’ve never flirted in my life—yet with you it’s easy.”

      Her candor was disarming. And the husky note in her voice thrummed through him, playing all his nerve endings to devastating effect. He didn’t dare allow his eyes to stray lower in case her action had caused the provocative neckline to reveal even more tantalizing glimpses of skin. Instead, Rakin unfolded his napkin, placed it on his lap and said lightly, “I thought all Southern women were born flirts.”

      “Not me.” She glanced down at the dessert menu in front of her.

      He could’ve argued that she was learning fast. Yet Rakin suspected that she had little idea of the effect she was having on him. He was more interested in her than he’d been in any woman for a long, long time. At first, his interest had been piqued by Eli’s comment that she’d make the perfect wife for the predicament he found himself in. Then he’d found himself really liking her. And now—

      Well, now, his interest was growing in leaps and bounds.

      Impossibly long lashes fluttered up as she glanced up from the menu. “I’ve been attempting to flirt with you because … I feel safe.”

      The naked honesty of her statement shook him. All attempts at maintaining the lighthearted banter deserted him.

      “Aren’t you going to order dessert?”

      To his surprise, Rakin realized he’d set his menu down on the table. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what Laurel had said.

      “You find it easy to flirt with me?”

      “It must be because you’re Eli’s friend.” This time the smile she gave him was sweet rather than flirtatious. “I know you’re trustworthy.”

      The brief flash of annoyance he felt surprised him. “Because Eli said so?”

      “Well, he never actually said I could trust you. But he wouldn’t be friends with you if he didn’t trust you implicitly—Eli’s not the kind of man to waste time on liars and frauds.”

      “So you accept Eli’s endorsement—rather than your own instincts?”

      Laurel hesitated.

      “No, don’t think too much.” Placing his elbows on the edge of the table, he steepled his hands and gazed at her over the top. “I want an instinctual response—not one vetted for kindness.”

      “I do trust you.”

      The expression in her eyes told him she’d astonished herself. Keeping his attention fixed on her, he demanded, “Why?”

      “I don’t know.” She said it slowly, her gaze flickering away, then back to him as though drawn by some power she could not resist.

      “It surprises you.” He made it a statement.

      “Yes.” Again, she hesitated. Then she said in a rush. “I’ve never made friends easily—my family has always been enough.”

      “And Eli.”

      “And Eli,” she agreed. “But that was different.”

      The sharp blade of envy that pierced Rakin was unexpected, and he thrust it away before the feeling could fester and turn to poisonous jealousy. “In what way?”

      “We were the same age. He lived nearby while we were growing up.”

      “You were being kind.”

      “Maybe. At first. But the friendship was between equals—I got every bit as much out of it as Eli did. Remember, I didn’t have other close friends.”

      He nodded his head. “I can understand that.”

      “I suppose the reason I trust you is because I feel comfortable with you. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.”

      Pulling a face, he said, “I must be a clown.”

      “No! You are anything but a clown.”

      He’d been joking, trying to make her smile again. But her rapid rise to his defense made him realize that Laurel was concerned she might have offended him. Too kind for her own good. She could have no idea that his emotions had been forged in a crucible guaranteed to produce solid steel. If she had, no doubt she would not be nearly as comfortable in his company.

      Nor would she be contemplating visiting Diyafa. Her comment about adding Lake Como to the places she wanted to visit probably meant her list included the destinations to which she wanted to travel. Las Vegas might only have been the start of it. He’d work on convincing her that Diyafa should be next on her list.

      “It is true,” she was saying earnestly before he could question her about what other places were on her list. “I can’t remember when last I felt as lighthearted and carefree as I have today.”

      “I will take that as a compliment.”

      Under the weight of his gaze, he watched the faint wash of color warm her cheeks.

      Laurel dropped her gaze to the menu. “You know, I’ve no idea what to choose.”

      Rakin’s mouth curved into a smile. “I’m going to have ice cream.”

      “Ice cream?”

      “Something cool in this weather. But you can’t go wrong with anything on the menu.”

      “My meal was fabulous.”

      “Every dish on the menu is inspired by places where Picasso lived in Spain and the South of France.”

      His comment prompted Laurel to gaze at a Picasso painting on the nearest wall. “What did your mother paint?”

      “She created huge abstract canvases. Mostly inspired by the desert landscape.” His father had hated them. The sheikh had wanted his wife to paint realistic portrayals of the Diyafan Desert. His mother had preferred broad sweeps of color that invited the viewer to put their own interpretation on the landscape.

      “Do you paint, too?”

      Rakin shook his head. “I studied business—although I will confess that I majored in classical studies in my undergraduate degree so I’m not a complete philistine.” A smile tugged at his mouth.

      “Philistine?” She smiled back at him. “I never thought that for a moment. Why classical studies?”

      The curve of her lips promised him untold delights. Rakin forced himself to glance up. “You can’t grow up in a place like Diyafa and not be aware of ancient history—but I also loved the old legends. Greek, Roman, Egyptian—Diyafa has some wonderful legends, too.”

      “Which is your favorite legend?”

      There was only one answer he could give. “In present company, I’d have to say the story of Daphne and Apollo.”

      Laurel wrinkled her nose at him. “Why? Didn’t she get turned into a tree?”

      “A laurel tree.”

      Her eyes brightened with laughter. “You’re making that up.”

      Rakin shook his head. “Apollo used the leaves to weave himself a wreath—and that’s how a laurel wreath became a symbol of victory.”

      “Not much of a victory since the woman he loved had been turned into a tree.”

      “And even hollower, when you consider that she felt nothing for him—she was fleeing his pursuit.”

      “Poor Apollo.” She glanced at him through her lashes.

      Heat blasted through him. And Rakin resisted

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