Crowned For His Desert Twins by Clare Connelly

CHAPTER ONE

‘INAROOM full of peacocks, you are the only exotic bird.’

The voice whispered against her cheek, words murmured from behind, his accent spiced, tone deep. The flesh on India’s arms lifted in a fine covering of goosebumps even before she’d turned around to see who was speaking to her. His appearance didn’t help matters. She’d expected another boring banker type, dressed to the nines and swelled up with their own importance, and instead she’d come face to face with—

But it was impossible to put into words the effect of this man’s beauty. He was tall and broad, with swarthy skin and dark hair that brushed his collar, a slight kick at the bottom. His brows were thick and dark, his bone structure symmetrical, his jawline square, covered with stubble, his lips generous and wide, his nose straight and long. He had eyes that were like never-ending tunnels, deep and fascinating, flecked with brown and black and gold, rimmed in thick, dark lashes that gave him the appearance of wearing eyeliner. She stared up at him breathlessly, completely unprepared for this, almost forgetting where she was and what she was doing.

But the amnesia was temporary.

India was working, and she couldn’t afford to do anything to mess up this job—or any job—so she blinked, pushing her features into a politely dismissive smile. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, turning her attention back to the bar just in time to see another woman—one of the peacocks this man had alluded to—sweeping in front of her and grabbing the barman’s attention.

‘Damn it,’ she muttered under her breath.

‘What is it you would like to drink?’ His voice was like treacle—completely smooth and addictive. She bit back an irrational desire to suggest he could have a second career as an audiobook narrator, because if this man was here, at this thousand-dollars-a-head charity event, it was unlikely he was in need of a supplemental income.

‘It’s fine,’ she dismissed. ‘I’m next in line.’

‘You were next in line before too,’ he pointed out.

She slid him a glance. ‘Yes, and if you hadn’t distracted me, I would have ordered by now.’

In response, his lips curled in a smile of undisguised appreciation. ‘Allow me,’ he murmured, putting a hand in the small of her back and drawing her closer to him. Shocked, her body moved without her brain’s consent, so her side connected with his, and she startled, her eyes leaping to his in surprise as sparks flared beneath her skin. Somehow, he found a small gap at the front of the bar and moved them towards it, lifting a hand at the same time.

To India’s surprise, a waitress appeared immediately. ‘Good evening, sir.’ She dipped her head forward deferentially, so India’s gaze flicked back to the stranger’s face. ‘May I get you a drink?’

‘The lady would like to order,’ he said, his fingers moving gently over her back now, the pattern he was drawing there rhythmic and distracting, so that when India opened her mouth to speak her voice emerged stilted.

‘A mineral water for me, please, but in a champagne flute, and a glass of pinot noir.’

‘And for you, Your Highness?’ The waitress looked up at him.

India startled once more. Your Highness? The man’s eyes caught hers, amusement in those never-ending depths, and embarrassment curdled her belly. Was he enjoying her surprise? The fact she had no idea who he was? No doubt he moved in these circles all the time, whereas India was an occasional guest, when the agency was in a jam and had to send her on a blue-chip date—usually reserved for the escorts who’d worked at the agency the longest. Her tenure was only new—twelve months ago the bottom had fallen out of her world, and she’d been doing whatever she could to make ends meet since then. She’d do whatever was necessary to keep her beloved younger brother in college. He’d already lost so much; she wouldn’t allow him to lose his degree as well.

‘A mineral water as well, but not in a champagne flute.’

‘Your Highness?’ India queried, while the waitress disappeared to prepare their drinks.

‘Yes?’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘You’re royalty?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘Are you being deliberately secretive?’

‘That’s something I’ve never been called before.’

‘Perhaps not to your face.’

He laughed then, a rich sound that had more than one head turning in their direction and which set India’s pulse into overdrive. Not just her pulse. Every cell in her body was trembling with awareness, and she was secretly glad that the crowd pushing towards the bar meant they were being jostled closer together, her body shifting nearer to his big, broad frame until they were touching.

‘Who are you?’ she repeated, curiosity spreading through her.

‘My name is Khalil,’ he said.

‘But should I call you “Your Highness”?’

‘No, that would not be appropriate.’

Her brow furrowed in confusion. ‘But if you’re a king...?’

‘I am not yet a king,’ he said, half dismissively, so she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing somehow. But then he was moving closer, his head lowering to her ear, so he could whisper against her flesh. ‘And I would like to hear my name on your lips, rather than my title.’

It was just a throwaway comment, and yet something about the way he’d phrased it and the timbre of his voice set her nerves jangling. A slick of heat flooded her body, low in her abdomen, so she was conscious of the way her nipples strained against the soft silk of her dress. She wasn’t wearing a bra—she didn’t possess one that worked with the lines of the dress—and so her breasts were crushed against the hard warmth of his chest, every nerve-ending tantalisingly aware of his proximity and raw charisma.

His eyes flicked to her mouth and her lips parted as if by magic, her heart rate as fast as if she’d just run a marathon. Her lips tingled all over. She was overcome with sensations she’d never known before. Surrounded by the crush of New York’s elite and somewhere, only a few feet away, the date who was paying handsomely for her time, all she could think of was the man before her.

‘Khalil,’ she said, as if to stir herself from the strange dream that was wrapping tentacles around her.

His eyes flared with unmistakable desire. Her stomach swooped. ‘And your name?’ The question was said with a tone of command.

‘I-India,’ she stammered for the first time in years, since a speech pathologist had helped her overcome the childhood impediment.

‘India.’ His hand shifted to her hip, holding her close to him, promising things she desperately wanted to experience. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Here are your drinks, sir, ma’am.’ The waitress’s appearance was a welcome interruption. India’s eyes flared wide and she would have stood back a little, if she could have. But there were too many people crowding around them, so India told herself she had no choice but to stay right where she was: for now—it was a convenient excuse, because she didn’t really want to put any space between them anyway.

‘Leave them on the bar.’ He didn’t take his eyes off India’s face. She felt warm and desirable, and a thousand kinds of need. ‘Tell me about yourself.’

India blinked, she’d never been asked this question, not on any of the agency dates she’d attended in the past year.

‘I suspect it would be far more interesting if you told me about yourself,’ she said truthfully, ignoring the glass of pinot noir to her right—due to be delivered to her date at any moment.

‘Why is that?’

‘Well, you’re the first royal I’ve ever met,’ she said with a lift of one shoulder. It drew his gaze downwards, and from the creamy flesh of her shoulder sideways, to the exposed decolletage and valley between her breasts. India sucked in a sharp breath, butterflies colonising her belly. His interest was unmistakable, but her own physical response bowled her over.

‘And you are the first woman named India I have ever met. What is your point?’

Her cheeks flooded with warmth. She was heart-stoppingly attracted to him, and that was a disaster. Or, at the very least, hugely inconvenient, because she was on a date with a client and she wasn’t being paid to flirt with another man. She could imagine the complaint Ethan—who seemed as if he had definite jerk potential—would make to the agency if he saw her locked in intimate conversation with another man—particularly one like this. She couldn’t say why she knew that this man in particular would be incendiary, except that he was so hyper-masculine. She suspected he was intimidating to all other males.

And very likely knew it.

‘My point...’ she pulled away from him with difficulty, curling her fingers around the drinks ‘...is that I should think your life story would outdo mine any day.’ She offered him a small smile. ‘But unfortunately, I can’t stay to hear it. I’m here with someone.’

His eyes flashed with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Annoyance? Impatience? Irritation?

She understood all three. But her work was hugely important—she’d already spent tonight’s pay cheque three times over, and the very thought of the college-fee notice stuck to the fridge door had her breaking out in a cold sweat.

‘Someone you’d prefer to be with?’ he prompted with easy confidence. What must it have been like to be so self-assured? Oh, he was right, of course. She’d have given anything to swap out her dates, but this was business, not pleasure, and so her own needs had to take a back seat.

It wasn’t a fair question. ‘I came here with someone else.’

‘It does not follow you must leave with him, azeezi.’

‘Actually, it does.’ She flicked a glance downwards, regret in her heart. On this night, of all nights—her twenty-fourth birthday—what she wouldn’t have given to indulge her own wants, just for once! The day had been so lonely, in stark contrast to the way her mother, stepfather and brother used to make a fuss each year. Oh, Jackson had still called, and they’d spoken for almost an hour—his happiness had lifted her heart for a time. But beyond that, it was just India in a big, empty home, thinking of the family she’d used to have, the way things used to be. Flirting with this incredibly handsome stranger would have been the perfect present to herself, but what she needed, more than anything, was the payment for tonight. She couldn’t do anything to risk the job. With true remorse, she offered him a parting smile. ‘It was nice to meet you, Your Highness.’

But he wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘I asked you to call me Khalil,’ he reminded her softly. His thumb pressed beneath her chin, lifting her face to his, so their eyes locked and the world seemed to disappear, tipping away, leaving just the two of them on a precipice of time and space.

‘I can’t call you anything,’ she said, her voice lacking the firmness she needed despite her resolve. ‘I must go.’

‘Is it what you want?’

‘Don’t keep asking me that.’

‘Have I already?’

‘More or less.’ She sighed, but didn’t look away. ‘My date will be waiting for me.’

Now his lips curled with unmistakable derision. ‘A date who sent you to the bar to get his drink? Is such a man really worthy of your time?’

‘I offered,’ she said. ‘He was in an important business conversation.’

‘No conversation is more important than your time. If you were here with me, you would know that.’

Her lips parted; a reply was impossible.

‘A man lucky enough to secure a date with you should make it his life’s mission to keep you happy, not send you scurrying to the bar whenever he develops a thirst.’

Her breath escaped in a hot rush. ‘It’s not—like that—’ she insisted. Her pulse was thready and her lips were tingling. Even as she acknowledged that Ethan had, in fact, pointed to the bar and given her his order, treating her like the paid companion she, in fact, was.

‘Would you like to hear what a date with me would entail?’

‘I have to get back,’ she groaned huskily, without making any attempt to free herself from his proximity.

‘First, I would send you the address of a Fifth Avenue boutique, so you could go and enjoy choosing what you would wear—lingerie, a dress, shoes, jewellery, anything your heart desired. My driver would then take you to the presidential suite at the Carlisle, where you would spend the afternoon preparing, pampering and, most vitally, enjoying a nap to be sure you were well rested.’

A frisson of desire ran the length of her spine at the image he was painting. It was a far cry from the life she currently led.

‘I would collect you at eight. We would go for dinner, but I would book the entire restaurant to be sure we each had the other’s full attention. Alone, we would dance with no eyes on us, and then, before midnight, we would return to your hotel room, where I would enjoy hearing my name on your lips over, and over, and over again.’

Her eyes closed as imagery flourished in her brain, his body naked, hers, entangled in billion-thread-count sheets at the impossibly prestigious hotel. The night sounded like perfection, and if India hadn’t learned for herself how fleeting men’s interest would be, then she might not have known to ask the next question. But once bitten, twice shy, was a motto that had served India well for years.

‘And in the morning?’ she whispered, the thickness to her voice betraying how tempted she was by his words.

Her eyes glanced at his, just in time to see a spark of something like surprise in their depths.

‘The morning would be a new day,’ he said quietly.

‘And without you in it.’

His head dipped forward. ‘I am never in America for long. My life is in Khatrain.’

Ah! Khatrain. She knew of the country instantly, of course. Prosperous, modern, politically important, perched on the edge of the Persian Gulf with a capital city that was one of the modern wonders of the world.

‘The date sounds wonderful,’ she said wistfully. ‘But I make it a rule not to get involved in one-night stands.’ Now she pulled backwards, but not quickly enough.

‘Even when it’s what you want?’ he prompted silkily.

Her heart began to slam into her ribs. She stared up at him, lost in his eyes, his nearness, her breath burning. ‘How do you know what I want?’

‘I don’t. I’m guessing. Am I wrong?’

Yes. Say yes. But India was honest to a fault. She shook her head once, her body swaying forward.

‘I didn’t think so,’ he said simply, his head dropping slowly to hers, his eyes teasing her, tempting her. He intended to kiss her, and even when India knew she should pull away, her body moved of its own volition, her feet pushing her higher, willingly submitting to his passionate kiss, his outright possession, so her ability to think was blown completely to smithereens.

His hand stroked her hip, and one leg shifted, moving forward to brace her, forming a sort of cage around her body, holding her just where she was, totally wrapped up in him. ‘It would only be one night, but the night would set your soul on fire, azeezi, I promise.’

It was like being doused in ice water. She jerked her face away, quickly looking towards the crowded bar. Ethan’s back was turned to her—thank God. Her fingertips quivered with the flood of sensations and the rush of anxiety over what had just happened. She’d be fired for sure if Ethan reported this to the agency, and she couldn’t live with that. Where else would she get a job like this? Warm Engagements was an escort agency with a difference—no sex between client and staff. It was a hard rule, and it meant India felt safe accepting bookings without worrying that her client was going to expect a little ‘added service’ at the end of the night, and it paid ten times better than anything else she was even remotely qualified for.

‘I can’t,’ she said, her eyes awash with anguish because, oh, how she wanted to! ‘Please, just, forget we ever met.’