Crowned For His Desert Twins by Clare Connelly
CHAPTER THREE
‘MADAM.’ A SUITEDdriver stood waiting, the door to a black car with darkly tinted windows held open, his eyes focussed behind India.
She bit down on her lip, a hint of apprehension at what she was about to do assailing her. But it was too late to turn back, and besides, she didn’t want to. Sliding into the car, she realised that it was far larger than an ordinary vehicle, though not quite as big as a limousine. A bench seat was at the back, and, directly opposite, two large chairs faced her, with a shiny black box between them. She took a seat on the bench, knowing it was because she hoped he would sit beside her, wanting to pick up right where they’d left off. The door clicked shut and she sat, hands clasped in her lap, waiting, her heart pounding, her breath burning with the desire he’d invoked.
Her phone beeped and she pulled it out of her bag, guiltily reading the response from Ethan.
I hope you feel better tomorrow, India. Sleep tight.
She winced, not liking how it felt to lie, the unusual turn of events pushing her to act in a seriously uncharacteristic manner. Before she could slide her phone away, it beeped again. A text from Jackson.
Hope you’re having a great birthday. Wish I could have been there.
Her heart skipped a beat, because she was having a great birthday, and with a hint of disloyalty she realised she was now glad Jackson hadn’t come back to New York. She was glad she’d been here tonight, that she’d met Khalil.
Having a great night, miss you. Thanks for checking in. x
She pushed the phone into her bag as the car door opened once more and Khalil stepped in, his frame instantly making the enormous vehicle feel smaller.
‘Hi,’ she murmured shyly. His cheeks were slashed with colour and his jaw was locked, as though angry or stressed. But as he looked at her he smiled, a smile that sent a kaleidoscope of butterflies into her stomach and pulled an answering smile across her own lips.
‘I believe you promised me a life story,’ he reminded her as he took the seat beside her, just as she’d hoped.
He pushed his arm up behind the seat, making no effort to keep any kind of space between them.
‘I’m not sure you’re remembering accurately.’ The car’s engine throbbed to life. A moment later, a dark screen slid between the back of the car and the front, offering privacy.
‘Are you keeping secrets?’
She shook her head, wide-eyed, and lifted a hand to his chest. ‘No, I just—’
But he understood. His eyes flared as he dipped his head lower. ‘Don’t want to talk?’ He finished the sentence for her, brushing his lips over hers.
She shook her head.
His laugh was husky, uneven, and somehow, despite her lack of experience, she knew he was as surprised by the strength of their desire as she was.
His kiss was slow and explorative at first, but that wasn’t enough. This time, it was India who deepened it, hungrily demanding more of him than he was giving her, her body cleaving to his as the car moved through Manhattan. She groaned, the kiss nowhere near enough to satisfy her, so she moved swiftly, unclicking her seat belt and pushing up, her dress lifting over her thighs as she straddled him, rolling her hips in a silent, eager invitation to his masculine strength. His arousal was firm between her legs, with far too much fabric blocking him from her, so a wild kind of desperation overtook her. As she kissed him, her fingers moved, thrusting his belt apart, then his zip, needing more than she could put into rational thought and words to feel him inside her.
‘Please, Khalil,’ she said, because she knew how it drove him wild to hear his name on her lips. She rolled her hips again, kissing him more, and then, she lifted her dress over her head, needing to be naked. There was flame burning within her, a flame he’d lit, and she needed him to control it, to feed it, to eventually extinguish it—but not for a long time, yet.
He swore at her nakedness, and then his hands were cupping her breasts, his fingers plucking at her nipples until she saw stars. Her back arched and she cried out as he moved one hand between her legs, brushing against her sex almost by accident as he reached into his pants and freed his arousal from the confines of his clothing.
She kissed him hard then, lifting up on her haunches so his hands could dispose of her underpants, pushing them low enough for her to kick them off. It was instincts that were driving her, not experience. India had barely any of that, certainly nothing that would guide her in the way of men and pleasure, and yet she moved back to his lap and welcomed him, taking his length deep on a long, slow breath, pleasure exploding as he filled her completely, her muscles stretching to accommodate his generous size.
It was impossible to be aware of the lights that were streaking past their window, the city a shimmering blur in the distance as he rocked his hips and India thrust down on his length, pushing them towards an inevitable, almost immediate climax, tipping her over the edge at the same time he exploded, drawing her close to him, kissing her hard as their bodies united in rapture and joy, their mutual release punctuated by India’s frantic cries.
Afterwards, only the sound of their breathing was audible in the back of the car—no sounds of New York permeated the vehicle’s bulletproof steel. Even if it had, India wouldn’t have heard it. Her ears were full of the rushing of her blood and the exhalation of her breath, her heart turning over at the suddenness—and rightness—of this.
‘That was—’ She searched for the right word, but Khalil beat her to it.
‘Just the beginning.’
Her eyes flared and she smiled, lazy, warm pleasure spreading through her completely. She didn’t move; not at first. She didn’t want to be parted from him. It was far nicer to feel their bodies melded together, to experience his breath through her chest, to be able to kiss him as she wanted, as the car snaked through the city. But eventually, Khalil ran his fingers lightly over her back, his voice husky. ‘We’re here.’
She lifted her head to see they were in an underground parking garage.
‘Allow me.’ As she wriggled off his lap, Khalil retrieved her dress, lifting it over her head then letting it cascade down her body. ‘I am already looking forward to removing that all over again.’
Anticipation squeezed all of her organs, so India could barely breathe.
Khalil watched her sleep as the dawn light filtered across Manhattan, resisting a selfish urge to wake her with a kiss. She was exhausted, and with good reason. He’d made love to her for hours, sensually exploring her body with his mouth, his hands, before taking possession of her once more, this time with him calling the shots, drawing her to the brink of orgasm before pulling back, then pushing her close again and again, almost tormenting her with his mastery of her body. All for a good cause, though—her eventual release, when he moved with the intention of gifting it, caused her to cry out so loudly he paused for a moment to ensure she was okay.
His ego was still riding high. They’d swum together in the infinity pool, before making love again, wet and tangled together on the terrace floor, then lain beneath the sky, talking until her eyes grew heavy and she’d fallen asleep, her head heavy on his chest. He’d carried her here rather than disturb her, and still she slept, her face angelic, her body far too beautiful to belong to a mere mortal.
Their night together had exceeded all of his expectations. His libido was impressive, his stamina renowned, and he’d never known a woman to be such a match for him. Her excitement was a thing of perfection; he wanted more of her. It was the first thought that occurred to him, and he grappled with it, frowning. More?
He didn’t do more.
One night was all he took from a woman, all he gave of himself. Fatima had made sure of that. His ex-fiancée had ensured he’d never again allow his heart to believe it was anything so foolish as ‘in love’. One night was easy. Sex was simple. Chemistry determined the trajectory, the terms were clear, as though spelled out in black and white. Physical pleasure, no promises, no line-crossing, just sex.
But with India, the sex had been enough to lure him to want more. His mind told him it wasn’t possible even as his body was taking control, trying to discover a way that he could enjoy more of her company without risking any emotional complications. His own heart was safe—it had been turned to stone by Fatima’s actions—but India wasn’t like him. There was a gentleness to her that reminded him, strangely, of Astrid, so that he wanted to protect her even as his body yearned for more.
He left the room before he could weaken, pressing a pod into the coffee machine and watching as golden liquid poured into his cup. He always drank it black and strong, a shot of energy to give mental clarity and to remind Khalil that he could achieve anything.
He carried the cup towards the balcony, his eyes landing on the hotel they’d been at the night before, just able, at this distance, to make out the hint of the balcony they’d moved onto, when he’d wanted to be sure they were alone. Remembering the way they’d kissed then, as though there were a ticking time bomb and only their intimacy could avert its explosion, brought a smile to his face and a hardness to his cock. He sipped the coffee, relishing the bitterness and warmth, the immediate buzz firing through his brain.
A noise sounded across the room and he looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see India. Only it was his phone, in the kitchen, buzzing. Frowning, he strode towards it, an immediate wave of disgust forming in his belly when he saw Ethan’s name on the screen. Last night had started out as a revenge plan, but it had very quickly morphed into something else. He no longer saw India as a means to an end; had he ever?
‘What do you want?’ he demanded in his most scathing tone—the kind of tone that would ordinarily turn his enemies into jabbering messes.
‘Oh, nothing. Just to see how your night went.’
Khalil’s brows lifted heavenwards. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
But Khalil shied away from sharing any details—even when he knew they’d drive the other man crazy. He was already regretting the implication he’d made, all for vengeance—India had deserved better. ‘I’m sure you can imagine.’
‘Yes, you’re right about that. I suppose you spent the night together?’
Khalil’s hand formed a fist again. He hated this guy with all his heart.
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Business is an interesting choice of words.’ Ethan didn’t sound remotely concerned. If anything, he was happy...? Something wasn’t adding up.
‘What are you getting at, Graves? Spit it out or get the hell off the phone.’
‘I presume you know she’s a prostitute?’
Khalil was not often blindsided, but the other man’s words hit him with all the strength of a knockout punch. He could hear Ethan’s smug smile, the delight he had in saying the vulgar lie.
‘An expensive one, obviously, or I wouldn’t have hired her. But she’s very, very good at her job, don’t you think?’
It couldn’t be true. Nothing about what Ethan was saying tallied with the woman he’d spent the night with. He didn’t believe it. This was just Ethan’s way of getting his own revenge.
‘You are a disgusting excuse for a human being,’ Khalil ground out.
Ethan laughed, a cackle that set Khalil’s blood raging.
‘Her name is India McCarthy, and she works for Warm Engagements Escort Agency. Search online and you’ll see her profile.’
Khalil was holding the phone in a fist. He couldn’t speak.
‘And don’t be put off by the wording that says “no sex”. I’ve booked loads of their girls before, using darling Astrid’s money, of course, and they’re always more than happy to put out—for a small extra fee. I hope you’re tipping her as well as I’d planned to, Khalil.’ He laughed as he disconnected the call.
Khalil stared at the phone, knowing he’d regret it even as he loaded up an Internet browser and typed in the name Ethan had given him. He was doing it to prove Ethan wrong, not because he believed that bastard.
Her face appeared as soon as he hit ‘search’.
Nausea rode through him. It was obvious that Ethan had played Khalil at his own game—and won. Not only had he brought a prostitute home, he’d kissed her at the bar, in full view of Manhattan’s social elite, an army of spies armed with cell phones, who would be all too happy to sell this picture to the tabloids. It was Fatima all over again. Fatima’s lies, Fatima’s trickery, Fatima’s mercenary ability to wrap men around her little finger purely for financial gain, her cold-hearted devotion to money the only thing she cared about. And India was just the same! But she wasn’t. Was she?
He ran his mind over the night, trying to connect the dots of Ethan’s words to the woman he’d bedded. Surely that passion hadn’t been faked? No, their chemistry was genuine, of that he was sure, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t be willing to exploit it. He’d told her he was royal almost as soon as they’d met. He had no way of knowing if her interest from that point on had been genuine or motivated by his endless coffers, as Fatima’s actions had been. But her relationship with Ethan suddenly made so much more sense. It wasn’t a relationship. She was too smart for him, too beautiful. She was being paid to be at his side, to laugh at his jokes, to fetch his damned drinks. It was why she’d hesitated to leave Ethan, her current pay cheque, why she’d questioned the fact he only wanted one night with her. If she was going to give up Ethan, it had to be worth it. Everything suddenly made so much sense! It was why she’d wanted to let Ethan down gently, to feign illness, rather than being honest with him. She wanted to have her cake and eat it too! Had she thought she could sleep with Khalil one night and Ethan the next? Disgust chipped at his gut.
He slammed his palms into the kitchen counter, staring at it with a rising sense of outrage. After Fatima, he’d thought he’d protected himself against women like this! He’d thought he could spot them a mile off! How had India managed to get under his skin so thoroughly?
Was there any chance this wasn’t true? Was there any possibility? He groaned at his gullibility. What kind of escort agency offered dates with no sex? Not any that he’d ever heard of! Admittedly he had very little experience with such matters, but he was sure a happy ending was a guaranteed part of the night.
With every minute that passed, he began to see India as the second coming of Fatima, to see her as a very beautiful, manipulative, dishonest, scheming woman. Old pain was exposed, bitter and fierce. He stared at her photograph on the phone; the confirmation of her vocation stared right back at him. Damn it! How had he been so foolish?
He put down his phone and straightened his spine, renewed determination firing in his veins. He’d made a mistake, but at least there were no lasting consequences this time. He would wait until she was awake and then he’d throw her out of this apartment, and out of his life. He never wanted to see her again.
‘So what exactly is the going rate?’
She frowned, still sleepy, her body on fire, her nerves sensitive, her stomach hungry and mouth dry, and, most of all, her heart blessedly, completely content in a way she’d never known before. Khalil stood in the hotel kitchen, dressed in an expensive bespoke suit that fitted him as though it were moulded to his frame. Naked he was glorious, but like this he was the embodiment of power and success, so a thousand and one sparks went off beneath her skin. Given his formal state of dress, India was glad she’d paused long enough to wrap a sheet, toga-style, around herself.
‘For coffee?’ she prompted as the fragrance reached her nostrils. ‘I’d pay about a thousand dollars right now.’
He didn’t smile. ‘I meant, for a night of your...company.’
India stopped walking, frozen to the spot. Her smile dropped to her toes and her blood turned to ice. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh, apologies are definitely warranted,’ he said with a cutting tone to his voice.
‘That’s not what I—what do you mean?’
‘Now I understand why you were trying to move our arrangement to tonight,’ he said, throwing back half of his own coffee without shifting his eyes from her face. ‘You were already booked last night. I suppose you expect me to compensate you for two nights of business?’
Her eyes swept shut as the true horror of the situation became clear.
‘I’m just surprised you didn’t negotiate your price and ask for payment before you climbed into my bed. Surely that’s better business practice?’
India felt sick. ‘Don’t,’ she snapped, slicing her hand through the air. ‘Don’t you dare suggest that I slept with you in exchange for—’
‘Oh, that’s rich,’ he interrupted. ‘Acting outraged when the whole world can see who and what you do.’ He lifted up his phone, showing her Warm Engagements profile picture. She felt the sharp sting of tears at her eyes and in her throat, but refused to give in to that weakness now.
‘That’s a legitimate escort service,’ she insisted, but of course she could see how damning the facts were, on the surface.
‘Sure it is,’ he said in a way that made it obvious he didn’t believe a word she was saying. ‘Legitimate prostitution.’
‘No,’ she ground out. ‘You’re wrong. It’s not that kind of agency. We specialise in dates for out-of-town businesspeople, who need someone on their arm for one night and don’t want the complication of a romantic entanglement. That concept is the only reason I agreed to work for them. I have never slept with a man for money, and it definitely isn’t what last night was about.’
‘That is not what Ethan said.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘Ethan?’ She groaned, lifting a hand to her forehead and pacing across the room, towards the kitchen. ‘You do know him, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what did he say? How did he—? He didn’t know about you. And us. I mean, he didn’t know I left with you.’
‘I made sure he did, actually.’ Khalil glared down his nose at her. ‘It turns out, you weren’t the only one telling lies last night, azeezi.’Now when he used the term of endearment she flinched, impossibly hurt by the tone of his voice, the obvious accusation.
‘You used me,’ she whispered, the words sticking in her throat. But it was the truth, of course. What other explanation was there? Was that why he’d pursued her so relentlessly? Overpowering her very minuscule defences, all because he wanted to hurt the other man? Was that all last night had meant to him? ‘Why?’
‘You use men for money. Is that any better?’
She stormed across to him without thinking, shoving his chest as a primal, animalistic rage overtook her. ‘Damn it, I’m not going to stand here and listen to this! I would never sleep with a man for money—never. If you think me possible of that, then you’re a terrible judge of character.’ Anger made the words vibrate and she clung to that emotion rather than allowing sadness to take over.
‘Then don’t stand here,’ he said, quietly, his words cutting her like glass. ‘Our business is concluded. Please leave.’
She bit down on her lip, his scathing dismissal undoing a part of her soul. She stared at him, trying to find a trace of the man she’d spent the night with—and failing. He was cold, completely unfamiliar. Part of her wanted to run out of the room immediately and never think of this night again, but at the same time she couldn’t live with him believing what he did of her! She’d only slept with one other man—her boyfriend at the time. She was just about as far from being a call girl as it was possible to get.
‘I work for an escort agency, yes, but the work is strictly professional. Events like last night, that begin with the client meeting me in the lobby and end in the same way.’
His eyes flashed with contempt. ‘Unfortunately, I know Ethan better than that. I have no doubt that if we had not met, you would have spent the night with him instead of me.’
‘You’re wrong,’ she said, numb. ‘Being with you was a spontaneous, out-of-character thing for me. I don’t go home with men I’ve just met. I don’t make love to people I barely know.’
‘And yet you were so very comfortable with it.’
Because you were different, she wanted to scream at him.
‘The innocent act worked last night, but I know better now,’ he pointed out with quiet, stupid logic. ‘All I can hope is that no one managed to catch that ill-conceived kiss at the bar on their cell phone. If it were to go viral that I took a woman like you home, it would be the death of my father.’
‘Then it’s just as well I have every intention of forgetting this whole night ever happened.’
His lips were a grim line. ‘As do I, believe me.’
The dress she’d worn was discarded on the floor. She scooped it up and pulled it on quickly, scanning for her shoes and handbag—which were blessedly near the front door. She slid her feet into the heels, swallowing back a sob, and thrust her handbag under her arm. She didn’t even turn around and look at him; she couldn’t. Her mind was all over the place, her pride in tatters. She waited until the door had slammed shut behind her before breaking into a run, sprinting the length of the hallway and pressing the button for the lift. India desperately wanted to put the whole sordid ordeal behind her, but even as she swore to herself she’d do exactly that, she felt terrified of how difficult it would be. Last night hadn’t been an ordinary event—it was the kind of night that imprinted on a person’s soul, and she knew, even as she desperately pushed him from her mind, that she would never forget Sheikh Khalil el Abdul.
He watched her leave with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was so angry with her! So angry with Ethan! So angry with the world, if he were honest. But he was especially angry with India, because she’d made him forget every promise he’d made himself after Fatima. When he was with India, he’d felt as if the world was good again, he’d felt as if he could smile, for the first time in years. He’d enjoyed himself, and his grief and loss had been so far away.
Discovering it was all part of her job description chipped away at an essential part of him, so he didn’t—couldn’t—stop to think if there was even a chance he was wrong.
Would he have felt so vehemently if not for Fatima? Would his rage have been so quick to spark? Or might he have given her more of a chance to explain herself? He couldn’t say, but with every minute that passed in the wake of her departure, he felt a mix of shame and disappointment, frustration clipping through him.
Ethan had thrown her identity in his face, and the other man had his own reasons for wanting to hurt Khalil. But what about the website? What about the fact she did in fact work for an escort agency? Was there any chance she was telling the truth?
He ground his teeth together, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.
And what did it matter? Even before he knew this, they’d agreed it would simply be one night. His life was in Khatrain, and it was time for him to get on with it. He simply had to forget India McCarthy ever existed.
