suitors. He felt an odd twinge at that thought, but couldn't identify it.
The wind inside his head laughed.
The limo pulled up at his house before he could contemplate the issue further. She and her father had visited him in his apartment in the palace, of course, but he maintained a residence outside it as well. For nights such as these.
He thanked Fatima, his driver, and let her know he would not need her services for the rest of the night. His unusual choice of a female chauffeur had raised eyebrows at the palace, but he had found her driving excellent—save for the pothole she had failed to avoid earlier tonight. Her gratitude for the job also meant she maintained the strictest discretion. Very useful. No one would ever know Arya had been here tonight. He could bank on that.
"Why do you have a key to your brother's place?" Arya asked as they entered the front foyer, with its blocky, modern design, all dark paint and white accents.
"So I may let you in, of course." He sensed he needed the pretext a little longer. "Shall I go, or stay?"
A look of pure panic tightened her face. "Stay. Please."
He nodded, as if he had intended to leave.
"It's nice here," she said. "Reminds me of some of my friends' homes in Ottawa."
He liked this place, felt freer here. Sometimes the palace's gold paint and mosaic tiles weighed him down. He'd enjoyed picking out his modern furniture, choosing the paint colors he liked best.
That she appreciated his taste gave him a warm sensation. "Thank you."
"What?" she asked, wearing a look of confusion.
He had slipped. He corrected himself. "Darius would thank you for appreciating his excellent taste."
Arya examined his expression, but he, as usual, betrayed nothing. She could have sworn that he thanked her himself, but she had been busy checking out the abstract painting on the wall. It just might have been real Jackson Pollock. It certainly looked like the ones in the National Gallery of Canada. "I thought you said—"
He shrugged ever so slightly. "I did help him with a few touches," he confirmed. "It is good you like it, since you will be spending so much time here."
Right now, she wasn't even sure she was spending another hour here. She was so nervous. Javad's presence had a reassuring effect on her, but that kiss had made her crush go ballistic. Inside, she felt like the Pollock, all jagged black lines and red splashes of passion. She followed him into a kitchen of light wood and the latest stainless steel appliances, which looked totally unused. "Probably just tonight."
If she asked Javad to take her away, he would. But she'd never work up the courage to make another attempt. She'd wind up a perpetual virgin, practically her father's servant.
"I am certain not. One taste of you will not be enough for him."
She stared at him, struck with some emotion she couldn't define. She hadn't banked on becoming Darius' mistress. Her father would be... Well, he might just be delighted, she had to admit. He might see it as his chance to gain favor from the throne.
No, she assured herself. That would never happen. Her sisters were more like the type of woman Darius preferred. Worldly. Experienced. His brother was likely the same.
"Shall we see what Darius has to drink? Or perhaps you'd like some coffee?"
They weren't really questions, she knew. Javad had already opened the fridge. She would get what he chose to serve her.
"No coffee," she requested. "If I lose my buzz, I'll change my mind."
He pulled out some cold champagne, popped the cork efficiently, and poured them each a flute, which he found far too easily in the cupboard. He spent time here, that was clear. Did the brothers share this place to entertain women? To take their pleasures away from the palace?
Even in the domestic setting, he moved like the royal prince he was. Confident. Self-assured. Relaxed. All the things she was not. He leaned against the dark granite kitchen counter and scanned her from head to toe, lingering on
The wind inside his head laughed.
The limo pulled up at his house before he could contemplate the issue further. She and her father had visited him in his apartment in the palace, of course, but he maintained a residence outside it as well. For nights such as these.
He thanked Fatima, his driver, and let her know he would not need her services for the rest of the night. His unusual choice of a female chauffeur had raised eyebrows at the palace, but he had found her driving excellent—save for the pothole she had failed to avoid earlier tonight. Her gratitude for the job also meant she maintained the strictest discretion. Very useful. No one would ever know Arya had been here tonight. He could bank on that.
"Why do you have a key to your brother's place?" Arya asked as they entered the front foyer, with its blocky, modern design, all dark paint and white accents.
"So I may let you in, of course." He sensed he needed the pretext a little longer. "Shall I go, or stay?"
A look of pure panic tightened her face. "Stay. Please."
He nodded, as if he had intended to leave.
"It's nice here," she said. "Reminds me of some of my friends' homes in Ottawa."
He liked this place, felt freer here. Sometimes the palace's gold paint and mosaic tiles weighed him down. He'd enjoyed picking out his modern furniture, choosing the paint colors he liked best.
That she appreciated his taste gave him a warm sensation. "Thank you."
"What?" she asked, wearing a look of confusion.
He had slipped. He corrected himself. "Darius would thank you for appreciating his excellent taste."
Arya examined his expression, but he, as usual, betrayed nothing. She could have sworn that he thanked her himself, but she had been busy checking out the abstract painting on the wall. It just might have been real Jackson Pollock. It certainly looked like the ones in the National Gallery of Canada. "I thought you said—"
He shrugged ever so slightly. "I did help him with a few touches," he confirmed. "It is good you like it, since you will be spending so much time here."
Right now, she wasn't even sure she was spending another hour here. She was so nervous. Javad's presence had a reassuring effect on her, but that kiss had made her crush go ballistic. Inside, she felt like the Pollock, all jagged black lines and red splashes of passion. She followed him into a kitchen of light wood and the latest stainless steel appliances, which looked totally unused. "Probably just tonight."
If she asked Javad to take her away, he would. But she'd never work up the courage to make another attempt. She'd wind up a perpetual virgin, practically her father's servant.
"I am certain not. One taste of you will not be enough for him."
She stared at him, struck with some emotion she couldn't define. She hadn't banked on becoming Darius' mistress. Her father would be... Well, he might just be delighted, she had to admit. He might see it as his chance to gain favor from the throne.
No, she assured herself. That would never happen. Her sisters were more like the type of woman Darius preferred. Worldly. Experienced. His brother was likely the same.
"Shall we see what Darius has to drink? Or perhaps you'd like some coffee?"
They weren't really questions, she knew. Javad had already opened the fridge. She would get what he chose to serve her.
"No coffee," she requested. "If I lose my buzz, I'll change my mind."
He pulled out some cold champagne, popped the cork efficiently, and poured them each a flute, which he found far too easily in the cupboard. He spent time here, that was clear. Did the brothers share this place to entertain women? To take their pleasures away from the palace?
Even in the domestic setting, he moved like the royal prince he was. Confident. Self-assured. Relaxed. All the things she was not. He leaned against the dark granite kitchen counter and scanned her from head to toe, lingering on
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