Romancing The Crown: Leila and Gage. Kathleen Creighton

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      “Snob,” said Elena teasingly when he voiced that opinion to her. “I knew it. You, Cade, are a working-class snob. Come on—polo is the sport of kings.”

      “I rest my case,” Cade said around the stem of his cheroot.

      “And, it’s one of the oldest sports, maybe the first ever invented.” She shot him a mock-piercing look. “What’s this prejudice you have against royals? Seeing as how I’m now one.”

      “Prejudiced? Me?” he countered in mock outrage. “I don’t even know any royals—except Hassan, I guess.”

      “That’s what prejudice is,” Elena said smugly. “Forming an opinion without personal knowledge.” Her eyes went to the riders on the field, seeking and fastening on one in particular. “Anyway, you’ve met a few more in the past couple of days. Hassan’s parents…What did you think of them, by the way?” Her tone was carefully casual, but Cade heard the question she was really asking: Do you like him…my husband, Hassan? Please like him.

      He glanced down at the woman he’d thought of as a sister for most of his life, arguably the only family he had left. He said gruffly, “I had my doubts about your husband for a while. You know that.” His voice softened. “But as long as he does right by you, that makes him okay in my book.” He paused. “So…are you? Happy?”

      She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then smiled up at him, and he read her answer in her shining eyes before she spoke. “Yeah, Cade…I am.”

      Cade took a quick sip of his cheroot, surprised again by that sudden fierce ache of envy. “Then that’s what counts.”

      Elena shot him a searching look. “So…what did you think of them—Hassan’s family? The old sheik?”

      He took a moment to consider, though he didn’t need to. “Ahmed’s a sharp old fox,” he said finally. “Knows what he wants for his country, and won’t give an inch until he gets it. He’ll drive a hard bargain, but he’ll be fair.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’m looking forward to doing business with him.” “What about his wife—Alima?” Elena smiled ruefully. “My mother-in-law.” She paused, shaking her head. “Boy, I never thought I’d say those words.”

      “She seems very nice—warm.” He didn’t tell her that for some reason the sheik’s wife had reminded him, in ways that had nothing to do with physical resemblance, of his own mother. What he remembered of her, anyway.

      “And Rashid?” Elena’s eyes were once more on the field of play, watching the swirling mélange of men and horses. Sunlight glinted off helmets and goggles and sweat-damp horsehide, while brightly colored jerseys tangled together like ribbons. Eyes sparkling, she answered herself before he could. “He does raise some fine ponies, you’ve gotta admit.”

      Cade grinned. “He does that.” He’d been admiring Rashid’s own mount in particular, a dapple gray stallion with the Arabian’s classic dish face and high-arched neck, graceful, delicate lines and, it appeared, the courage of a lion. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk horse breeding with the prince…maybe discuss an exchange of bloodlines—

      His thoughts scattered like dry leaves as several ponies thundered down the field in tight formation, close to the sideline and only a few yards from where he and Elena were standing, shaking the ground beneath their feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, followed by shouts—mostly of triumph, intermingled with a few moans of dismay. Apparently the Tamiri team, jubilant and easily distinguishable in bright gold and black, had just scored on the scarlet-clad Montebellans.

      Distracted by the celebration on the playing field, it was a few seconds before Cade noticed the woman running—no, dancing—along the sideline, keeping pace with the ponies galloping barely an arm’s length away beyond the low board barrier. He had an impression of slenderness and grace as unselfconscious as a child’s, of vitality as voluptuous and lush as Mother Earth herself. The unlikely combination tugged at his senses—and something else, some cache of emotions hidden away, until that moment, deep inside him. His breath caught. Protective instincts produced electrical impulses in all his muscles.

       She’s too close. She’ll be trampled!

      The alarm flashed across his consciousness, there one second, gone the next. Cynically, he thought, She’s a grown woman, she’s got sense enough to stay out of harm’s way. His heart was beating fast as he settled back to watch her. He realized that, incongruously, he was smiling.

      She was dressed all in earth tones—shiny brown leather boots to the knee, a divided skirt in soft-colored camel suede that hugged her rounded hips like kid gloves, and a cream-colored blouse made of something that looked like—and undoubtedly was—silk, with long flowing sleeves cuffed tightly at the wrist. The skirt was belted at her waist with a silk scarf patterned in the Tamari team colors—yellow and black. She wore a hat to shade her face from the blistering Mediterranean sun, the same soft suede as her skirt with a wide brim and flat crown, like those Cade associated with Argentinean cowboys. A hatstring hung loosely under her delicate chin to keep the hat from blowing off in the unpredictable sea breeze. Beneath the hat, raven-black hair swept cleanly back from a highcheekboned face to a casually wound coil at the nape of a long, graceful neck.

      Entranced, Cade thought, I wonder who she is. And following that, clearly, distinctly, I want her.

      He acknowledged the thought unashamedly but with a wry inner smile. He was fully grown-up, no longer a child, and years ago had learned that wanting did not necessarily mean having.

      Shouts of outrage and a shrill whistle interrupted his appraisal of the woman. He almost chuckled aloud as he watched her express her own dissatisfaction with what was happening on the field, whirling in fury and stamping her foot like an angry child. Moments later she was in motion again as the horses and riders careened back down the field, once more dancing along the sideline, completely caught up in the action, her body bobbing, jerking and weaving in unconscious imitation of the players. As if, Cade thought, she longed to be one of them, rather than just a spectator.

      And then…he caught his breath. As she moved directly in front of him, a gust of wind caught her hat from behind and tipped it neatly forward off her head. She gave a little shriek of dismay and grabbed for it, but it was already tumbling across the trampled grass, directly into the path of the oncoming horses. Cade felt his body lurch involuntarily, before the thought had even formed in his mind. She’s so damned impulsive! My God, is she crazy enough to go for it?

      As if she’d heard his thought or maybe sensed his forward lunge, she stopped herself abruptly and spun toward him, delightfully abashed, like a little girl teetering on the edge of the curb, preparing to earnestly swear, “I wasn’t really going to run out in the street, honest.”

      Perhaps loosened by that movement, her hair came out of its sedate coil, unwinding like a living creature, something sleek and sinuous awakening to vibrant life. As it tumbled down her back in a glorious black cascade, at that precise moment she locked eyes with Cade. Catching her lower lip between white teeth, she gave him a winsomely dimpled smile.

      Recognition exploded in his brain even as desire thumped him in the groin. The double whammy caught him off guard. Breath gusted from his lungs as if he’d taken an actual blow.

      “Don’t even think about it.”

      Cade jerked toward the quiet voice, mouth open in automatic denial. One СКАЧАТЬ