are—you are the Prince of Altara. Our king. The Lord of our realm."
"Not a monster? A dictator? A barbarian?"
Was there a shade beyond pale? There had to be, because 'pale' was no longer an adequate description for what he saw in the faces of his bodyguards.
"No, Lord Khan! Never, sir! You are—you are—"
The elevator doors opened. Khan stepped inside. Folded his arms over his chest. Glared at the two men.
"I am not to be followed. Is that clear?"
They nodded. A pair of six-foot-something, bobble-head dolls. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part wanted to apologize for reducing such brave men to frightened children, but he did neither.
This was not his fault.
It was Lauren's.
It was yet another example of Lauren Cruz stirring up trouble in his life.
Focus, he thought coldly.
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid shut.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lauren had decided tonight was the night to wash her hair.
Well, she washed it every night, or, to be accurate, every morning when she showered, but tonight was The Works. Wash. Condition. Rinse. Deep Condition, using that funky goop that supposedly tamed it but never did. Rinse again. Blow dry.
She peered into the bathroom mirror.
The Works would take up most of the evening.
That was good.
It was excellent.
She had a briefcase full of files to study but lately, she had trouble concentrating. Something like dealing with her hair—there was a lot to deal with, when your hair was long and curly and had a mind of its own—something so straightforward would surely go a long way toward settling her down.
Or forcing her not to think.
Not to think about—about—
About something not worth thinking about, she told herself firmly.
She stepped away from the mirror, took off her small gold hoop earrings and her watch, toed off her not-really-Louboutin pumps, her no-way-José-Armani suit, her-I-really-wish-it-were-Vince silk blouse and, finally, her La Perla bra and panties because, yes, expensive silk undies were her one, her only addiction…
Unless you counted this week's sudden addiction to going over and over and over the unbelievable thing she'd done at Travis Wilde's party and, no, she wasn't going there.
Not anymore.
Wasn't that one of the reasons she was about to spend three silly, pointless hours on her hair?
She had to stop thinking about that night. Start thinking about reality.
Ergo, her hair.
Her robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door. The robe wasn't meant to look like anything but what it was, a Target special— Tar-zhay , she thought, with a little pang of nostalgia. That was what her mother used to teasingly call the store.
The robe was long and warm; it covered her from throat to toe, just as it had since her first semester at college. It was, she supposed, her security blanket.
Barefoot, she plucked the box of goop that would supposedly tame her hair from the shelf above the sink.
She read the directions, though there was no reason for it. She knew what they said, just as she knew she would ignore them. So what? What did whatever you called people who wrote directions truly know about hair?
Real hair, not the stuff in the photos on those boxes.
She was a lawyer. She knew things were not always what they seemed to be, especially pictures. They got doctored. Photo-Shopped. Women's smiles were whiter. Blondes were blonder. Breasts were bigger, which surely had to be why the breasts of the Dolly Parton lookalike, who'd flashed the Emperor of the Universe, had seemed so enormous in that ridiculous picture that was everywhere.
Did he like big breasts?
Who cared?
She wasn't interested in what he thought or in what he did, and even if he liked big breasts, breasts bigger than hers, he would never know the difference.
He had not looked at her breasts.
He had not looked at her.
Well, he had, but really, all he'd wanted was to get inside her.
And, just like that, the same as it had been happening the entire
"Not a monster? A dictator? A barbarian?"
Was there a shade beyond pale? There had to be, because 'pale' was no longer an adequate description for what he saw in the faces of his bodyguards.
"No, Lord Khan! Never, sir! You are—you are—"
The elevator doors opened. Khan stepped inside. Folded his arms over his chest. Glared at the two men.
"I am not to be followed. Is that clear?"
They nodded. A pair of six-foot-something, bobble-head dolls. Part of him wanted to laugh. Part wanted to apologize for reducing such brave men to frightened children, but he did neither.
This was not his fault.
It was Lauren's.
It was yet another example of Lauren Cruz stirring up trouble in his life.
Focus, he thought coldly.
As if on cue, the elevator doors slid shut.
CHAPTER FIVE
Lauren had decided tonight was the night to wash her hair.
Well, she washed it every night, or, to be accurate, every morning when she showered, but tonight was The Works. Wash. Condition. Rinse. Deep Condition, using that funky goop that supposedly tamed it but never did. Rinse again. Blow dry.
She peered into the bathroom mirror.
The Works would take up most of the evening.
That was good.
It was excellent.
She had a briefcase full of files to study but lately, she had trouble concentrating. Something like dealing with her hair—there was a lot to deal with, when your hair was long and curly and had a mind of its own—something so straightforward would surely go a long way toward settling her down.
Or forcing her not to think.
Not to think about—about—
About something not worth thinking about, she told herself firmly.
She stepped away from the mirror, took off her small gold hoop earrings and her watch, toed off her not-really-Louboutin pumps, her no-way-José-Armani suit, her-I-really-wish-it-were-Vince silk blouse and, finally, her La Perla bra and panties because, yes, expensive silk undies were her one, her only addiction…
Unless you counted this week's sudden addiction to going over and over and over the unbelievable thing she'd done at Travis Wilde's party and, no, she wasn't going there.
Not anymore.
Wasn't that one of the reasons she was about to spend three silly, pointless hours on her hair?
She had to stop thinking about that night. Start thinking about reality.
Ergo, her hair.
Her robe hung on a hook behind the bathroom door. The robe wasn't meant to look like anything but what it was, a Target special— Tar-zhay , she thought, with a little pang of nostalgia. That was what her mother used to teasingly call the store.
The robe was long and warm; it covered her from throat to toe, just as it had since her first semester at college. It was, she supposed, her security blanket.
Barefoot, she plucked the box of goop that would supposedly tame her hair from the shelf above the sink.
She read the directions, though there was no reason for it. She knew what they said, just as she knew she would ignore them. So what? What did whatever you called people who wrote directions truly know about hair?
Real hair, not the stuff in the photos on those boxes.
She was a lawyer. She knew things were not always what they seemed to be, especially pictures. They got doctored. Photo-Shopped. Women's smiles were whiter. Blondes were blonder. Breasts were bigger, which surely had to be why the breasts of the Dolly Parton lookalike, who'd flashed the Emperor of the Universe, had seemed so enormous in that ridiculous picture that was everywhere.
Did he like big breasts?
Who cared?
She wasn't interested in what he thought or in what he did, and even if he liked big breasts, breasts bigger than hers, he would never know the difference.
He had not looked at her breasts.
He had not looked at her.
Well, he had, but really, all he'd wanted was to get inside her.
And, just like that, the same as it had been happening the entire
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