Kidnapped For His Royal Duty

No. Not lovely.

She shouldn’t ever think his mouth was lovely.

Even though she’d vanished, he still belonged to Sophie. He’d always belong to Sophie. They’d been engaged since Sophie was eighteen, with the understanding that they’d be married one day happening even earlier in their lives.

The fact was, Randall and Sophie had been practically matched since birth, an arrangement that suited both families, and the respective family fortunes, and Sophie insisted she was good with it. She’d told Poppy more than once that she hadn’t ever expected to marry for love, and wasn’t particularly troubled by the lack of romance since she liked Dal, and Dal liked her, and they complemented each other well.

A lump filled her throat because Poppy didn’t just like Randall, she truly cared for him. Deeply cared. The kind of feelings that put butterflies in her stomach and made her chest tighten with tenderness. “It’s not my place,” she choked. “I wasn’t your bride!”

“But you were part of today’s circus. You took part in the charade.”

“It wasn’t a charade!”

“Then where is Sophie?”

* * *

His question hung there between them, heavy and suffocating, and Dal knew Poppy was miserable; her brown eyes were full of shadows and sorrow, and usually he hated seeing her unhappy. Usually he wanted to lift her when she struggled but not today. Today she deserved to suffer.

He’d trusted her. He’d trusted her even more than Sophie, and he’d planned on spending the rest of his life with Sophie.

Dal shook his head, still trying to grasp it all.

If Sophie had been so unhappy marrying him, why didn’t she just break the engagement before it got to this point?

It was not as if he didn’t have other options. Women threw themselves at him daily. Women were constantly letting him know that they found him desirable. Beautiful, educated, polished women who made it known that they’d do anything to become his countess, and if marriage was out, then perhaps his mistress?

But he’d been loyal to Sophie, despite their long engagement. Or at least he’d been faithful once the engagement had been made public, which was five and a half years ago. Before the public engagement was the private understanding, an understanding reached between the fathers, the Earl of Langston and Sir Carmichael-Jones. But for five and a half years, he’d held himself in check because Sophie, stunning Sophie Carmichael-Jones, was a virgin, and she’d made it clear that she intended to remain a virgin until her wedding night.

He now seriously doubted that when she’d walked down the aisle today she’d still been a virgin.

Dal swore beneath his breath, counting down the minutes until they reached their cruising altitude so he could escape to the small back cabin, which doubled as a private office and a bedroom.

Once they stopped climbing, he unfastened his seat belt and disappeared into the back cabin, which had a desk, a reclining leather chair and a wall bed. The wall bed could easily be converted when needed, but Dal had never used it as a bedroom. He preferred to work on his flights, not rest.

Closing the door, he removed his jacket, tugged off his tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. Half-dressed, he opened the large black suitcase that had been stowed in the closet and found a pair of trousers and a light tan linen shirt that would be appropriate for the heat of the Atlas Mountains.

Hard to believe he was heading to Mehkar.

It’d been so long.

No one would think to look for him in his mother’s country, either, much less his father’s family. Dal’s late father had orchestrated the schism, savagely cutting off his mother’s family following the fatal car accident twenty-three years ago.

It was on his twenty-first birthday that his past resurrected itself. He’d been out celebrating his birthday with friends and returned worse for the wear to his Cambridge flat to discover a bearded man in kaffiyeh, the traditional long white robes Arab men wore, on his doorstep.

It had been over ten years since he’d last seen his mother’s father, but instead of moving forward to greet his grandfather, he stood back, aware that he reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke, aware, too, of the disapproval in his grandfather’s dark eyes.

Randall managed a stiff, awkward bow. “Sheikh bin Mehkar.”

“As-Salam-u-Alaikum,” his grandfather had answered. Peace be to you. He extended his hand, then, to Randall. “No handshake? No hug?”

It was a rebuke. A quiet rebuke, but a reproof nonetheless. Randall stiffened, ashamed, annoyed, uncomfortable, and he put his hand in his grandfather’s even as he glanced away, toward the small window at the end of the hall, angry that his mother’s father was here now. Where had he been for the past ten years? Where had his grandmother gone and the aunts and uncles and cousins who had filled his childhood?

He’d needed them as a grieving boy. He’d needed them to remind him that his beautiful mother had existed, as by Christmas his father had stripped Langston House of all her photos and mementos, going so far as to even remove the huge oil family portrait only completed the year before, the portrait of a family in happier days—father, mother and sons—from above the sixteenth-century Dutch sideboard in the formal dining room.

Perhaps if Dal hadn’t spent a night drinking, perhaps if Dal’s phone call with his father the evening before hadn’t been so tense and terse, full of duty and obligation, maybe Dal would have remembered the affection his mother had held for her parents, in particular, her father, who had allowed her to leave to marry her handsome, titled, cash-strapped Englishman.

And so instead of being glad to see this lost grandfather, Dal curtly invited his grandfather in. “Would you like tea? I could put the kettle on.”

“Only if you shower first.”

And Randall Grant, the second-born son who shouldn’t have become the heir, the second son who had never flaunted his wealth or position, snapped, “I will have my tea first. Come in, Grandfather, if you wish. But I’m not going to be told what to do, not today, and certainly not by you.”

Dark gaze hooded, Sheikh Mansur bin Mehkar looked his oldest living grandson, Randall Michael Talal, up and down, and then turned around and walked away.

Randall stood next to his door, his flat key clenched in his hand, and watched his grandfather head for the steep staircase.

He should go after him.

He should apologize.

He should ask where his grandfather was staying.

He should suggest meeting for dinner.

He should.

He didn’t.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Randall discovered the envelope half-hidden by the thin doormat. Inside the envelope was a birthday greeting and a packet of papers. For his twenty-first birthday he’d been given Kasbah Jolie, his mother’s favorite home, the home that had also been the Mehkar royal family’s summer palace for the past three hundred and fifty years.

He wouldn’t know for another ten years that along with the summer palace, he’d also been named as the successor to the Mehkar throne.

But both discoveries only hardened his resolve to keep his distance from his mother’s family. He didn’t want the throne. He didn’t want to live in, or rule, Mehkar. He didn’t want anything to do with the summer palace, either, a place he still associated far too closely with his beloved mother, a mother he’d lost far too early. It was bad enough that at eleven he’d become Viscount Langston following his older brother’s death. Why would he want to be responsible for Mehkar, too?

* * *

Poppy glanced up and watched as Dal approached. He’d changed into dark trousers and a light tan linen shirt, the shirt an almost perfect match for his pale gold eyes. He looked handsome, impossibly handsome, but then, he always did. She just never let herself dwell on it, knowing that her attraction was unprofessional and would only lead to complications. Gorgeous, wealthy men like Randall Grant did not like women like her. Why should they when they could have the Sophie Carmichael-Joneses of the world?

“Your turn,” Randall said shortly. “And once you change, please throw that damn dress away. I never want to see it again.”

“Where is my bag?”

“In the closet in the back cabin.”

Poppy located her worn overnight bag in the closet but when she opened it, she had only her nightgown, travel toiletries, a pair of tennis shoes and her favorite jeans. The jeans and tennis shoes were good, but she couldn’t leave the cabin without a shirt.

* * *

Poppy sat back on her heels and tried to remember where she’d put the rest of her clothes. Had they gotten caught up in Sophie’s things? Or had she left them at the hotel when they checked out this morning?

Suppressing a sigh, she returned to the chairs in the main cabin.

The flight attendant was in the middle of setting up a table for a late lunch, covering the folding table with a fine white cloth before laying out china plates with thick bands of gold, crystal stemware, and real sterling flatware.

“You didn’t change,” Randall said, spotting her.

“I don’t have a blouse or top or...or bra...for that matter.”

“You could borrow one of my shirts, and braless is fine. It’s just me here. I won’t stare.”

* * *

There was nothing provocative in his words and yet her face and body flooded with heat. “Then yes, thank you. Because I’m ready to get out of this dress, too.”

He rose from his seat, stepping around the table, and she followed him back to the cabin. The private cabin was small, and felt even tinier when Randall entered the room with her.

She stepped back so he’d have room to open his suitcase and find a suitable shirt for her.

“What are you wearing on the bottom?” he asked.

“Jeans.”

He rifled through his clothes, selecting a white dress shirt with blue pinstripes for her. “This should cover you,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and he turned to leave and she took a step to give him more room but somehow they’d both stepped in the same direction and now he was practically on top of her and he put out a hand to steady her, but his hand went to her waist, not her elbow, and his hand seemed to burn all the way through the thin silk fabric, and she gasped, lips parting, skin heating, her entire body blisteringly warm.

In the close confines of the cabin, she caught a lingering whiff of the cologne he’d put on this morning and it was rich and spicy and she wanted to step closer to him and bury her face in his chest, and breathe him in more deeply.

He smelled so good, and when he touched her, he felt so good, and it was frightening how fast she was losing those boundaries so essential to a proper working relationship.

“Looks like we’re tripping each other up,” he said, his deep voice pitched so low it made the hair on her nape rise and her breasts tighten inside her corset, skin far too sensitive.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to get in your way,” and yet she couldn’t seem to step away, or give him space.

His hands wrapped around her upper arms and he gently but firmly lifted her, placing her back a foot, and then he exited the small cabin without a glance back.

Poppy exhaled in a rush, shuddering at the extreme awkwardness of what had just taken place. She’d walked into him, and then stayed there, planted, as if she’d become a tree and had grown miraculous roots.

Why?

Poppy carefully closed the door and then pressed her shoulder to the frame, wishing she could stay barricaded in the cabin forever. It was one thing to have an innocent crush on your boss, but it was another to want his touch, and Poppy wanted his touch. She wanted his hands on her in the worst sort of way. Which raised the question, what kind of person was she?

Poppy had always prided herself on her scruples. Well, where were they now?

CHAPTER THREE

POPPY STRUGGLED WITH the minute hooks on the pink dress, freeing herself little by little until she could wiggle out of the gown. The dress had been so tight that it had left livid pink marks all over her rib cage and breasts. It was bliss to finally be free and she slid the shirt on, buttoning the front. The fabric had been lightly starched and it rubbed against her nipples, making them tighten. She prayed Randall wouldn’t notice. Things were already so awkward between them. She’d always thought they had the ideal relationship, professional but warm, cordial and considerate, but today had changed everything.

Today he overwhelmed her, and her brain told her to run but there was another part of her that desperately wanted to stay.

And be touched.

That was a very worrying part of her.

She’d have to work hard to keep that part in check, because elegant, refined Randall Grant was one thing, but dark, brooding Dal Grant was something else altogether.

Poppy finished changing, stepping into the soft, faded jeans that now hung on her hips thanks to four months of determined dieting, and after pulling the pins from her hair, she slipped her feet into her tennis shoes and headed back to her seat.

While she was gone, the flight attendant added a low arrangement of flowers to the center of the table, the lush red and pink roses reminiscent of the bouquet Sophie had carried this morning. The flowers made Poppy heartsick and guilty all over again.

“You look more comfortable,” he said as she slid into her seat.

“I am.”

“Tell me your sizes and I’ll have some basics waiting for us when we land.”

“I can shop for myself, thank you.”

“There won’t be shops where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Jolie.”

The flight attendant appeared with the salad course, and Poppy waited for Randall to reach for his fork before she did the same. “Is it a country house?” she asked.

He didn’t pick up his fork, or answer right away, instead he glanced away, his long black lashes lowering, accenting the high, hard lines of his cheekbones.

She’d always thought he had the most impressive bone structure, with his lovely high cheekbones, strong jaw and chin coupled with that long nose. Sophie had always disdained of his nose—not refined enough—but Poppy had disagreed, thinking he had the nose of a Roman or Greek.

“Something like that,” he finally answered, his dark head turning, his light gold gaze returning to her, studying her for a long moment, making her feel strangely light-headed. And breathless. Far too breathless.

Poppy inhaled slowly, trying to settle her nerves. She’d had a crush on him for four years and she’d managed to keep her feelings in check. There was no reason to let herself get carried away just because he was suddenly single.

And free.

Her heart did a funny little beat, the kind of beat that made her feel anxious and excited, but neither emotion was useful. She needed to settle down and be calm and steady and strong.

“You’re not doing much to clarify things.” She tried to smile, a steady, professional smile. “Where is it exactly?”

“Out of the country.”

Did he just say out in the country, or out of the country? It was a tiny preposition, but a significant difference. “Where is the nearest airport?”

“Gila.”

She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip as her mouth had gone dry and her stomach was doing a wild free fall. “I’m not familiar with Gila.”

“The capital of Mehkar?”

For a moment she still didn’t understand, unable to process what he was saying, and then everything inside her did a horrifying free fall. “We’re going to Mehkar?”

“Have you been before?”

“No.”

“It neighbors Morocco—”

“I know where it is, but we can’t go to Mehkar!”

“Of course we can. We’re en route now.”

“But how? Why? It’s hours away and I have no passport, just an overnight bag with virtually nothing in it at all.”

He shrugged carelessly. “Sophie had nothing when she left the church, did she?”

Poppy’s throat sealed closed and she stared at Randall, heartsick. He stared right back, his light gold gaze hard, so hard that it made him look like a stranger.

“You’re not worried about her, are you?” he added, his voice dropping, deepening, an edge of menace in his tone.

A shiver raced through her. In the past hour Randall Grant had gone from chivalrous to dangerous.

“Answer me,” Randall demanded, leaning forward, his anger altogether new. The Randall Grant she knew was impossibly calm, impossibly controlled.

“I didn’t agree to leave the country,” she said, voice rising, tightening. “I didn’t agree to go to Mehkar. I’d like to return to London immediately. I have work to do—”

“You work for me.”

“But the work I need to do for you is all there,” she said, making a jabbing motion behind them. “So, please ask your captain to turn around and take me back to Winchester, or to London, so I can take care of the one hundred and one things that need to be done by Monday.”

“You can do them in Mehkar.”

“But I can’t.”

“You can, and you will, because it’s your job to handle this crushing mountain of work I’ve tasked you with.”

“I never said it was crushing.”

“You make it sound crushing.”

“I do have a lot of responsibility, and I take my work seriously. Nor do I want to let you down.”

His firm lips quirked, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “I don’t think that’s true at all.” His gaze slowly traveled across her face, as if examining every inch. “In fact, I know it’s not true.”

Heat rushed through her and she felt every place his gaze touched grow uncomfortably warm. “No?”

“No.” He was about to add something else, but the flight attendant appeared to remove their salad plates even though neither of them had barely touched the greens.

Randall remained silent the entire time she was gone, and stayed silent while their next course was placed before them. Poppy stared down at her seafood risotto, feeling increasingly queasy. Seafood risotto was Sophie’s favorite, not hers. Poppy didn’t like seafood, or risotto.

She looked up at Randall to discover that he was watching her intently, his dark head tipped back against the pale leather seat, lids lowering, lashes dropping, concealing part of the golden glimmer. “If you valued your position with me, Poppy, you would be loyal to me. Yet, you’re not.”

For a second it seemed as if all the oxygen in the plane disappeared and she stared at him, lips parting, but no air moving in or out of her lungs. No air, and no words, either, because what could she say? How could she defend herself?

“Have you found a new position, Poppy?”

She shook her head, eyes stinging.

“Are you interviewing?”

She shook her head again.

“Résumés out...inquiries...networking?”

Poppy’s stomach twisted. “No. I am not job-hunting. I like my job.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe it’s time you showed me some loyalty, Poppy Marr, and tell me what you know about Sophie and this Crisanti fellow.”

She deserved that. Because she had taken sides, hadn’t she? She’d taken Sophie’s. Sophie was her best friend. Her only friend. If Sophie was queen, Poppy would be her lady in waiting. “I would like to help you,” she said, stomach still churning, nerves and nausea. It didn’t help that the smell of the risotto was making her want to gag. She carefully pushed her bowl away. “But I don’t really know much of anything.”

His set expression indicated he didn’t believe her. “But you know something,” he said. “So let’s start with that. How long has Sophie known Crisanti? Where did she meet him?”

“I don’t want to do this, and it’s not fair of you to ask me when you know Sophie is the only one who has ever looked out for me—”

“Are you saying I haven’t?”

He’d spoken lowly and yet his words vibrated all the way through her. She clutched the edge of the table, panicked and overwhelmed, not simply by what he was asking, but by the unreality of their situation.

She’d harbored the crush for years, falling for him almost from the very start as he was handsome and intelligent and wildly successful and best of all, he was kind to her, and always so very thoughtful, mindful of her feelings even when things were stressful at work.

It was on one of those terribly stressful days that Poppy had overshared with him, blurting out her fears and insecurities that she’d always be single, because men wanted women like Sophie, women who were strong and confident, women that made men feel like men.

Randall had sputtered on muffled laughter and then he shook his head, eyes smiling. “You can’t compare yourself to Sophie. That’s not fair of you. Sophie is Sophie Carmichael-Jones for a reason. There’s only one of her, but also, there is only one of you. The key, Poppy Marr, is to be you.”

“I don’t think that’s enough,” she answered tearfully.

“Trust me, it’s more than enough.”

And as he’d looked at her, his gold eyes still smiling, she’d melted into a puddle of aching gratitude, want and wishful dreams. Imagine having Randall Grant as your champion. Imagine him in your corner, as your partner. Poppy had never been more envious of Sophie in all her life.

Poppy swallowed hard now, a lump in her throat. “You’ve always been very, very kind to me. Probably better than I deserve.”

“So why only protect Sophie? Why not try to protect me?”

“But I did!” she choked. “I wasn’t just trying to help Sophie. I was trying to help you, too!”

“So how did you help us?” he asked softly, silkily. “What did you do?”

He’d done it. He’d trapped her, cornered her, and she’d all but confessed.

Horrified, Poppy tried to run, but Randall caught her by the wrist as she attempted to leave the table. His fingers tightened around her slender bones, and he pulled her toward his side.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, tugging her closer to his chair. “Let’s have the truth.”

She tried to pull free, but he was so much stronger than she was, and then he began to stroke the inside of her wrist with his thumb, lightly running the pad of his thumb over her wildly beating pulse. It was the most electric sensation, her nerves jumping, dancing, sending little rivulets of feeling everywhere.

“Sit,” he said, drawing her toward him, and then pulling her down so that she perched on the arm of his chair. “Talk. The truth now.”

But how could she think, much less say anything coherent, when his thumb was caressing her wrist, making her tingle all over?

She looked up into his eyes and her breath caught as she saw something in his eyes she’d never seen before.

Heat. A fierce, raw, masculine heat that was completely at odds with the man she knew.

But then his thumb caressing her pulse was equally at odds with Randall Grant, the Earl of Langston. The Earl of Langston was elegant, disciplined, restrained. The Earl of Langston did not want her.

“I can’t think when you’re doing that,” she said under her breath.

“And I can’t have you running off every time the questions get uncomfortable.” He moved his hand, sliding it from her wrist up over the flat of her hand so that they were palm to palm, his long fingers pressing against hers, parting them.

She shivered at the press of his hand to hers. It felt wildly indecent.

“I would say this is far more uncomfortable than any of your questions,” she whispered, trying to slip her hand out, but only succeeding in dragging her palm down his, sending sparks of sensation up her arm, through her breasts and into her belly below.

His fingers laced through hers, holding her still.

She looked down at their joined hands because there was no way she could look into his face right now. “I don’t think this is proper.”