PENNY JORDAN - Royals - Claimed By The Prince - The Heartbreaker Prince / Passion and the Prince / Prince of Secrets

Kamel stopped scrolling through his emails, looked up from his phone and smiled. ‘Good morning, dear wife.’

Kamel did not feel it was a particularly good morning and it had been a very bad night. He felt tired, and more frustrated than any man should be after his wedding night. A cold shower, a long run and he had regained a little perspective this morning. But then she walked in the room and just the scent of her perfume... He wanted her here and now. The difference between want and need was important to Kamel. He had not allowed himself to need a woman since Amira.

He needed sex, not Hannah. And the sex would be good—his icy bride turned out to have more fire in her than any woman he had ever met. But afterwards he would feel as he always did—the escape from the tight knot of brutal loneliness in his chest was only ever temporary.

Hannah’s lips tightened at the mockery but she did not react to it; instead she simply arched a feathery brow. ‘Well?’

‘I feel as though I am walking into this conversation midway through. Coffee?’ He lifted the pot on the desk beside him and topped up his half-filled cup and allowed his gaze to drift over her face. ‘Hangover?’

‘No,’ she lied. The delicious aroma drifted her way, making her mouth water. She felt shivery as she struggled to tear her eyes off his long brown fingers. ‘I don’t want coffee.’

‘So can I help you with something?’

She emitted a soft hissing sound of annoyance. Without looking back, she pointed to the open doorway where a suited figure stood, complete with enigmatic expression and concealed weapon. ‘Did you arrange for him to follow me?’

Kamel stood up from the desk and walked past her towards the open door. Nodding to the man standing outside, he closed it with a soft thud and turned back to Hannah, though his attention appeared to be on the lie of his narrow silk tie that lay in a flash of subdued colour against his white shirt. The jacket that matched the dove-grey trousers was draped across the back of the chair.

‘For heaven’s sake, you look ridiculously perfect.’

Her delivery lacked the scornful punch she had intended, possibly because the comment was no exaggeration. The pale grey trousers that matched the jacket were clearly bespoke and could have been cut to disguise a multitude of sins if he’d had any, but there was no escaping the fact that physically at least he was flawless.

He raised his brows and she felt her cheeks colour. ‘I despise men who spend more time looking in the mirror than I do.’

‘Rather a sexist thing to say,’ he remarked, his tone mildly amused and his eyes uncomfortably observant. ‘But each to his own. I’m sorry I don’t measure up to your unwashed grunge ideal.’

Having dug herself a hole, she let the subject drop. He could never fail to live up to any woman’s ideal, on a purely eye-candy level, of course. ‘I do not require a bodyguard.’

‘No, obviously not.’

Her pleased smile at a battle so easily won had barely formed when his next words made it vanish.

‘You will require a team of them.’

‘That’s ludicrous!’ she contended furiously.

The amusement in his manner vanished as he countered, ‘It’s necessary, so I suggest you stop acting like a diva and accept it.’

‘I refuse.’

His glance slid from her flashing eyes to her heaving bosom, lingering there long enough to bring her hand to her throat. ‘Refuse all you like, it won’t alter anything. I appreciate this is an adjustment and I’ll make allowances.’

That was big of him. ‘Allowances! This is a palace! How do I adjust to that?’

‘I have been to Brent Hall and it is hardly a council flat,’ he retorted, thinking of the portrait that hung above the fireplace in the drawing room. Had Hannah Latimer ever possessed the dreamy innocence that shone in the eyes of her portrait, or had the artist been keen to flatter the man who was paying him?

She opened her mouth to retort and then his comment sank in. ‘You’ve been to my home?’

He tipped his head. ‘I stood in for my uncle on one social occasion, actually two. I predict you will adjust to your change in status. After all, you have played the pampered princess all your life. The only difference now is you have an actual title, and, of course, me.’

‘I’m trying to forget.’

‘Not the best idea.’

Despite the monotone delivery, she heard the warning and she didn’t like it, or him.

Kamel gave a tolerant nod and picked up a pen from the desk. ‘It is a fact of life. You will not leave this building without a security presence.’

‘I wasn’t outside the building. He was waiting outside my bedroom. What harm was I likely to come to there?’

‘Oh, so your concern is for your privacy.’

‘Well, yes. Obviously.’ The idea of living like a bird in a golden cage did not hold any appeal. She’d given up her freedom but there had to be boundaries. Where were your boundaries last night, Hannah?

‘We will be private enough, I promise you.’

The seductive promise in his voice sent a beat of white-hot excitement whipping through her body. As it ebbed she was consumed by hot-cheeked embarrassment.

‘You blush very easily.’

She slung him a belligerent glare. ‘I’m not used to the heat.’ The desert heat she might grow accustomed to, but being around a man who could make her feel...feel...she gave a tiny gusty sigh as she sought for a word to describe how he made her feel, and it came—hungry! That was something she would never get used to. She just hoped it would pass quickly like a twenty-four-hour bug.

‘So this is an example of how my life will not change?’ she charged shrilly. ‘I left one cell with a guard outside for another.’

‘But the facilities and décor are much better,’ he came back smoothly.

The languid smile that tugged the corner of his mouth upwards did not improve her mood. Neither did looking at his mouth. It was a struggle not to lift a hand to her own tingling lips. So far he hadn’t mentioned the kiss. Had he forgotten?

She wished she had, but her memory loss only lasted until she had stood under a shower and then the whole mortifying scene came rushing back.

‘This isn’t a joke.’

The shriller she got, the calmer he became. ‘Neither is it a subject for screaming and shouting and stamping your little foot.’

He glanced down at the part of her under discussion. She had very nice ankles but she had even nicer calves. He found his eyes drawn to the silky smooth contours and higher... The skirt of the dress she wore, a silky blue thing, sleeveless and cinched in at the waist with a narrow plaited tan belt, ended just above the knee. The entire image was cool, perfectly groomed...regal.

He refused to allow the image of his hands sliding under the fabric up and over the smooth curves—but the suggestion had been enough to send a streak of heat through his body where it coalesced into a heavy ache in his groin. He could have woken up this morning in her arms. Even while he had called himself a fool during the long wakeful night, he had known it was the right decision.

‘I did not stamp my foot,’ Hannah retorted and immediately wanted to do just that.

‘But you have a tendency to turn everything into a drama, angel.’

Her brows hit her smooth hairline exposed by the severe hairstyle she had adopted that morning. The woman who had looked back at her from the mirror after she had speared the last hair grip into the smooth coil did not even look like a distant relative of the woman with the flushed face, feverishly bright eyes and swollen lips she had glimpsed in the mirror last night before she had fallen onto the bed fully dressed.

‘If this isn’t a drama, what is?’