The Desert King / An Affair with the Princess: The Desert King. Michelle Celmer

      Other signs of her addiction—the malnourished tinge to her complexion, the fragility of her flesh and bones, the fluctuating energy that used to emanate from her—were also gone. She was now the picture of health. And stability.

      He’d first attributed the changes in her to the weight gain that had followed quitting her modeling career. But now…could it be? Had she somehow overcome her addiction?

      If she had, it was a miracle. And he’d believed there were no miracles in addiction. But even if she was in rehab, she must have been clean for years. This level of stability and health wasn’t reached in less than that. He knew, only too well.

      So had she been trying to beat her addiction all along? And with the clear evidence that she’d succeeded, shouldn’t he have stuck by her, as he’d intended to do before he’d found out about the rest of her vices?

      B’Ellahi, he’d just answered himself, stating the irrefutable reason he’d owed no support to the faithless wretch she’d been.

      No. He couldn’t have acted differently in the past.

      But this was the present where it was no longer personal, where everything had changed, starting with her. Fate had decreed she was no longer a disgrace but the solution to a huge mess. And she seemed to have realized how damaging her earlier excesses had been. Now she should understand the need to heed the expectations that came with her new status.

      Not that she did. Seemed this new stability didn’t extend to responsible behavior.

      He pursed his lips on the too-welcome surge of animosity. “It doesn’t seem you’ve landed anywhere firm. I am told you’re still as erratic and as irrational as you ever were.”

      She gave him a bored look. “You are told? By little royal tweeties, no doubt. Erratic and irrational, huh? According to whose rulebook of stability and rationality?”

      “According to the one universally accepted by our species.”

      “That’ll be the day, when the whole species agrees on anything, let alone the rules of rationality.”

      “Maybe that was too generalized. It was doomed to be false.”

      Before she could revel in his concession, he moved, clamped a hand on her elbow. She jerked in surprise. And response. He knew it. That same response was jolting through him, lodging in an erection that was developing the consistency of rock. And all he’d done was touch her through her jacket and blouse. But then, he’d been semihard just thinking of her, had been fully aroused since he’d heard her voice. He could only liken his condition now to a seizure.

      Why wasn’t life simpler? Why did he have to heed logic and pride and duty? Why couldn’t he just drag her to the floor and feast on her, with no past, present or future considerations?

      Before he was tempted to do just that, he gave her a tug in the direction of the terrace before releasing her elbow as if it burned him. “Hurl whatever insults you like at me over dinner. In my e-mail, I did promise a meal.”

      She darted a step away, taking her eyes into shadow. He couldn’t read her reaction. Then her lips twisted. “You sure? Food will only give me more energy and make the invectives come easier.”

      Shaking his head at the exhilaration her every word caused to rev inside his chest, his lips widened again. “They can come easier? This I have to hear.” Then, tamping down on the clamoring urge to snatch her into his arms, he gestured for her to precede him.

      With a last considering tilt of her head, she turned and headed to the terrace. He walked behind her, devouring her every nuance and move, hormones a scalding stream in his arteries.

      They stepped out onto the terrace where the waxing moon had just turned gibbous, illuminating the sky, dimming the stars and casting rippling silver over the infinity of the ocean.

      She took in the view, her arms hugging her midriff. Her scent, free of artificiality, unchanged, unforgotten, the very distillation of sensuality, rode the gusts of gentle summer breeze, enveloping him. He ground his teeth on another surge of lust, bypassed her, walked to the table laid out with the meal kept hot over gentle flames. His hands tingled over the back of a chair, then with an inaudible curse, he pulled it back for her.

      She arched one eyebrow at his gesture, then pointedly walked to the other chair and sat herself down.

      Aiw’Ullah, that was what he deserved for succumbing to his moronic, chivalrous programming around her.

      He sat down in the chair he’d pulled back, realized it had been a good thing she’d refused to sit in it. He had the lights coming from the room at his back. This way he’d remain in relative shadow as he wallowed in the infuriating pleasure of poring over her beauty, which was bathed in both artificial and natural light.

      He watched her as she sampled what he’d ordered of appetizers, food unique to Judar. Her evident appetite and enjoyment boosted his viewing pleasure. Here was another thing about her that had changed diametrically. She used to be almost anorexic, a state he’d later realized had been induced by the drugs she’d taken for just that end, the ones she’d become dependent on.

      He found himself teasing her. “Don’t let consideration for your table partner stop you from wiping it clean.”

      She chewed on without looking at him, spoke only when her mouth was empty and she was uncovering one of the simmering dishes. “Don’t worry. I don’t consider you at all.”

      Like its predecessors, that comment flowed with the bad blood he’d established. This time he realized what the spasm that shot through him was. Regret. If only…

      But he of all people had no time for if-onlys. He wasn’t just a man with his own emotions and convictions at stake, he was a monarch whose actions controlled the reins of peace in a whole region.

      “You don’t consider anyone at all,” he bit off.

      “By that you mean I’m not bowing to everyone’s wishes without a word, don’t you? What did you all expect me to do? To feel? To say? Oh, two more parents? Cool! The old ones aren’t my real ones? Bummer. They lied to me all my life? Shame. All those hunky cousins are really my half brothers? Phew. Good thing I haven’t lusted after any of them. I have to give up my life to get bartered in a political game to a boor? Whatever. Can I have a latte now?”

      This was no laughing matter. But the way she’d delivered her parody, her choice of words, her sheer cheekiness, was irresistible. His chuckle overpowered him.

      She sighed. “Glad you see the black humor in this ‘situation.’ It is what sharr el baleyah ma yodhek was coined for, a plight big enough that only hysterical laughter can do it justice.”

      He gave a grudging nod. “The revelations must have been a shock, I grant you that….”

      She clapped in mock delight. “Ooh, can I frame your grant?”

      He fisted his hands against the urge to lunge across the table and drag her over to him and willingly rose to her bait. “You can. I can even issue you a royal declaration for a more frame-worthy concession.”

      “Wow. You’ve grown generous in your old age. Don’t splurge on those decrees and declarations, though. They might dry up on you.”

      “Can you by any stretch of your admittedly wildly fertile imagination see that happening?”

      “Nah, this here Pacific would dry up first.”

      “This here Pacific has to take care of its own abundance. I have that of my decrees and declarations taken care of. As for you—” he leaned closer, his gaze sweeping resigned appreciation over her “—it’s abundantly clear your own old age has been good to you.” He raised one eyebrow. “If not to your tongue. I don’t remember it being anywhere near this…forked.”

      That tongue came out to glaze those perfect lips, sending his hunger roaring to sample the moisture, drain it. “No?