the center of him, breaking out of the bonds of his self-control. “You look incredible.”
“Why, thank you.” Laila pretended to fluff her hair, her eyes alight. “I spent all day on it.” She laughed, and the sound filled him with a pure, strong want. “No, that’s not true. These amazing people did it all.” She gestured into the room at the prep team, and they gave him a familiar nod. He had used all of them at one time or another for various events, and they’d brought their best every time.
He offered Laila his arm, and she stepped close to take it, the light scent of hairspray and perfume drawing him close. Zayid wanted to take her to his bedroom, not out to the state dinner. He wanted to slip her gown, a gorgeous fitted thing in silk that ran like water under his palm, to the floor and guide her out of it. He wanted to ravish that hairstyle, that makeup, until she was tousled and pink-cheeked and—
He couldn’t. Zayid wrenched his mind away from those thoughts. He had a duty to Raihan. They both did. It was time to attend the dinner.
Zayid spent five minutes wishing fervently that they didn’t have to stand in the ballroom, wasting precious time that he could spend with her away from prying eyes. And then they met King Fahd.
King Fahd was the ruler of a neighboring kingdom, and the set of his mouth was as hard as his leadership style. But Laila wasn’t bothered by this—not in the slightest. Zayid made the necessary introductions, senses on high alert for any sign that things might go awry.
The other man, with silver streaks in his hair and eyes so dark they were nearly black, frowned down at Laila. “I’ve heard rumors that you’re an artist. Do you paint?”
“I’ve dabbled.” Laila wore an easy smile, and Zayid wanted to rub the pad of his thumb over her lip. He held himself back. “My main focus is pottery. But painting—” The expression on her face became conspiratorial. “Your country is home to Mahmoud Al-Khahat, isn’t it?” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes as if she could summon one of the painter’s works from the empty air between them. “His scenes are exquisite. I can see why some people have compared him to Van Gogh.” The frown on King Fahd’s face deepened, and Zayid opened his mouth to intervene. But Laila got there first. She took a tiny step closer to King Fahd and lowered her voice. “But if you ask me, I think Van Gogh could have learned a few things from Al-Khahat.”
King Fahd’s face broke into a surprised smile, and he let out a deep, rich laugh. “That’s exactly right. All the comparisons to Vincent, but no one is willing to admit there are several areas where Al-Khahat is superior.”
“Couldn’t you just look at his work all day?” Laila’s gaze went a bit misty and far away. “I could. Even the way the light hits the paintings as the day goes on changes things. The one time I got to study one at my university, I had to leave the gallery at three in the afternoon. It was a shame.”
“Let me make it up to you,” said King Fahd, and Zayid struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. “I’ll send one of his works from my private collection so you can study it here. Consider it a belated wedding gift.” He took Laila’s hand and squeezed it with both of his. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I won’t keep you from your other guests.” Then the king, along with his people, turned and went back toward their table.
“You’ve done the impossible,” Zayid whispered in Laila’s ears.
“What? Managed to get through a full conversation?”
“Charmed the most difficult of kings.”
Laila gave him a sly glance. “I studied for this event like it’s a final exam. And I intend to get an A.”
She was kidding, wasn’t she? Zayid couldn’t tell if Laila was that talented with people or whether she really had memorized talking points for everyone at the event. But as they went around, socializing and mingling, he...enjoyed himself. It wasn’t stuffy and boring with Laila by his side. She brought everyone into the warm glow of her attention, including Zayid.
They spent the formal dinner at the high table, then after dessert, circulated among the guests again, ensuring he’d spoken with everyone at least once that evening.
Five people, then ten, then fifteen.