Her Royal Bed

“What's wrong?” she whispered to him.

Bobby acted as though he hadn't heard her. He stared at her brother Sakir, his gaze hooded like a hawk.

“Is it possible for us to behave like gentlemen tonight, Callahan?” Sakir asked, his tone cool as he stuck out a hand in Bobby's direction.

Eyes narrowed, Bobby glowered.

“It'll be a cold day in hell before I shake the hand of the man who stole my father's land and helped put him in the ground.”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

J
ane Hefner affixed an easy smile to her face as she walked into the entryway of Rolley Estate, her heels clicking against the white marble. One month ago, the Turnbolts' grand Texas compound would have made her normally confident manner wilt slightly. But that was one month ago, when she'd been a regular girl, living in a modest duplex on a quiet street of an even quieter beach town in California, working as a chef in a quaint little restaurant for a meager salary—a salary she'd hoped would someday earn her enough to open her own sand-side eatery.

One month ago, when she'd been just Jane Hefner—not Jane Hefner Al-Nayhal, the long-lost princess of a small but wealthy country named Emand.

With only four weeks worth of instructed grace and
poise to her credit, Jane shouldered her way through the thick crowd now milling about the Turnbolts' mahogany-paneled living room snatching up a variety of hors d'oeuvres and what her mother always referred to as “stiff drinks.”

Rolley Estate was a magnificent place, a massive hunting-lodge-style home that sat atop a twelve-hundred-foot tall mesa overlooking four thousand acres of prime wildlife habitat. Just thirty minutes outside of Paradise, Texas, Rolley felt a world away from the big city with its quiet serenity, native game and rugged beauty. Jane had learned from her brother that the owners, Mary Beth and Hal Turnbolt, had purchased the property five years previously and had quickly transformed the once-unhurried surroundings into a modern showplace complete with three guesthouses, a lake and gazebo, a show barn, an indoor arena and a helipad.

Finding a relatively quiet spot near the brick fireplace, Jane sat, the gentle blaze behind her warming the skin of her back, which was laid bare due to the low sweep of her emerald-green silk dress. Lord, it felt wonderful to be alone. Even for just a few hours. She adored her new brothers and her sister-in-law, Rita, but in four weeks the only time she hadn't been engaged in conversation or some type of royal duty was in bed—and even then her dreams seemed to be just as active as her daily life.

“Shrimp?”

Jane glanced up and smiled at the friendly-looking waiter, remembering why she was attending the Turnbolts' party—to check out the high-society Tex-Mex
party food, wait staff and chefs in Dallas. She had a staff to hire and a menu of her own to create. Baby Daya Al-Nayhal's Welcome to the World party was just three weeks away, and Jane was determined to make Sakir's and Rita's jaws drop when they saw the spread.

Reaching for a large grilled shrimp, Jane eyed a small bowl of untouched sauce beside the fan of prawns. “What's this?”

“Oh.” The young man bit his lip, his gaze flickering from Jane to the sauce, then back again. “That's cilantro. A cream sauce, I think.”

He thinks?

Jane grimaced. If this guy worked in her kitchen she'd be reading him the riot act right now. But she didn't have a kitchen of her own anymore.

“Would you like to try it?” The question held a touch of worry, as if the man hadn't tried the sauce himself and wasn't altogether sure about the freshness of the main ingredients.

“Thank you,” Jane said, sliding a half dozen shrimp onto her plate.

The sauce was divine, spicy and creamy and a definite asset to the shrimp. As she watched her uninformed waiter walk away, then sidle up to an older couple with his silver tray, Jane shook her head. She felt for the chef whose delicious concoction was going unnoticed as the waiter not only forgot to offer it, but also looked uneasy about ingredients he couldn't even name.

Finishing off one large prawn, Jane wondered if her search for catering staff might prove more difficult than she had once thought. If the past week was any indica
tion, then she ought to start worrying. Three parties in seven days and she'd found only one server who had made an impression on her. There was no doubt about it. She had to focus every ounce of her time and energy on the search, with no other interests to distract her. The problem was, she was finding herself distracted a lot lately. Granted, she was happy to offer herself as caterer to her new family for this one event, but that fulfilling surge of pride and purpose wasn't there, as it had been when she was a chef.

Jane's thoughts faltered as around her the noise in the room dropped to a dull roar. She glanced up and saw a woman in her late sixties with dark eyes and a very long, beakish nose standing at a makeshift podium, two priceless abstract oil paintings hanging impertinently on either side of her. It was their hostess, Mary Beth Turnbolt. She stared at the crowd as though she would dearly love to press some invisible mute button and get everyone to quit talking. But she did just as well by lifting her hands in the air and pursing her thin lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began to say in a husky, though surprisingly friendly voice. “I would like to thank you for coming tonight. It's wonderful to see so many friends who support this cause. As most of you know, our housekeeper Beatrice's son, Jesse, is afflicted with Down's Syndrome, and Hal and I are just as passionate as his parents about funding research and treatments.”

Jane saw Mary Beth turn and smile at a round, apple-cheeked blond woman sitting on the couch. A man Jane could only assume was Beatrice's husband sat beside her, his hand clamped tightly over hers.

Jane felt a pull of emotion as she fully realized the weight of the evening's benefit.

“We have a special guest tonight,” Mary Beth continued, drawing Jane's gaze back to the podium. “He rarely comes to these events, though we all try to persuade him.”

A trickle of soft feminine laughter followed this comment, and Jane's brows drew together in confusion.

Mary Beth beamed, her smile large and toothy. “Please help me welcome one of my dear friends, and the man who trained all nine of our horses, Bobby Callahan.”

Jane followed the gazes of the party guests as all eyes flew to the doorway. It didn't take long to see what all the tittering and whispering was about. Promptly forgetting about the three remaining shrimp drowning in delectable sauce on her plate, Jane stared at the man walking through the crowd and up to the podium. He was in his early thirties, at least six-foot-three, brawny and barrel-chested, and wearing a black tuxedo that could barely contain him.

Jane's heart began to thump, and the easy blaze behind her suddenly felt like an all-consuming forest fire.

Unlike most of the dressed-up testosterone in the room, this was no society gentleman who stood before her. His cowboy swagger and rugged, untamed features under a short crop of dark-brown hair, clearly stated that this man worked outside, pushed his body to the limit and didn't give a damn about designer labels or fancy shrimp.

Jane remembered to swallow as Bobby Callahan faced the crowd with a self-assured, denim-blue stare.
He was far from classically handsome, but the air he gave off—that gust of leather and sunshine and pure-blooded male—easily made him the sexiest man in the room.

Jane watched as he adjusted the microphone to accommodate his height, then placed his large hands on either side of the podium. “First off, I want to thank Mary Beth and Hal for giving this party to help Down's Syndrome and KC Ranch. And I want to thank them for inviting me here tonight and allowing me to speak to y'all. Especially knowing how long-winded I can get.” He paused, gave a decidedly roguish smile.

Jane stood and on bizarrely unsteady legs, moved into the crowd, closer to the podium.

“My daddy used to say,” Bobby began to say, his sexy Texan drawl as big as the rest of him. “‘If it don't seem like it's worth the effort, it probably ain't.' Those words have stuck with me, made me look real close, find out what's important in this life.” He inhaled deeply, then continued talking in a powerful voice, “Most of you know that my sister, Kimmy, died one month ago today. She was the inspiration for KC ranch, and the most important thing in my life, and I miss her every damn minute. But her memory gives me a reason, a kick in the backside actually, to get up in the morning. Sure, she had Down's, but she never let that stop her. She was a tough one, bossed me around somethin' awful. But she was my best friend, and my inspiration.” His voice fell from booming to restrained, and his grin vanished. He looked around, nodded at a few people before resuming. “Some of you know about KC Ranch—the morning grooming programs we offer for the little kids, the
after-school assisted-riding programs and overnight summer camps for developmentally challenged, hearing-impaired, learning-disabled, physically challenged and visually impaired kids. Some of you have been real generous over the years, and some of you may decide to get real generous tonight.”

There was a collective chuckle sprinkled throughout the room, though the sound was respectfully muffled. Bobby Callahan was absolutely riveting, grabbing the men's attention with his humor and easy speech, and the women's with his honorable words, and the loyalty and love he had for his sister.

“I believe, and I know my dad would've felt the same, that KC Ranch is worth every effort.” His jaw tightened as he nodded. “Hope y'all do, too. Have a good night now.”

The room erupted into applause, and Jane noticed that some of the women were dabbing at their eyes, trying to stop their fifty-dollar mascara from running. But she didn't keep her gaze on the crowd for long. Standing on her tiptoes, she strained to find Bobby Callahan, to see where he was, and if he was with anyone.

She couldn't get over his speech, those words, they'd torn into the open wound of her soul, the one that had never healed since her mother had told her so many years ago that she was going blind. It was odd. Many people had tried to talk with Jane about her mother, about her feelings and fears over the years. But Jane always had stuffed her emotions. She'd never had the time or the fortitude to go there in her mind
and heart. But tonight, for some strange reason, Bobby Callahan had dug up all of those long-buried feelings.

Her pulse jumping in her blood, Jane spotted him shaking hands with a few people at the bar before grabbing two beers and heading out of the room.

Jane waited to see if anyone would follow him, and when no one did, she made her move.

“Spare rib in a port-wine glaze?” A girl in her early twenties with a killer tan and wide green eyes, a shade lighter than Jane's, held out a silver tray. “Goes wonderfully with the dry merlot we're serving tonight.”

Jane shook her head, distracted. “No, thank-you.” The server was perfect—in appearance, attitude and professionalism—and if Jane was on top of things, she would have found out the girl's name and phone number for the Welcome to the World party. But the focus she'd sworn to uphold just moments ago had evaporated when Bobby Callahan had taken the stage.

Normally she wasn't this interested. Normally she looked at men as a consideration for the future, possible husband material, a father to the three children she wanted to have someday. Normally she didn't leave a party to hunt down a tall, tanned and highly altruistic cowboy. But tonight she was pulled from the room by some unknown force she was too mortified, and frankly too scared, to name.

Ten minutes of searching and careful inquiries later, she found him. One floor up, and down a long hallway, a large flagstone terrace jutted out over the preserve. A soft, though oddly cool breeze for early
fall, rustled in the trees beyond, and made Jane hug her arms.

The man whose words had been so heartfelt and animated downstairs was now standing against the railing, reveling in the silence of the landscape, drinking a beer, his back to her. Like some kind of deranged spy, Jane crept onto the deck and ducked behind a large potted plant. With no clue as to what her next move should be, she just watched him for a good five minutes as he downed both of his beers and stared into the black night.

Her right foot went tingly and her knees ached with the strain of her weight as she crouched there. She wondered what the hell she was thinking. Where had her good, practical and highly steady sense escaped to?

She glanced behind her. If someone saw her out here like this, she'd be the laughing stock of Paradise, Texas, and the surrounding counties, while embarrassing her brother and sister-in-law to no end.

What she needed to do was stand up, silently edge her way out of the plant and return to the party. Hey, if she really was desperate to meet Bobby Callahan there were about five more sensible ways of going about it.

“My daddy used to say,” came a deep, masculine drawl, “‘Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear'.” He turned around and eyed the potted plant as if he could see straight through it. “‘Or a fool from any direction.' Which one you reckon I am?”

Jane went cold and her breath caught in her throat as a leaf pitilessly tickled her back.

“If you've got something to say, darlin', I suggest you come out from behind those weeds and say it.”

Sweat broke out at the base of her skull where her dark brown hair was pinned neatly in a knot. It trickled down her neck into the bodice of her gown. What should she do now? Run for her life? Pretend she wasn't there? What if he stalked over to the plant, wrenched the leaves apart and caught her sitting there like an enormous ladybug?

Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she attempted to slow her thudding heart. But the yoga technique did nothing, and she forced herself to stand. Embarrassed to her very core, she parted the green foliage and stepped out of the massive plant. Shaking her head, she managed to say a lame, “I'm sorry.”

Jane quickly saw that Bobby Callahan had a way of assessing a person with one easy sweep from toe to top. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Jane,” she answered him, brushing a small clot of dirt from her dress.

He lifted one dark brow. “Just Jane?”

“Wouldn't that be easier?” she said dryly. “For us both?”