The Royal Elite: Ahsan (Elite, Book 2) (2 page)

“A refill?” Arturo asked.

Sessily realized her wine glass was more than half empty. She needed to lay off the sauce if she wanted to succeed in her mission. “No, but thank you Arturo.”

He inclined his head and had a heavy drink of his own.

Sessily took note of the flex in his jaw and the tightness of his fingers on the vessel. It was proof in her eyes that he was feeling as much tension as she. With conversation limited, she turned her attention outward, never allowing her gaze to land exactly on her target. She skimmed by the group of men, Ahsan especially, discovering he wasn't paying any attention to her. What did she expect? That her mere presence would bring him groveling to her feet? Bashir had warned her what a difficult 'catch' Ahsan would be. Warned her, too, what would happen if she failed to get Ahsan to take her home.

Bashir Afshar, Crown Prince to the Afshar Dynasty, was a vile man. Ruthless, relentless, repulsive. She could think of a hundred derogatory terms to describe Ahsan's brother. And she expected this Ahsan to be no different. After all, they were of the same family, the same upbringing, the same blood.

Her gaze panned back to the group. Landed smack on Ahsan. To her surprise, they were eye to eye, his stare riveting, direct. Panic welled in her chest—what should she do? She wasn't prepared for this. Never mind the flutter in her chest at the handsome, if roguish, vision he presented. Tall, dark and handsome didn't do justice to Ahsan Afshar. In that fleeting meeting of gazes, his natural charisma hit her like a sledgehammer. Drawn in like a moth to a flame, she caught herself before she could do something out of 'character' and spoil the moment. Like swoon. She instinctively knew that would be a turn off for this larger than life man.

Instead, she let the corner of her mouth curve just so and let the stare linger, as if she was much more brazen than she really was. Then she tilted a look up to Arturo, using him as surely as Bashir intended her to.

“Perhaps a dance?” Sessily suggested. Several plots had been running through her mind for days, although she still did not have a good bead on which one to use. Maybe doing something else besides standing there fretting would jolt the gears into motion. She set her glass aside.

Arturo placed his drink on the table and elegantly escorted her onto the dance floor. He was a handsome man in his own right, sleekly attired and groomed to a tee. It was no hardship to fit herself in his arms and pick up the slow pace of the dance. Thankful it wasn't a fast, grinding number, Sessily let the music and movement ease some of her tension. Now, to figure out which of several angles to use on Ahsan.

The most obvious and 'easiest' in Bashir's opinion, had been to simply become Ahsan's lover. While Sessily was many things, a whore she was not. She would only resort to that if all else failed. She had no desire to pretend to want any of these controlling, power hungry men.

One of her ideas had been to use a great passion of Ahsan's to get inside: horses. She knew he bred, raised and trained them, and that his stables were known far and wide for the quality bloodlines he produced. Sessily had knowledge of horses, a boon in her current predicament. Perhaps a playful challenge of a race, or interest in breeding her own mares—of which she had none—to his stallions. It would require him to take her to his home, where she could drag out her time by visiting his stables and looking over the horses.

Another, less enticing angle would be to lie and pretend that her 'diplomat' father wanted her to procure relations with Ahsan and his household. Her father was neither in her life nor a diplomat, which meant if Ahsan checked too far into her history, he would discover her subterfuge. All she needed, however, was a few days in Ahsan's presence, in his home, to discover whether or not the man was making plans to try for the throne. For the highest position of Emir in his country.

If he was—Sessily didn't want to think what had to happen then. Bashir's instructions had been explicit and unrelenting.

Horses, she decided during the next rotation. That was her angle, the way in. She didn't have horses, or stables, or wealth, but she decided that these lies would be harder to discover than whether or not she was really the daughter of a foreign diplomat.

The next task to figure out was how to make the initial contact. Bashir insisted that Ahsan didn't like to be chased, didn't like women who fawned and preened and hounded him. Approaching him first had to appear an accident, nothing as blunt as walking up to ask for a dance or a drink.

No, she needed another way. She needed him to come to her. According to Bashir, hell would freeze over before that happened. Ahsan was apparently as arrogant as his brother and did not chase women, either. He didn't need to, Bashir had informed her, because women flocked to him like moths to flames.

During the next turn in the dance, Sessily spared a quick glance Ahsan's way. She could see that Bashir was right. A handful of women in glittering gowns lurked close to Ahsan, whispering and giggling and staring at him. Clearly, they were looking for an open opportunity or for him to take notice. She glanced at Ahsan himself to see where his attention lie—and twitched in Arturo's arms when her gaze locked dead on with the Sheikh for a second time. A tingle raced along her skin, a buzz of electricity that made goosebumps crawl down her arms. As before, she played at hauteur, arching a brow as if their glance-by-chance meant nothing to her, and looked away a moment later.

The tingle remained with her, a pleasant after effect of the Sheikh's attention. Sessily chided herself and got back to business, mentally planning ways to put her idea in place as Arturo threaded their steps through the dancers.

. . .

“You should just go ask her to dance already.”

Ahsan finished off his third glass of whiskey and deposited the empty vessel on a tray one of his security team produced. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said to Leander.

“That woman? The one you keep staring at?” Leander rocked heel to toe, a smug grin on his mouth.

“You've had too much to drink, pup. I'm not staring at anyone.” Ahsan would deny it to his last breath. He was annoyed with himself for the way his gaze continued to stray to the woman in white. It was as if he was compelled to watch the sway of her hips, the grace with which she moved over the floor. He couldn't get enough of the shine of her hair or the lazy waves the strands made down her back.

“Seriously, would it be such a crime to ask her to dance?” Sander said. “You
have
paid her more attention than any other woman I've seen.”

Ahsan glared at the King, mouth quirked into an unhappy, downward curve. “Are you telling me you haven't looked at the way her dress fits? Mister,
I'm so happily married?
”

Laughing, Sander looked nowhere but at Ahsan. “Oh yes, I glanced. How could I not? Pigs are flying somewhere, I'm sure of it, and there is no way I would pass up the opportunity to find out what woman has snagged your attention so. But I didn't
stare
, and haven't continued to moon over her like some other man I know.”

Ahsan barked a laugh at the absurd notion that he was mooning over the woman in white.

Leander interrupted to say, “Besides that, Chey would have Sander's head if he stared at other women.”

“Chey isn't here,” Ahsan countered.

“It doesn't matter. She'd find out somehow. Women are uncanny like that,” Leander stated, drawing a collective rumble of amusement from the group.

“You can't tell me that you're happy with just
one
woman for the rest of your life.” Ahsan couldn't fathom the thought. He didn't want what his brothers all had either—multiple wives—but he didn't enjoy the idea of 'settling down' with just one woman for all eternity. He loved women too much, liked sampling flavors world wide.

“It takes the right one,” Sander said. “Look how long it took me to find her.”

“You were born with that mindset, too. That you would have to take a wife, one wife, and produce heirs to take over the crown. I have no issues of crowns and thrones,” Ahsan pointed out.

“That may be true, but I didn't buckle under the pressure of finding the one the king and queen thought I should marry. I chose my own, when the time was right. There hasn't been another woman who has tempted me half as much as my own wife. I'm a lucky man.” Sander finished his thought with a satisfied grin.

Ahsan grunted, dubious that a man could be that content tied down to one woman for life. If he was honest with himself, though, he'd never seen Sander happier. Ahsan had known the king before he'd taken the throne, knew him back when they'd all traveled the world and ladies flocked around the heir in droves. Sander had definitely taken lovers, had his share of women from all corners of the earth. But there hadn't ever been the spark Sander had now, the kind that made the king cut gala parties short to go call his wife or to leave gatherings a day early to fly back to his family.

“It might not matter either way,” Leander said, once more interrupting. Attention fixated on something across the room, he added, “Looks like the lady will be leaving shortly.”

The faint frown on Leander's face drew Ahsan's gaze in the same direction. With her elbow caught in her companion's hand, the woman in white appeared to be gently, subtly, trying to get him to let go. It took a keen eye to detect the new tension between the two, and that the lady
didn't
want to do whatever the man wanted her to. She didn't seem to want another dance, or to leave, or have another drink. Ahsan couldn't be sure what the man's intentions were, but his hackles rose nevertheless.

Sander rumbled a discontent noise.

Chayton remained silent but vigilant.

Mattias said, “It appears she doesn't want whatever he's asking her to do. How far do you think he'll take it?”

“I don't know, but he's got about ten seconds to let her go or I'm heading over to break that little party up,” Leander said.

“Why wait that long?” Ahsan cut away from the group of men, bristling under his fine clothing. He cautioned himself not to let his temper get away with him. If there was anything he and his brethren detested, it was men who abused women. None of them would allow this to go on very long, and Ahsan decided to beat them all to the punch.

Stalking through the crowd, he avoided eye contact with people so he wouldn't be stopped, and only murmured greetings when directly spoken to. He angled his approach to come up on the couple's blind side, eyes narrowing when he saw the man give the woman's elbow an especially urgent tug.

This would not do. It would not do at all.

“Arturo,
please.
I don't want to go over there yet. Let go of my arm.” Exasperated and annoyed, Sessily tried again to release Arturo's grip on her elbow. His tension had spilled over, his angst at the delay in plans leading him to try and prompt her to action. But she wasn't mentally prepared yet, needed another ten minutes to adjust to the crowd, to the lies she had to say.

Before Arturo could reply, he spun around, away from her body, hand falling from her elbow. Sessily realized it wasn't of his own accord when a shadow loomed above their heads, broad shoulders blocking out part of the room.

Good heavens, it was like a brick wall suddenly appeared out of nowhere. A brick wall with Ahsan's face.

Spun by the shoulder, Arturo glanced up at the Sheikh at the same time Sessily did.

“I'm sure you've got more pressing business somewhere else, hm?” Ahsan asked Arturo. His tone suggested it was an order, rather than an option.

Arturo stammered through a reply, rubbed his shoulder with a hand, then glanced at Sessily before stalking away through the crowd.

The mild confrontation hadn't drawn the attention of too many eyes, Sessily noted, as she glanced from the departing Arturo to the hulking, taller-than-tall Sheikh. This was her chance, even if she wasn't quite prepared. She lifted her chin a fraction and fought down unexpected shivers being in such close proximity to him. The scent of sandalwood and some other masculine cologne tickled her senses.

“Thank you. I'm not sure what got into him.” Sessily played it off as a minor irritation rather than an overblown ordeal. She imagined many women might simper and play at injury to eke as much sympathy from Ahsan as possible.

“You're more than welcome. Did he hurt your arm?” Ahsan grasped her elbow in gentle yet calloused fingers and looked down to examine the flesh.

Sessily swallowed past the knot in her throat. Why was she suddenly shaking? The feel of his fingers on her skin sent shockwaves up her arm and through her body. “Y...yes. I mean, no, he didn't hurt my arm, but yes, I'm all right. I don't think he meant any real harm.”

With his whiskered chin tucked, he looked up with just his eyes. Dark eyes, like liquid obsidian. “It's better we don't find out. Only time will tell if you'll have bruises.”

Sessily regarded her elbow, or rather, his fingers on her skin. The man made it hard to think. “If so, there will be just a few. I think you scared him off for good.”

He chuckled, a rumbly, raspy sound. “You sound relieved.”

Sessily smiled. Ahsan wasn't wrong. She
was
relieved, although her reasons were different than what he imagined. Then she chided herself, remembering the task at hand. She needed to use the 'bruises' to her advantage. She couldn't afford to pass up any opportunity. “Yes. He was nice enough, I suppose, but I don't appreciate being manhandled. I already have plenty of bruises of my own.”

Ahsan smoothed his fingers along her skin, cupping her elbow in strong yet gentle hands. He arched a questioning brow. “Not another overbearing male?”

“Oh no. From riding.” She met his eyes again, allowing him to keep hold of her arm. A spark of interest lit his gaze. Good.

“Did you fall? Or was it from the equipment?” he asked.

“The equipment. New saddle.” Sessily tipped her chin up another notch. “I don't fall off horses, Mister...”

“Ahsan. No Mister needed.” He released her elbow and grasped her outstretched hand for a shake.