been enough.”
“And Eli.”
“And Eli,” she agreed. “But that was different.”
The sharp blade of envy that pierced Rakin was unexpected, and he thrust it away before the feeling could fester and turn to poisonous jealousy. “In what way?”
“We were the same age. He lived nearby while we were growing up.”
“You were being kind.”
“Maybe. At first. But the friendship was between equals—I got every bit as much out of it as Eli did. Remember, I didn’t have other close friends.”
He nodded his head. “I can understand that.”
“I suppose the reason I trust you is because I feel comfortable with you. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.”
Pulling a face, he said, “I must be a clown.”
“No! You are anything but a clown.”
He’d been joking, trying to make her smile again. But her rapid rise to his defense made him realize that Laurel was concerned she might have offended him. Too kind for her own good. She could have no idea that his emotions had been forged in a crucible guaranteed to produce solid steel. If she had, no doubt she would not be nearly as comfortable in his company.
Nor would she be contemplating visiting Diyafa. Her comment about adding Lake Como to the places she wanted to visit probably meant her list included the destinations to which she wanted to travel. Las Vegas might only have been the start of it. He’d work on convincing her that Diyafa should be next on her list.
“It is true,” she was saying earnestly before he could question her about what other places were on her list. “I can’t remember when last I felt as lighthearted and carefree as I have today.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
Under the weight of his gaze, he watched the faint wash of color warm her cheeks.
Laurel dropped her gaze to the menu. “You know, I’ve no idea what to choose.”
Rakin’s mouth curved into a smile. “I’m going to have ice cream.”
“Ice cream?”
“Something cool in this weather. But you can’t go wrong with anything on the menu.”
“My meal was fabulous.”
“Every dish on the menu is inspired by places where Picasso lived in Spain and the South of France.”
His comment prompted Laurel to gaze at a Picasso painting on the nearest wall. “What did your mother paint?”
“She created huge abstract canvases. Mostly inspired by the desert landscape.” His father had hated them. The sheikh had wanted his wife to paint realistic portrayals of the Diyafan Desert. His mother had preferred broad sweeps of color that invited the viewer to put their own interpretation on the landscape.
“Do you paint, too?”
Rakin shook his head. “I studied business—although I will confess that I majored in classical studies in my undergraduate degree so I’m not a complete philistine.” A smile tugged at his mouth.
“Philistine?” She smiled back at him. “I never thought that for a moment. Why classical studies?”
The curve of her lips promised him untold delights. Rakin forced himself to glance up. “You can’t grow up in a place like Diyafa and not be aware of ancient history—but I also loved the old legends. Greek, Roman, Egyptian—Diyafa has some wonderful legends, too.”
“Which is your favorite legend?”
There was only one answer he could give. “In present company, I’d have to say the story of Daphne and Apollo.”
Laurel wrinkled her nose at him. “Why? Didn’t she get turned into a tree?”
“A laurel tree.”
Her eyes brightened with laughter. “You’re making that up.”
Rakin shook his head. “Apollo used the leaves to weave himself a wreath—and that’s how a laurel wreath became a symbol of victory.”
“Not much of a victory since the woman he loved had been turned into a tree.”
“And even hollower, when you consider that she felt nothing for him—she was fleeing his pursuit.”
“Poor Apollo.” She glanced at him through her lashes.
Heat blasted through him. And Rakin resisted the impulse to tell him that if she was any more skilled a flirt, every man in the world would be in mortal danger.
“Have you decided what you want to order?” he asked instead.
“Chocolate—rich chocolate. I’ll go with the restaurant’s recommendation. And then I want to gamble.”
Rakin couldn’t help grinning at her reckless, single-minded determination.
“I haven’t forgotten—we’ll gamble all night long.”
The hush that hung over the casino was broken from time to time by the clatter of chips and the muted exchange of voices as bets were placed. Silent waitresses glided past with trays of complimentary drinks. By invitation only, this was the domain of the rich, the famous … and the dedicated gamblers. And Laurel was growing to dread the sound of the chips being raked across the green baize.
Around the roulette table where she and Rakin had settled, several stacks of chips were growing to skyscraper heights. But, along with the thin man sitting opposite them and nursing a whisky with increasingly desperate eyes as his pile dwindled, Laurel was losing.
And her stomach had started to churn with disquiet. She’d lost at least five thousand dollars of Rakin’s money in the first ten minutes, and a fair bit of her own after she’d absolutely refused to accept more chips from him. What damage would a whole night’s gambling do to Rakin’s fortune—and her own? “I’m starting to think Grandfather was right,” she told Rakin in a low aside.
“Your Winthrop grandfather?”
Laurel nodded. “He considered gambling a curse.”
“One you hoped to break tonight?”
“Hmm.” She considered that. Had she believed that by winning on the tables she’d be proving that she could break the old taboo? Had she wanted to overturn—even by a small win—the curse of impoverishment that gambling, along with bad investments, had caused the Winthrops to suffer in the past? She wasn’t sure. “I don’t think my reasons were quite so inspired. I was probably more determined to try something that my family disapproved of—totally the wrong reason to do anything.”
Rakin chuckled, attracting a glare from the gambler losing across the table.
Leaning closer
