I bet he comes from more royal stock than you do,” she added with a sidelong glance that did not make it higher than his chest.
Her obvious appreciation of him should have inspired satisfaction, but her remark stung. All his life he had known exactly who he was. Or thought he had. In minutes everything had changed. His mother was American. Rich but not of royal blood.
He did not want to think about this dilemma now. He had come looking for distraction. His gaze drew back to the woman. “And you? What are you called?”
“Olivia Smith.” She lifted her chin. “You may call me Ms. Smith.”
A smile breached Sharif’s lips. She was a most unusual woman. “Well, Ms. Smith, tell me about Khalid.”
She gave him a sour look and mumbled, “Livy. Everyone calls me Livy.” Adjusting her hat, she turned to remove the horse’s bit. More light brown strands floated around her face. Chopped, uneven strands. He detested short hair on women. Another American and European custom with which he did not agree.
“In this country, when someone tells you their name you’re supposed to return the favor,” she said, her attention entirely focused on removing Khalid’s bridle.
Sharif hesitated, unfamiliar with her phrasing. Having been educated in London, he had excellent command of the English language, but this woman bewildered him. In many ways.
She continued to concentrate on Khalid, unbuckling the throatlatch and noseband with a firm but loving hand even though Sharif could tell she was annoyed with him. Another puzzle. In his country, even in London and Monte Carlo, women sought him out. Beautiful women. Accomplished women. They strove to please him in every way.
He thought again about what she had said. Return the favor. “I am Sharif Asad Al Farid,” he said proudly, guessing, not wishing to ask her to explain.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Huh?”
He grunted his impatience. Did she really not know who he was? Back in his country, the entire palace staff would have been advised of an important arrival. Of course King Zak and Rose were concerned about reporters. Sharif himself was not anxious to be their prey as he had been in the past.
“That’s a whole lot of names. What am I supposed to call you?” She looked utterly perplexed. And charming. “And don’t say, Your Royal Highness. That’s too big a mouthful…besides being weird.”
“Then just Your Highness will do fine.” The teasing words left his lips before Sharif realized he had the capacity to jest. The result was pleasing, however, when Livy stared at him in openmouthed surprise.
She had a fine mouth. Straight white teeth, lush pink lips that needed no artificial color. Lips that suddenly curved.
“I thought you were serious for a minute,” she said, “until I saw that little twinkle in your eye.”
His good humor fled and he straightened. “My eyes do not twinkle.”
“Sure they do.” She slowly eased the bit out of Khalid’s mouth, then stopped to study Sharif a moment. “But right now you look like a mean old grizzly bear. You really ought to smile and twinkle more. You look so much more handsome. Of course you already know how beautiful you are.”
Her frank, unguarded expression startled him almost as much as her heartfelt words. Judging by the pink color seeping into her cheeks, they had surprised her, as well. Quickly she averted her gaze and tended to the tack, her movements slightly awkward.
Since he was a child he had been lavished with compliments and flattery, but none he could remember that affected him more. Her earnestness touched a place deep inside him, buried beneath the artifice privilege and wealth often fostered. Unlike many others, she did not use her honeyed words to curry favor. She spoke impulsively with the openness of a child.
After she made sure Khalid was secure in his stall, she eyed the barn door. She was about to flee, Sharif was sure of it, but he did not want her to go. When she made a sudden move, he reached for her arm. It was so small and fragile, he immediately loosened his grip, afraid he would hurt her.
“What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”
She tried to twist out of his grasp, but she was no match for him.
“I do not intend to hurt you. I only want—” Sharif stared into her anxious eyes. What did he want? To erase the past week when his entire life had changed? This girl could not help him. No one could. His demons were his alone to battle. “I want you to take off your hat.”
“Excuse me?”
He raised his free hand to accomplish the task himself, but she ducked away. “It is you who are beautiful. You should not dress like a boy.”
“I’m not dressed like a—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “What did you say?” Anger tinged her voice and she stared at him as though he were the devil himself.
Her unexpected reaction caught him off guard, so when she jerked away, he lost his grip and she used her freed hand to jam her hat more securely on her head. “Never mind. Don’t you dare repeat it,” she said, her voice breaking. “That was low, really low. Even for someone like you.”
“Wait.” He blocked her path, then when she tried to get around him, he held her by the shoulders. “I do not understand.”
“I know I don’t act or look like other girls, but I don’t need you pointing it out, buster.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. “And for your information, not every girl wants to be beautiful. I’m fine just the way I am.”
He fisted a hand around hers before she jabbed him again. Her nails were short, but they were ragged and chafed his skin. She tensed under his touch. “I will not hurt you,” he repeated.
“You already have,” she muttered, and he promptly released her. “I have to get back to work.” She briefly glanced over her shoulder. “I can clean your shirt, if you want. I feel partly responsible.”
He waved a dismissive hand. He had many more like them. “I want to understand why I have angered you. In my country, women like to be told they are beautiful.”
She sighed. “Here, they like to be told the truth.” One side of her mouth lifted. “Most of them.” She shrugged. “Okay, most of the time we do.”
She sighed again and looked at him with an odd longing in her eyes. This was not a woman who tried to hide her feelings. A new experience for him that was both refreshing and unsettling.
“Olivia Smith, take off your hat.” She scowled at his command, and he grudgingly added, “Please.” Not a word he used often, it rolled gruffly off his tongue.
She touched the rim uncertainly. “Why?”
“It hides your face and hair.”
“That could be a good thing. Trust me.”
“No.” He slowly moved his hand toward the hat. “Trust me.”
Livy froze, closing her eyes, barely able to breathe as he gently lifted the hat off her head. His movement was so smooth and unhurried, it seemed sensual somehow, and for
