1 - Khalid
Preview
Valeria
“This is not the right time because I want to paint you, Valeria,” Khalid whispered in his deep, velvety voice.
“P-paint me?”
I could smell his musky scent when he crooned in my ear. “Yes. Naked.”
I trembled, my body reacting acutely to his teasing words.
He continued in his low voice, his finger trailing over my neck, “I want to paint your pale skin. Your neck. Your sensual body. Your stunning eyes. Your lush lips. Your red copper hair.”
Khalid flicked my ear with his tongue, making me gasp when he whispered dirtily, “Your tits.”
“I can paint on you too, my sweet one.” He planted a soft kiss below my ear. My breathing growing erratic and breasts aching to be touched. “Lay your naked body on my bed and paint on your bare skin with my hands. Would you like that, Valeria?”
I was clenching my legs tightly, melting hot desire gushing my underwear. My heart thudded loudly against my chest. I licked my lips and answered, “I… I would love that, Khalid.”
PART ONE
“Can I kiss you, Khalid?”
1
Khalid
I lounged on the blue velvet armchair as if it was my obsidian throne. Lifting the fragile China cup to my mouth, I took a sip, relishing the burn of whiskey from the half empty bottle before the interview started. I already had the half bottle before the art show started and needless to say, I was tipsy as fuck.
“What’s the inspiration behind your paintings?” She asked, the cameras zooming in on my face.
I answered with a straight face. “Suffering and fucking.”
The female interviewer turned into a flustered mess, people whispering to each other as my agent glared at me, imitating as if he was slicing his throat. He either meant he wanted to die or wanted me to cut it out.
I gulped down the whiskey from the cup. I couldn’t care less what the art critics had to say about me or the interview when it airs. I was Khalid Al Latif. A Prince and an artist. If they didn’t want my honest answers, they could go fuck themselves while I watch.
Talking about fucking.
I eyed the people walking slowly among the crowd, hoping for a certain someone to arrive and to take her to the suite. It had been some time since I got laid. About a few months. I had been busy with my brother’s marriage, Sultan of Azmia, and making sure our palace was well protected before I could travel to London for my art show.
The interviewer cleared her throat and gestured the camera crew to roll as she crossed her legs, her skirt inching up her thigh. I wished she would hurry up with the questions instead of fluttering her lashes at me.
“Your painting, Limerence,” she started. Finally. Her tone remained professional despite the way her eyes raked over my dark suit, the top of my shirt where I had unbuttoned top two buttons. She licked her lips before continuing, “It has been auctioned for two-hundred million dollars. More than Pablo Picasso’s Women of Algiers Version O. That is certainly an enormous deal in the art industry and for your country as well. Do you think the fame of the painting has any relation with you being the Prince and the brother of Sultan of Azmia?”
I had sketched and painted Limerence, my most famous painting yet, when I was nineteen. I had painted it after the night I killed my father with his sword, a family heirloom that my brother, Zain, the Sultan of Azmia, possessed. All I could see was the flashes of crimson blood coating my shirt and his tunic, the nightgown of my little sister, and the beige wall splattered with his blood.
Flashes of red blood, and bright golden red hair with a toothy grin had conjured in my head. The image of the young girl I had met at fifteen and the living nightmare of murdering my father had made me want to pour it all out on a canvas.
Clenching my jaw, I answered in deep voice, “I didn’t want Limerence to be released to the public, but my family, my brother and sister, urged me to. My royalty certainly gave advantage for it to be recognised and I am proud that it offers more appreciation to my culture and Azmia.”
After the art show, I knew my agent would be thrilled for the smooth reply without cursing again on the live telecast.
“That is lovely. Are you seeing anyone at the moment, Your Highness? Our fans, especially the youngsters, are quite curious if there’s someone in your mind who could be a future Princess of Azmia.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
I glanced at the abstract painting I had finished before landing in London. I wasn’t going to display that painting in the gallery, but my agent had insisted. I was surprised by the attention it had garnered in a few moments. It was nothing but slashes of paints and a unique form of a figure in blue. I had to paint it after waking up from a nightmare.
The interviewer waited for my answer patiently.
I replied without hesitation. “No, I am not dating anyone, nor do I plan to. Will that be all?”
I was only capable of loving my family and my country.
Besides, who in the world would want to love a monster who had killed his own father?
***
Sophia Gora hummed in her sultry voice, examining the framed painting before us. Her manicured black painted nails hovered over the canvas as she traced an invisible line of the shades of paint.
“It looks brilliant, Khalid. You have outdone yourself this time.”
The corner of my lips curled, receiving the flat praise from our sponsor’s daughter, also a famous lingerie model.
I bowed my head a little. “Thank you, Ms Gora.”
She scrunched her nose, her dark red painted lips pouting at me. “You can call me by my first name, you know? You don’t always have to be so posh and royal.”
We walked side by side to see the next painting. The marble chrome tiles matched with the deep navy velvet folds of the wall where all my paintings were displayed with a dim lighting. Tucking my hands in the pockets of the suit pants, I mindlessly examined the people who were invited for the event. Celebrities, models, art patrons, musicians, art critics, and a few art hungry students scribbling notes as they gaped at the paintings.
My cheeks slashed with color. My paintings weren’t that good that people took notes of them.
Amongst all, I missed my sister and family who couldn’t visit the art show. Zain was the Sultan of Azmia and he couldn’t leave when Nasrin, his wife and the Sultana, was pregnant. Zara, my sister, was hopefully safe, travelling Sri Lanka and volunteering in an elephant farm, having the best time of her life playing with baby elephants, her favourite animal.
The heavy, fruity perfume made me pull out of my thoughts as Sophia leaned closer. It would have looked normal if her round breasts weren’t pressing against my arm, but it seemed awkward because of my six feet five tall frame. I loomed over her lean frame as she pretended she wasn’t doing that on purpose while examining the painting.
“What inspired you to paint this?” Her voice floated in my ears.
I smirked, glancing at the painting filled with warm blue tones.
“Lust.”
Her dark eyes widened and color bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh, really?”
I leaned down, shamelessly roving my eyes over the ample cleavage of her dress, and whispered in her ear. “Yes, indeed.”
Her pupils dilated. Before I could plan getting us into a suite in the hotel, the trace of that scent wafted past me.
I straightened up, ignoring the small frown on Sophia as I looked around, wanting to know who wore that scent. My eyes zeroed in on the woman in red.
Thoughts disappeared from my head as I raked my eyes over her dress. Just a few shades darker than her ginger hair. Beautiful, glorious hair that flowed down her back. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I marched towards her, wanting to know her. My hands ached with the need to touch her, command her to tell me why that particular scent.
The scent that reminded me of my mother and the day spent in the backyard of the foster house, talking to the little girl. The girl who had become my muse for Limerence.
“Excuse me?” I said, my hand halting to hover over her arm when I saw the cane in her hand.
My eyes went to hers, and I noticed the dark glasses. She can’t see. Swallowing the gulp in my throat, I pulled back my hand, my body flooding with warmth when she faced my direction. The scent of roses and ocean was overpowering. The same delicate fragrance of sunshine and freshly cut grass.
It was nostalgic.
“Yes?” she said. Her voice was soft, heavy with English accent but gentle. Delicate. Just like she looked.
Despite the stunning red dress hugging her curves, her face was crafted with softness. I could notice her long lashes blinking in my direction, her green eyes cloudy. Freckles dusted over her small pert nose and the high of her cheekbones. Her soft chin and pillowy lips tilting up to me, as she asked, “Who are you?”
Fuck. I wanted to touch her, close the distance between us and take her to my apartment and spend a week with her. Naked.
“I am Khalid Al Latif,” I said, not knowing why my voice had turned husky. I was definitely attracted to her.
She blinked at me, a small smile curling at her lips as red color spread over her cheeks. Shock and surprise rippled through me the longer I stared at her. Her freckled face. Her smile. Her hair. I remembered it somehow. They seemed familiar. Even her sweet presence felt like a blanket of warmth placed over me.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Prince Khalid,” she said. Hearing her say my name made me stir in my pants. “I have heard remarkable things about your paintings. I am Valeria.”
I eyed her dainty hands, her nimble fingers as I wrapped my hand around her. Shock trembled through my skin, the hair on my arms and nape of the neck rising as my large hand fitted around her much smaller one. By the small shudder in her breath, I knew it affected her too.
“I wanted to ask you about the perfume that you are wearing. It reminded me of someone.” I leaned forward, the scent of her making me insane.
My eyes darted to the pink tongue as it seeped out to wet her lips. I resisted the urge to kiss her. “I’ve always loved the scent of roses, it’s one of my favorite—”
“Valeria!” A loud noise interrupted us. A man in suit walked towards us, eyeing our adjoined hands and frowning. Valeria let go of my hand, taking a step back. Towards him.
“I was looking for you. Here, I got you champagne,” he said, glancing between the two of us. “I am Brandon, her date.”
I nodded at him, hiding my fist in my pocket.
She has a date with this guy? She can do better. Me.
Valeria declined the champagne flute, and I took it from him when he insisted her to drink it. I swallowed the bubbly alcohol, offering him an awfully sweet smile.
If Zayed, my close friend, was here, he would mock me for being jealous and even childish.
Before I could ask her to show her around the art gallery and maybe my bedroom as well, he beat me to it. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Khalid, but we have to leave or we will be late for our dinner reservation.”
Valeria gave him a look when he held her hand in front of me. I reminded myself to be civil.
You are not a caveman, Khalid. You can’t take her over your shoulder and call her yours.
“I hope we will meet again soon, Valeria,” I said, giving her a small smile, winking at Brandon, who glared at me. Date or not, he was jealous of the little exchange Valeria and I had.
“You should try more woody notes instead of oriental,” Valeria said, bowing her head and leaving in the arms of another man. “Just a suggestion, Prince Khalid.”
Woody notes? Huh.
I made my way to the agent, asking him to bring me the guest list of the art show, my eyes scanning for a particular name.
“Where is Valeria? What’s her last name?” I demanded as he ended a call with BBC News, apologising for my cursing during the live interview.
Sophia leaned closer to me, her fingers creeping up my arm.
I pulled away, “I am busy tonight, Sophia.”
“Busy?” she huffed, pulling away. “With what?”
“Work,” I replied, and repeated my question to the agent. “What is Valeria’s last name?”
“You mean the red hair you met earlier?” Sophia asked, her eyes darting from my face to the guest list.
“Yes, her. Do you know her?”
“Of course, I know her. She is the first blind entrepreneur to be on the Forbes 30 under 30,” she said with a grin. “I love the perfumes made by her company.”
“Perfume?” I prodded, wanting to know more about Valeria. She seemed intriguing the more I knew about her.
“Delicate Dew, Khalid. It’s like you are living under a rock.” She shook her head, naming the famous brand I have heard before. As Azmia was famous for its own exotic fragrance oils, lotions and perfumes, we had to know about the competition. “Her last name is Dunne. She’s Valeria Dunne. I wished she had stayed longer. I wanted to talk—”
I droned out of her talk, repeating her name. Valeria Dunne. That’s her name. The woman in red was a CEO of a perfume company.
“Cancel my flight for Azmia, I have serious business to do,” I said to my agent, who let out a long sigh. “Thank you, Sophia, remind me to treat you with dinner when we meet again.” I kissed her cheek, smiling at her.
I left the art show early. I had to call her and set up an arrangement to meet her.
I wanted to be with Valeria.
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