McKinnon's Royal Mission (Man on a Mission 1)

“Me?” she responded in kind. “What of you on Alexander? You take risks I would never dare, and you do not even wear a helmet. If you were thrown...”

He laughed and switched easily back to English. “Cowboys don’t wear riding helmets even if princesses do. You should know that by now.”

Mara laughed, too. She pulled away reluctantly and quickly dismounted, then removed her riding helmet with a tug at the strap, letting her hair tumble around her face. She led Suleiman into the stables, praising him as she went, and Trace did the same for Alexander. Twenty minutes later, their mounts groomed, fed and watered, Mara and Trace paused together to look back as they were walking out.

“You would think two stallions would never co-exist peacefully the way Alexander the Great and Suleiman the Magnificent do,” she said with a soft smile.

“Maybe it’s because they’re brothers. Or maybe it’s because they were raised together. Either way it doesn’t matter. I’m just thankful they do. Which reminds me, you never did tell me how you convinced your brother to sell Alexander to you.”

“He knew how much I wanted a horse for you equal to Suleiman in every way. What horse could match Suleiman except his own brother?” she said simply. “Perhaps I took advantage of Andre,” she added, a guilty expression creeping into her face. “He never could say no to me.”

Trace’s eyes softened. “Now why am I not surprised? I have the same problem.” Mara and Trace walked arm in arm to the main house, her riding helmet dangling by its strap from her husband’s arm.

Everything had fallen into place with amazing ease. They had been married for nearly ten months now, and the things Mara had so worried about—the money, the paparazzi, the tabloids—had somehow lost their significance. Trace took everything in his stride. He’d struggled with his pride, but had finally accepted there were some things Mara would always need because of who she was—the security of the estate in Boulder the king of Zakhar had bought for her was one of them. A household staff—a greatly reduced household staff—was another, as were bodyguards. Not federal agents. That really wasn’t necessary. And not Zakharian bodyguards, either. Just agents from a reliable Denver firm, licensed for concealed carry—there were still crazies out there, not to mention the threat still hanging over his head. Trace wasn’t taking any chances with Mara’s safety, so bodyguards were still a necessity. And her stables. Their stables, now. But other than that their life together was composed of simple, homey things.

Mara was still teaching at the University of Colorado; Trace was back working for the agency. They had agreed their jobs were off limits as topics of conversation, but they had so much else to talk about they didn’t miss it. They were friends as well as husband and wife. Friends as well as lovers. The nearly ten months since their quiet wedding on New Year’s Day had flown by.

She smiled to herself as she ran a hand through her tousled hair, which had finally grown long enough to curl wildly around her face, trying to bring some order out of the chaos. “Don’t bother,” he told her. “I like it that way. Makes you look as if you’ve just tumbled out of bed. My bed.”

“Hah!” she teased him in English. “You would like that, yes?”

“Hell yes!” He pulled her roughly into an enveloping embrace as his lips descended on hers, and everything was forgotten for the moment.

* * *

Later that night Mara lay nestled in Trace’s arms beneath the covers, her frantic heartbeat slowing as she breathed deeply and nuzzled against his warmth. Would he always have this effect on her? she wondered. Would he always make her crazy with longing, then drive her wild until nothing else mattered but the release only he could give her? Let me always feel this way, she prayed. And let me never fail to thank God every day of my life for Trace’s love.

He had already brought her to completion once with his magic hands, just as he had their very first time. Now his muscled arm tightened around her shoulders and tugged until she lay on top of him. “Tell me again,” he said, his hands cradling her face.

“I love you,” she whispered, then repeated it in Zakharan. English was good enough for most things, but Zakharan was the language of love. Her love. The language of her heart.

He shook his head. “Not that. I know that. Tell me the other.” He spread her legs and fitted himself at the portal of her womanhood. And waited.

She smiled slowly at him in the darkness. “I am ready,” she breathed in Zakharan, knowing he knew exactly what she was talking about. “I am ready if you are. I will even give up riding as we did today if you will give me your chil—” She caught her breath sharply as he arched his hips and thrust smoothly inside her. Then she was riding a wild wave until it crashed thunderously upon the shore, taking her with it.