Sunday Snippet

 

My snippet today is from Reluctant Royal. Now available for purchase at AMAZON or a free read with your Kindle Unlimited subscription. 

Blurb

In June of 1978 Grady Ormond, eighteen-year-old son of diplomat Peter Ormond, accompanies his father to his new posting as US Ambassador to Pakistan. Neighboring Iran is on the brink of a civil war, with the monarchy in danger of being overthrown.

Grady will be leaving for New York City in late August to study cinematography and has been warned to keep his homosexual orientation tightly under wraps while on vacation. Repercussions in the predominantly Islamic region could be severe.

On their first night in Karachi, his father hosts a cocktail party to meet the local dignitaries. Grady is introduced to His Highness Prince Kamran Izadi, nephew of the shah of Iran. Twenty-three-year-old Kamran has recently returned from the UK, where he spent eleven years, first as a student, and then as a financial analyst.

The attraction is immediate—unforeseen and dangerously powerful—but neither one dares to make a move. Odds are so stacked against them it’s futile to even entertain a friendship, but they do, and their world tilts precariously.

With his country in turmoil and Grady about to leave for college, Kamran makes a decision that will change their lives forever.

Snippet

I surveyed the crowd to see if anyone might tempt me to risk my father’s reputation and possibly my life. The list of things I wasn’t allowed to do in this predominantly Muslim country was a mile long. Spencer, Father’s right hand and my unofficial watchdog, droned on—sounding remarkably like an unhappy goat instead of the Rhodes Scholar he was—during the plane ride over, stressing the importance of keeping my proclivities under wraps. Tension was already sky-high since the election of General Zia-ul-Haq following the military coup in 1977, and neighboring Iran was on the brink of destruction, with the shah poised to flee the country at any minute. The last thing anyone needed was an international incident involving the gay son of an American diplomat. To be blunt, Spencer told me to keep my hands to myself and my prick tucked safely in my boxers. Sodding prig… what did he know about passion? The man had never even married.

Another waiter walked by, and I traded the barely sipped martini for something appearing much more satisfying. The ice clinked against the tall glass filled with a reddish-orange liquid, and after taking a tentative sip, I could detect the bitter taste of Campari in the mix. It was refreshing, and I tapped the waiter on his stiffly starched white shirt to ask him what I was drinking.

“It’s a Rose Collins, sahib,” he answered deferentially.

“Delicious.”

He bobbed his head and began circulating once more.

“Have you never had a Rose before tonight?”

I turned to respond and was brought up short by the sight of a man in a white Nehru jacket. He was my height, roughly five ten or eleven, and appeared to be close to my age. The husky voice enunciating the question in perfectly accented English gave me goose bumps. He was the embodiment of every fantasy I’d harbored since watching the movie Lawrence of Arabia at least ten times. It had released in 1962, a couple of years after I was born, and had won every major award in the world of cinematography, a field I hoped to enter after completing college. I had drooled over Omar Sharif on many occasions, and this stranger could have walked onto a Hollywood set quite easily.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Have we met?”

The hawkish nose and winged brows were a stark contrast to limpid brown eyes the color of good English toffee. He smiled, and a dimple appeared near the corner of his mouth, making the fierceness I found at first glance vanish in a heartbeat. His complexion was several shades darker than mine, magnified by the gold-embroidered white jacket.

“Prince Kamran Izadi,” he said, bowing slightly. “At your service.”

At your service. Dear God. I would have dropped to my knees in an instant and serviced him if he’d indicated an interest. The artistic side of my nature picked every one of his features apart, and I wished I had my sketch pad close by to start a rough drawing. His demeanor was commanding, as could be expected from a royal, and although I’d grown up in a country where blue blood sightings were an everyday occurrence, I’d never actually met one. Kamran was the embodiment of a prince, at least the ones I’d glorified, but ten times better because he was real and not some fantasy I’d conjured up in my head. As usual, my imagination had taken flight in the middle of our conversation, and I had to concentrate to catch up.

“Grady Ormond,” I said, stretching out my arm. “Ordinary citizen.”

He appeared amused by my description. I noticed he had beautiful white teeth without the Sharif gap I had never found attractive, and his full lips were perfectly formed, as if they’d been carved in marble by a Renaissance master. Reflexively, I ran my tongue along my lips, wondering what he would feel and taste like. I chased the idea away as soon as it materialized. There was nothing in Kamran’s countenance to indicate he was anything like me.

“If you’re in this room, you can’t be ordinary,” he said politely. “Most of the people here tonight are in some position of power.”

“Undoubtedly,” I responded, “but it’s my father who counts. I’m just his tagalong.”

“You’re being too modest.”

“Not at all,” I assured him. “I’m merely an aspiring artist/cinematographer.”

“Pleased to meet you, Grady,” he said. He paused as he said my name and let the r roll off his tongue slowly, practicing the sound to make sure he got it right. I was aware that my name wasn’t common, especially on this side of the world. It was actually my late mother’s surname and assigned to her only living child to keep her genealogy alive.

“Are you really a prince?” I asked.

“For the moment,” he replied stiffly. “While my uncle is still in power.”

“Who’s your uncle?”

“Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi.”