Taming The Sheik. Carol Grace
Arms, a luxurious landmark hotel on Nob Hill. She especially couldn’t afford to stay in a top-of-the-line suite there. That was when she saw the note on the table and read, the words ringing through her head:
A great evening…better shape…see more of you…taxi money…Sheik Rafik Harun.
Who on earth was that? What on earth had happened? She sat on the edge of a large overstuffed chair with her head in her hands and told herself to think. To remember. But it was so hard with her head feeling as if it were caught in a vise. Slowly, slowly it came to her. The handsome groomsman. The flirtatious sheik, driving her home. Why hadn’t he? Could it be that he’d never intended to take her home? That he’d wanted to seduce her, not because she was so gorgeous or desirable, which she wasn’t, but just to add another notch to his belt?
But had he? How would she know? She was a virgin. She had no idea how you felt after a night of lovemaking. She only knew that her head hurt and her whole body felt as if she’d been wrung through a wringer. Someone had removed her bra. Someone had put his shirt on her. Someone had slept next to her. That someone was a sheik. What else had he done? What had she done? The jumble of thoughts, the myriad of possibilities made her face flame. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do now? She was going to get out of there. Then she was going to find the sheik and find out what had happened last night.
She stumbled into the bathroom to wash her face. The mirror was still steamed up. The smell of soap and after-shave still in the air. She’d just missed him. Why hadn’t he woken her up? Because that’s the way it was. After a night of seduction, after the man got what he wanted, he left you a note saying he’d call you, left taxi money and then disappeared. Out of your life forever. Though she’d had no experience of spending the night with strange men, or any men for that matter, she knew that’s how it was.
In this case he’d left his address and phone number on the stationery, as if she’d want to call him! She didn’t want him to call her either. She never wanted to see him again. But she had to. She had to find out what had happened. If she could only find her shoes. And more important, her little clutch purse with her money and her house keys. They weren’t under the bed and they weren’t in the closet. The closet contained only men’s clothes. Very expensive men’s clothes. Not only suits and shirts and ties, but slacks and designer jeans and polo shirts.
She took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the office number on his stationery. Her palms were damp. What would she say exactly?
How dare you take advantage of me?
Where are my shoes and my purse?
What happened anyway?
I never want to see you again!
What would he say? Would he pretend nothing happened? That he didn’t know what she was talking about? She didn’t get a chance to say anything because she got his voice mail and she froze. The things she thought she would say, the questions she wanted to ask, could not be spoken into a machine. They had to be spoken to a person. Sheik Rafik to be exact. She hung up.
There was only one thing to do. She’d call the house where the wedding reception had been. Perhaps the housekeeper had found her purse there.
“There was no purse here,” the housekeeper said when Anne got her on the phone. “I believe you had it with you when the gentleman drove you home.”
The gentleman! If only he was a gentleman. Maybe she’d left her purse and shoes in his car. She thanked the housekeeper, grabbed the money from the table and walked out the door, barefoot. She would have loved to have left the money there, but under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to. She got quite a few stares in the elevator, and even more in the lobby as she sauntered through, head held high, trying to act as if spending the night with a rich, eligible bachelor and sneaking out the next morning in the same dress happened to her every day. Why couldn’t she remember coming in last night?
If only she could sneak out. But it was hard to sneak when you were barefoot, and wearing a pink bridesmaid’s dress. You were bound to get a few curious glances in your direction. She got more than a few.
What a relief to get into a taxi. The driver barely gave her a second glance as she gave him Rafik’s office address. Thank heavens for blasé cabdrivers. The only expression on his face was a frown when she handed him the hundred-dollar bill. He emptied his pockets and gave her change which she clutched in her hand after giving him a generous tip.
Then she stood in front of the office building on Montgomery Street in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. The pavement was cold beneath her bare feet as she stood staring up at the high-rise. Bike messengers whizzed by, horns honked, but she scarcely noticed. She wondered which office was his, wondered if she’d have the nerve to actually go up and confront him.
She had to. She had no choice. She squared her shoulders, walked through the revolving doors and strode across the marble lobby as if she belonged there. She looked straight ahead, pretending she had blinders on, ignoring whatever curious looks were directed her way, and they must have been numerous.
The office of United Venture Capitalists was on the fourteenth floor and smelled of fresh paint and new carpets. A well-groomed receptionist behind a cherrywood desk first greeted her with a smile then her mouth fell open in surprise as she took in Anne’s unusual and unbusiness-like appearance.
“My name is Anne Sheridan. I’m here to see Sheik Rafik Harun,” Anne said, summoning all the dignity she had.
“Uh…yes. Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. As if a barefoot woman in a formal dress would have an appointment with a sheik.
“No, but I have to see him.”
“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said coolly. “Won’t you sit down?”
Anne was too nervous to sit down. Instead she stood looking at the pictures on the wall of the ventures the company had funded. She examined a portrait of the grandfather who’d founded the company, a distinguished-looking sheik in traditional Arab dress. When she heard male voices approaching, she whirled around. It was not Rafik. It was an older man who looked very much like the sheik in the picture on the wall with an American who was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
“May I help you, my dear?” the older man asked with a slight bow.
She swallowed hard. “I’m here to see Rafik.”
His gaze flicked over her dress. He pressed his lips together in a tight line. He seemed to understand without asking, just what had happened. Though he couldn’t possibly know when she didn’t even know herself. Unless it was a common occurrence for women to appear in evening gowns unannounced, asking for his son. She wouldn’t be surprised.
“I see,” he said. “Where is my elder son?” he asked the receptionist.
Her gaze fluttered from her desk to her telephone to the elder sheik. “I…I believe he’s in his office.”
“Then show the young lady in,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir, right away.” She jumped up from her desk and while the two men watched she led Anne down the hall to the large office on the corner. She knocked on the door and when Rafik yelled for her to come in, the woman opened the door, ushered Anne in and then disappeared.
Rafik was seated behind an enormous desk talking on the phone with his back to the door and to Anne. She had an excellent view of the back of his handsome head and his broad shoulders in his well-tailored suit jacket. Her heart was hammering in her chest like a tom-tom. This was a terrible idea. She should just turn around and walk out while she still could. He’d never know. But his father would tell him. And she still didn’t have her purse.
“Yes, of course I’ll be there,” he said. “The whole family will be there and very pleased to be hosting the benefit this year…. It gives us a chance to meet the community…. No, not yet. I’m new in town, you know. Haven’t had a chance to meet many women….” That was the only reason he’d spent the night with her, Anne thought. He didn’t