Mistress Of The Sheikh. Sandra Marton
She could see him in this room, tall and leanly muscled, stiff with regal arrogance. He belonged here.
Then she saw the oil painting on the wall. She hesitated, then walked toward it, eyes lifted to the canvas.
The room was a sham. All the sophistication, the urbanity…a lie, all of it. This was the real man, the one she’d met that night, and never mind the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn then, and the nonsense about his half-American ancestry.
The painting was of Nicholas al Rashid dressed in desert robes of white trimmed with gold, seated on the back of a white horse that looked as wild as he did. One hand held the reins; the other lay on the pommel of the elaborate saddle.
And his eyes, those silver eyes, seemed to be staring straight at her.
Amanda took a step back.
She was wrong to have come here, wrong to have let Dawn convince her she could take this job, even if the sheikh permitted it.
Wrong, wrong, wrong—
“What in hell do you think you’re doing in my bedroom?”
The tiny camera fell from Amanda’s hand. She swung around, heart racing, and saw the Lion of the Desert, the Heir to the Imperial Throne of Quidar, standing in the doorway, just as he’d been doing that night in her dormitory room.
No jeans and T-shirt this time.
He wore a dark gray suit, a white-on-white shirt and a dark red tie. He was dressed the same as half the men in Manhattan—but it was easy to imagine him in his flowing robes and headdress, with the endless expanse of the desert behind him instead of the marble hall.
Maybe it had something to do with the way he stood, legs apart, hands planted on his hips, as if he owned the world. Maybe it was the look on his hard, handsome face that said he was emperor of the universe and she was nothing but an insignificant subject….
Get a grip, Amanda.
The man had caught her off guard that night, but it wouldn’t happen again. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, and she’d learned how to deal with hard men who thought they owned the world, men like her father, her stepfather, her ex-husband.
Whatever else they owned, they didn’t own her.
“Well? Are you deaf, woman? I asked you a question.”
Amanda bent down, retrieved her camera and tucked it into her beaded evening purse.
“I heard you,” she said politely. “It’s just that you startled me, Sheikh Rashid.” She took a breath, then held out her hand. “I’m Amanda Benning.”
“And?” he said, pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Didn’t your sister tell you about me?”
“No.”
No? Oh. Dawn? Dawn, where are you?
Amanda smiled politely. “Well, she, um, she invited me here tonight.”
“And that gives you the right to sneak into my bedroom?”
“I did not sneak,” she said, trying to hold the smile. “I was merely…” Merely what? Dawn was supposed to handle all this. It was her surprise.
“Yes?”
“I was, um, I was…” She hesitated. “I think it’s better if Dawn explains it.”
A chilly smile angled across his mouth. “I’d much rather hear your explanation, Ms. Benning.”
“Look, this is silly. I told you, your sister and I are friends. Why not simply ask her to—”
“My sister is young and impressionable. It would never occur to her that you’d use your so-called friendship for your own purposes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The sheikh took a step forward. “Who sent you here?”
“Who sent me?” Amanda’s eyes narrowed. Nearly eight years had gone by, and he was as arrogant and overbearing as ever. Well, she wasn’t the naive child she’d been the last time they’d dealt with each other, and she wasn’t frightened of bullies. “No one sent me,” she said as she started past him. “And there’s not enough money in the world to convince me to—”
His hand closed on her wrist with just enough pressure to make her gasp.
“Give me the camera.”
She looked up at him. His eyes glittered like molten silver. She felt a lump of fear lodge just behind her breastbone, but she’d sooner have choked on the fear than let him know he’d been able to put it there.
“Let go of me,” she said quietly.
His grasp on her wrist tightened; he tugged her forward. Amanda stumbled on her high heels and threw out a hand to stop herself. Her palm flattened against his chest.
It was like touching a wall of steel. The cover photo from Gossip sprang into her head. Savage, the caption had called him, just as she had, that night.
“Or what?” His words were soft; his smile glittered. “You are in my home, Ms. Benning. To all intents and purposes, that means you stand on Quidaran soil. My word is law here.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true if I say it is.”
Amanda stared at him in disbelief. “Mr. Rashid—”
“You will address me as Lord Rashid,” he said, and she saw the sudden memory spark to life in his eyes. “We’ve met before.”
“No,” Amanda said, too quickly. “No, we haven’t.”
“We have. Something about you is familiar.”
“I have that kind of face. You know. Familiar.”
Nick frowned. She didn’t. The pale hair. The eyes that weren’t brown or green but something more like gold. The elegant cheekbones, the full, almost pouty lower lip…
“Let go of my wrist, Sheikh Rashid.”
“When you give me your camera.”
“Forget it! It’s my cam—Hey. Hey, you can’t…”
He could, though Nick had to admit, it wasn’t easy. The woman was twisting like a wildcat, trying to break free and keep him from opening her purse at the same time, but he hung on to her with one hand while he dug out her camera with the other.
She was still complaining, her voice rising as he thumbed from image to image. What he saw made him crazy. Photos of his home. The terrace. The living room. The library. The bathrooms, for God’s sake.
And his bedroom.
She had done more than invade his privacy. She had stolen it and would sell it to the highest bidder. He had no doubt of that.
He looked up from the digital camera, his eyes cold as they assessed her.
She was a thief, but she was beautiful even in a city filled with beautiful women. She seemed so familiar…but if they’d met before, surely he’d remember. What man would forget such a face? Such fire in those eyes. Such promised sweetness in that lush mouth.
And yet, for all of that, she was a liar.
Nick looked down at the little camera in his hand.
Beautiful, and duplicitous.
She played dangerous games, this woman. Games that took her into a man’s bedroom and left her vulnerable to whatever punishment he might devise.
He lifted his head slowly, and his eyes met hers.
“Who paid you to take these pictures?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, that’s progress. At least