Sandra Marton - Mistress Of The Sheikh

A smile tilted across Nick’s mouth.

Humility was a virtue, much lauded by his father’s people, and he was properly modest about most things, but why lie to himself about women? For that matter, why would he need a harem?

The truth was that women had always been there. They tumbled into his bed without any effort at all on his part, even in his university days at Yale when his real identity hadn’t been known to what seemed like half the civilized world.

They’d even been there in the years before that.

Nick’s smile grew.

He thought back to that summer he’d spent in L.A. with his late mother. She was an actress; it had seemed as if half the women who lived in Beverly Hills were actresses, starting with the stunning brunette next door, who’d at first taken him for the pool boy—and taken him, too, for rides far wilder than any he’d ever experienced on the backs of his father’s purebred Arabians.

There’d always been women.

Nick’s smile dimmed.

It was true, though, that some of the ones who were drawn to him now were interested more in what they might gain from being seen with him than anything else.

He knew that there were women who wanted to bask in the spotlight so mercilessly trained on him, that there were others who thought a night in his arms might lead to a lifetime at his side. There were even women who hoped to enter his private world so they could sell their stories to the scandal sheets.

His eyes went flat and cold.

Only a foolish man would involve himself with such women, and he was not a—

The phone rang. Nick snatched it from the desk.

“Yes?”

“If you’re going to be here in time to shower and shave and change into a tux,” his half sister’s voice said with teasing petulance, “you’d better get a move on, Your Gorgeousness.”

Nick smiled and hitched a hip onto the edge of the desk.

“Watch what you say to me, little sister. Otherwise, I’ll have your head on the chopping block. Abdul says it’s an ideal punishment for those who don’t show me the proper respect.”

“The only thing that’s going to be cut tonight is my birthday cake. It’s not every day a girl turns twenty-five.”

“You forget. It’s my birthday, too.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Isn’t it lovely, sharing a father and a birthday? But you’re not as excited as I am.”

Nick laughed. “That’s because I’m over the hill. After all, I’m thirty-four.”

“Seriously, Nick, you will be here on time, won’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not early, though.” Dawn laughed softly. “Otherwise, you’ll expect me to change what I’m wearing.”

Nick’s brows lifted. “Will I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Meaning what you have on is too short, too low, too tight—”

“This is the twenty-first century, Your Handsomeness.”

“Not when you’re on Quidaran turf, it isn’t. And stop calling me stuff like that.”

“A,” Dawn said, ticking her answers off on her fingers, “this isn’t Quidaran turf. It’s a penthouse on Fifth Avenue.”

“It’s Quidaran turf,” Nick said. Dawn smiled; she could hear the laughter in his voice. “The moment I step on it anyway. What’s B?”

“B, if Gossip can call you ‘Your Handsomeness’, so can I.” She giggled. “Have you seen the article yet?”

“I’ve seen the cover,” Nick said tersely. “That was enough.”

“Well, the article says that you and Deanna—”

“Never mind that. You just make sure you’re decently dressed.”

“I am decently dressed, for New York.”

Nick sighed. “Behave yourself, or I’ll have you sent home.”

“Me? Behave myself?” Dawn snorted and switched the portable phone to her other ear as she strolled through her brother’s massive living room and out the glass doors to the terrace. “I’m not the one dating Miss Hunter.”

“Hunter? But Deanna’s name is—”

“Hunter of a titled husband. Hunter of the spotlight. Hunter of wealth and glamour—”

“She’s not like that,” Nick said quickly.

“Why isn’t she?”

“Dawn. I am not going to discuss this with you.”

“You don’t have to. I know the reason. You have this silly idea that because Deanna has her own money and an old family name, she’s—what’s the right word—trustworthy.”

Nick sighed. “Sweetheart,” he said gently, “I appreciate your concern. But—”

“But you want me to mind my own business.”

“Something like that, yes.”

His sister rolled her eyes at the blond woman who stood with her back against the terrace wall. “Men can be clueless,” she hissed.

Amanda Benning did her best to smile. “Have you told him yet?”

“No. No, not—”

“Dawn?” Nick’s voice came through the phone. “Who are you talking to?”

Dawn made a face at Amanda. “One of the caterer’s assistants,” she said briskly. “She wanted to know where to put the cold hors d’oeuvres. And speaking of knowing, aren’t you curious about what I got you for your birthday?”

“Sure. But if you told me, it wouldn’t be a surprise. And birthday presents are supposed to be surprises.”

“Ah. Well, I already know what my gift is.”

“You do?”

“Uh-huh.” Dawn grinned. “That shiny new Jaguar in the garage downstairs.”

Nick groaned. “There’s no keeping anything from you.”

“Nope, there isn’t. Now, you want to take a stab at what I’m giving you?”

“Well, there was that time you gave me a doll,” Nick said dryly, “the one you wanted for yourself.”

“I was seven!” Dawn grinned at Amanda. “Definitely clueless,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I said, you’re clueless, Nicky. About how to decorate this mansion of yours.”

“It’s not a mansion. It’s an apartment. And I told you, I don’t have time for such things. That’s why I bought the place furnished.”

“Furnished?” Dawn made a face at Amanda, who smiled. “How somebody could take a ten-million-dollar penthouse and make it look like a high-priced bordello is beyond me.”

“If you have any idea what a bordello looks like, high-priced or low, I’ll definitely send you home,” Nick said, trying to sound affronted but not succeeding.

“You don’t, either, dearest brother, or you’d never have the time or energy to bed all the females the tabloids link you with.”

“Dawn—”

“I know, I know. You’re not going to discuss such things with me.” Dawn plucked a bit of lint from her skirt. “You know, Nicky, I’m not the baby you think I am.”

“Maybe not. But it won’t hurt if you let me go on living with an illusion.”

His sister laughed. “When you see what I’ve bought you, that illusion will be shattered forever.”

“We’ll see about that.” Nick’s voice hummed with amusement.

Dawn grinned, covered the mouthpiece of the phone and looked at Amanda. “My brother doesn’t believe you’re going to shatter his illusions.”

Amanda thumbed a strand of pale golden hair behind her ear. “Well, I’ll just have to prove him wrong,” she said, and told herself it was just plain ridiculous for an intelligent, well-educated, twenty-five-year-old woman to stand there with her knees knocking together at the prospect of being the birthday gift for a sheikh.

AMANDA swallowed nervously as Dawn put down the phone.

“Well,” Dawn said, “that’s that.” She smiled. “I’ve laid the groundwork.”

“Uh-huh.” Amanda smiled, too, although her lips felt as if they were sticking to her teeth. “For disaster.”

“Don’t be silly. Oh, Nicky will probably balk when he realizes I’ve asked you to redo the penthouse. He’ll growl a little, threaten murder and mayhem…” Dawn’s brows lifted when she saw the expression on Amanda’s face. “I’m joking!”