Sandra Marton - Mistress Of The Sheikh

His knee was between her thighs. She lifted herself to it, against it; his thumbs rolled across her silk-covered nipples and she was caught up on a wave of heat, up and up and up. She cried out his name, shut her eyes, tossed her head from side to side.

“Look at you,” Nick whispered. “Just look at you.”

And as quickly as that, it was all over.

Amanda froze. Disgust, horror, anguish…a dozen different emotions raced through her, brought back by those simple, unforgotten words. They took her back seven years to that dormitory room, to the terrifying intruder named Nicholas al Rashid who’d branded her as immoral even as he’d looked at her and wanted her.

Bile rose in her throat. “Get off me,” she said.

The sheikh didn’t hear her. Couldn’t hear her. She looked up at him, hating what she saw, hating herself for being the cause. His silver eyes were blind with desire; the bones of his face were taut with it.

Nausea roiled in her belly. “Get—off!”

She struck out blindly, fists beating against his chest and shoulders. He blinked; his eyes opened slowly as if he were awakening from a dream.

“You—get—the—hell—off,” she said, panting, and struck him again.

He caught her flailing hands, pinioned them. “It’s too late to play that game.”

His voice was low and rough; the hands that held her were hard and cruel. She told herself not to panic. This was Dawn’s brother. He was arrogant, imperious and all-powerful…but he wasn’t crazy.

“Taking a woman against her will isn’t a game,” she said, and tried to keep the fear from her voice.

“Against her will?”

His eyes moved over her and she flushed at the slow, deliberate scrutiny. She knew how she must look. Her dress torn. The hem of her skirt at her thighs. Her lips bare of everything but the imprint of his.

A thin smile started at the corner of his mouth. “When a woman all but begs a man to take her, it’s hardly ‘against her will’.”

“I’d never beg a man for anything,” she said coldly. “And if you don’t let go and get off me, I’ll scream. There must be a hundred people downstairs by now. Every one of them will hear me.”

“You disappoint me.” The bastard didn’t just smile this time; he laughed. “You sneaked into my home—”

“I didn’t sneak into anything. Your sister invited me.”

“Did she tell you that once the party begins, no one will be permitted on this floor?”

Her heart thumped with fear. “They will, if they hear me screaming.”

“My men would not permit it.”

“The police don’t need your permission.”

“The police can’t do anything to help you. This is Quidaran soil.”

“It’s a penthouse on Fifth Avenue,” Amanda said, trying to free her hands, “not an embassy.”

“We have no embassy in your country. By the time our governments finish debating the point, it will be too late.”

“You’re not frightening me.”

It was a lie and they both knew it. She was terrified; Nick could see it in her eyes. Good. She’d deserved the lesson. She was immoral. She was a liar. A thief. She was for sale to any man who could afford her.

What did that make him, then, for still wanting her?

Nick let go of her hands, rolled off her and got to his feet. “Get out,” he said softly.

She sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, her eyes wary. She shot a glance at the door and he knew she was measuring her chances of reaching it. It made him feel rotten but, dammit, she wasn’t worth his pity. She wasn’t worth anything except, perhaps, the price his foolish sister had paid for her.

“Go on,” he said gruffly, and jerked his head toward the door. “Get out, before I change my mind.”

She rose from the bed. Smoothed down her skirt with hands that shook. Bent and picked up her purse, grabbed the camera and put it inside.

She stumbled backward as Nick came around the bed toward her.

“No,” she said sharply, but he ignored her, snatched the purse from her hands and opened the flap. “What are you doing?”

He looked up. He had to give her points for courage, he thought grudgingly. She’d lost one of her ridiculously high heels in their struggle. Her dress was a mess and her hair hung in her eyes.

Those unusual golden eyes.

He frowned, reached for a memory struggling to the surface of his mind….

“Give me my purse.”

She lunged for the small beaded bag. He whipped it out of her reach. She went after it, lifting up on her toes and batting at it with her hands.

“Dammit, give me that!”

Nick took out the camera and tossed the purse at her feet. “It’s all yours.”

“I want my camera.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Grinding the camera to dust under his heel would have been satisfying, but the carpet was soft and he knew he might end up looking like an ass if the damned thing didn’t break. Instead, he strolled into the bathroom.

“What are you…?”

Nick pressed a button on the camera, took out the tiny recording disk and dumped it into the toilet. He shut the lid, flushed, then dropped the camera on the marble floor. Now, he thought, now it would smash when he stepped on it.

It did.

Amanda Benning was scarlet with fury. “You—you bastard!”

“My parents would be upset to hear you call me that, Ms. Benning,” he said politely. He walked past her, pleased that the toilet hadn’t spit the disk back—it had been a definite possibility and it surely would have spoiled the drama of the moment.

A little more drama, and he’d send Amanda Benning packing.

He swung toward her and folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, addressing me in such a fashion could get you beheaded in my homeland.”

Amanda planted her hands on her hips. “It could get you sued in mine.”

He laughed. “You can’t sue me. I’m—”

“Believe me, I know who you are, Mr. Rashid.”

“Lord Rashid,” Nick said quickly, and scowled.

What was he saying? He didn’t care about his title. Everyone used it. It was the custom but occasionally someone forgot, and he never bothered correcting them. The only time he had was years ago. Dawn’s roommate…

The girl with the golden eyes. Strange that he should have remembered her after so long a time. Stranger still that he should have done so tonight.

“…and ninety-eight cents.”

He blinked, focused his eyes on Amanda Benning. She hadn’t moved an inch. She was still standing in front of him, chin lifted, eyes flashing. He felt a momentary pity that she was what she was. A woman as beautiful, as fiery as this, would be a true gift, especially in a man’s bed.

“Did you hear me, Lord Rashid?” Amanda folded her arms, tapped her foot. “You owe me $620.98. That includes the film.”

One dark, arched brow lifted. It made him look even more insolent. She was boring him, she thought, and fought back a tremor of rage.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The camera.” She marched past him, plucked her purse from the floor, dug inside it and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper. “The receipt. From Picture Perfect, on Madison Avenue.”

She held it out. Nick looked at it but didn’t touch it.

“An excellent place to buy electronic devices, or so I’ve been told.”

“I want my money.”

“What for?”

“I just told you. For the camera you destroyed.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yes. Yes, ‘Ah, that.’ You owe me six hundred and—”

Nick reached for the phone. “Abdul?” he said, never taking his eyes from her, “come to my rooms, please. Yes, now.” He put the telephone down, leaned back against the wall and tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Your escort is on the way, Miss Benning. Abdul will escort you down to the curb where the trash is usually left.”