Sandra Marton - Mistress Of The Sheikh

He uncoiled his body like a lazy cat and came toward her.

“Liking me isn’t a prerequisite for the night we’re about to spend together.”

“We aren’t,” she said quickly, even though she knew he was baiting her, that he was really just referring to the time she’d be with him at the party. “There’s no way I’d spend the night with—”

He bent and brushed his mouth over hers. That was all he did; the kiss was little more than a whisper of flesh to flesh, but the intake of her breath more than proved she was lying.

She knew it. He knew it. And she hated him for it.

“The Sheik,” she said, her eyes cool.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Sheik, starring Rudolph Valentino. It’s an old movie. Be sure to rent the video sometime.”

Nick laughed. He held out his arm. She tossed her head. “Take it,” he said softly, “unless you’d rather I lift you into my arms and carry you.”

Dear Reader,

Your response to THE BARONS has been overwhelming! Thank you for welcoming this family into your hearts.

You’ve told me how very real Gage, Travis, Slade and Caitlin have become to you. They’re just as real to me. My characters always seem to become flesh and blood as I write about them, but I have to admit that the Barons, and the Texas ranch that’s home to Jonas and his wife, Marta, have taken on a special meaning. So many people pass through the Barons’ lives…. I can almost hear them asking me to tell you their stories.

Welcome, then, to Mistress of the Sheikh. Amanda Benning is one of Jonas Baron’s stepdaughters. She’s happy with her independence—until gorgeous, sexy Sheikh Nicholas al Rashid thinks she’s his birthday gift. Sparks fly when a man worshiped as the Lion of the Desert comes up against a beautiful, hot-tempered woman who thinks lions are just big pussycats in disguise.

And if you haven’t read any of the other BARONS books, don’t worry. You can enjoy Mistress of the Sheikh on its own.

With love and best wishes,

Sandra Marton loves to hear from her readers. Write to her (SASE) at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268, U.S.A.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHEIKH Nicholas al Rashid, Lion of the Desert, Lord of the Realm and Sublime Heir to the Imperial Throne of Quidar, stepped out of his tent and onto the burning sands, holding a woman in his arms.

The sheikh was dressed in a gold-trimmed white burnoose; his silver-gray eyes stared straight ahead, blazing with savage passion. The woman, her arms looped around his neck, gazed up at him, her face alight with an unspoken plea.

What’s the matter, Nick? she’d been saying.

There’s a camera pointed straight at us, Nick had answered. That’s what’s the matter.

But nobody seeing this cover on Gossip magazine would believe anything so simple, Nick thought grimly.

His eyes dropped to the banner beneath the picture. If words could damn a man, these surely did.

Sheikh Nicholas al Rashid, the caption said, in letters that looked ten feet tall, carrying off his latest conquest, the beautiful Deanna Burgess. Oh, to be abducted by this gorgeous, magnificent desert savage…

“Son of a bitch,” Nick muttered.

The little man standing on the opposite side of the sparely furnished, elegant room nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“No-good, lying, cheating, sneaky bastards!”

“Absolutely,” the little man said, nodding again.

Nick looked up, his eyes narrowed.

“Calling me a ‘desert savage,’ as if I were some kind of beast. Is that what they think I am? An uncultured, vicious animal?”

“No, sire.” The little man clasped his hands together. “Surely not.”

“No one calls me that and gets away with it.”

But someone had, once. Nick frowned. A woman or, more accurately, a girl. The memory surfaced, wavering like a mirage from the hot sand.

Nothing but a savage, she’d said….

The image faded, and Nick frowned. “That photo was taken at the festival. It was Id al Baranda, Quidar’s national holiday, for God’s sake!” He stepped out from behind his massive beechwood desk and paced to the wall of windows that gave way onto one of New York City’s paved canyons. “That’s why I was wearing a robe, because it is the custom.”

Abdul bobbed his head in agreement.

“And the tent,” Nick said through his teeth. “The damned tent belonged to the caterer.”

“I know, my lord.”

“It was where the food was set up, dammit!”

“Yes, sire.”

Nick stalked back to his desk and snatched up the magazine. “Look at this. Just look at it!”

Abdul took a cautious step forward, rose up on the balls of his feet and peered at the photo. “Lord Rashid?”

“They’ve taken the ocean out of the picture. It looks as if the tent was pitched in the middle of the desert!”

“Yes, my lord. I see.”

Nick dragged his hand through his hair. “Miss Burgess cut her foot.” His voice tightened. “That was why I was carrying her.”

“Lord Rashid.” Abdul licked his lips. “There is no need to explain.”

“I was carrying her into the tent, not out. So I could treat the—” Nick stopped in midsentence and drew a ragged breath deep into his lungs. “I will not let this anger me.”

“I am so glad, my lord.”

“I will not!”

“Excellent, sire.”

“There’s no point to it.” Nick put the magazine on his desk, tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers and threw his secretary a chilling smile. “Isn’t that right, Abdul?”

The little man nodded. “Absolutely.”

“If these idiots wish to poke their noses into my life, so be it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If people wish to read such drivel, let them.”

Abdul nodded. “Exactly.”

“After all, what does it matter to me if I am called an uncultured savage?” Nick’s smile tightened until his face resembled a mask. “Never mind my law degree or my expertise in finance.”

“Lord Rashid,” Abdul said carefully, “sire—”

“Never mind that I represent an ancient and honorable and highly cultured people.”

“Excellency, please. You’re getting yourself upset. And, as you just said, there is no point in—”

“The fool who wrote this should be drawn and quartered.”

Abdul nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a balloon on a string. “Yes, my lord.”