Sandra Marton - Sheikh Without a Heart

It was a shoe. A shoe with a heel as long and sharp as a stiletto.

“Hey!” Karim danced back. “Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you some—”

She slammed the shoe against him, aiming for his face, but he moved fast; the blow caught him in the shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her hand to her side.

“Will you wait a minute? Just one damned minute—”

“Wait?” Rachel Donnelly said. “ Wait? ” The perv from the lounge wanted her to wait? Wait so he could rape her? “The hell I will,” she snarled, and she wrenched her hand free of his, swung hard …

This time, the heel of the shoe flashed by his face.

That was the good news.

The bad was that he muttered something and now he wasn’t defending himself; he was coming straight for her.

Panting, she reacted with all her strength, but he was too big, too strong, too determined. A second later he had both her wrists in his hands and she was pinned against the wall.

“Dammit, woman! Will you listen to me?”

“There’s nothing to listen to. I know what you want. You were in the lounge tonight. I brought you drink after drink and I knew you were going to be trouble and I was right, here you are, and—and—”

Her breath caught.

Wrong.

This wasn’t the guy who’d undressed her with his eyes.

That perv had been bald with squinty eyes behind Coke-bottle lenses.

This guy had a full head of dark hair and eyes the cool gray of winter ice.

Not that it mattered. He’d broken into her apartment. He was male. She was female. After three years in Vegas she knew what that—

“You’re wrong.”

She blinked. Either she’d spoken aloud or he was a mind-reader.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Then turn around and go away. Right now. I won’t scream, I won’t call the cops—”

“Will you listen? One of us is in the wrong apartment.”

Despite everything, she choked out a laugh. The man scowled and tightened his hold on her wrists.

“What I’m trying to tell you is that I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I thought this was my brother’s apartment.”

“Well, it isn’t. This apartment is—is—” She stared at him. “What brother?”

“My brother. Rami.”

The floor seemed to shift under Rachel’s feet. She felt the blood drain from her face. The man saw it; those cold gray eyes narrowed.

“You know of him?”

She knew. Of course she knew. And if this was Rami’s brother—if this was Karim of Alcantar, the all-powerful, stone-hearted, ruthless prince …

“I’m going to let go of you,” he said. “If you scream, you will regret it. Is that clear?”

Rachel swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Slowly, carefully, his eyes locked to hers, he took his hands from her.

“Obviously,” he said, “I was correct. This place is my brother’s.”

“I—I—”

“You—you, what?” he growled with imperial impatience. “What are you doing here? This apartment belongs to Rami.”

It didn’t. It never had. It was hers and always had been—though that hadn’t stopped first Suki and then Suki’s lover from moving in.

Now, thank goodness, they were both gone. She lived alone …

Oh, God!

Her heart, already racing, went into overdrive.

She didn’t. She didn’t live here alone—

“Who are you?” the man growled.

Who, indeed? Her head was spinning. She should have known this would happen, that, sooner or later someone would come.

His hand shot out and manacled her wrist.

“Answer the question! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I—I’m a friend,” Rachel said. And then, because she had no idea what this man knew or didn’t know or, most of all, what he wanted, she said, “I’m Rami’s friend. His very good friend.”

KARIM’S mouth thinned.

Friend, hell.

She’d been Rami’s woman.

His mistress. His girlfriend. Whatever she’d been, for once in his life Rami had apparently fallen for a woman who wasn’t his usual type.

He’d been into flash. This woman’s costume, whatever you called it, was flashy, and yet somehow or other she was not. There was something removed about her, something in those dark blue eyes that said, Be careful how you deal with me.

Perhaps that had appealed to Rami. The challenge of getting past the invisible barricade around her. Maybe that had made up for the fact that she didn’t speak in breathy little sentences or flutter her lashes.

Rami had been a sucker for nonsense like that.

Karim couldn’t imagine this woman doing either.

She was tough. Hell, she was fearless.

Any other woman would have screamed for help. Run shrieking into the night. Or, at the very least, begged an intruder for mercy.

She’d come at him with a weapon.

A rather unusual weapon, he thought with wry amusement.

The stiletto-heeled shoe lay on the floor next to him; its mate lay a few feet away. The thing could have done real damage, considering that the heels had to be four or five inches high.

“Stilettos are torture,” a mistress had once admitted, but she’d worn them anyway.

He knew the reason.

Women wore them because they knew damned well that men loved the look those high, thin heels gave to a female body: the slight forward tilt of the pelvis, the added length of leg.

Not that Rami’s woman needed anything to make her legs look longer.

Even now, they seemed endless.

She had stockings on. Hose. Whatever you called sheer black mesh that drew his eyes up and up to where the mesh disappeared beneath that thong.

With stilettos or without them she was a fantastic sight. Sleek. Sexy. All woman.

Why deny it?

She was beautiful, and he was sure it was natural. He’d seen enough women who’d been surgically and chemically enhanced until they were little more than mannequins.

Cheekbones implanted. Lips injected. Foreheads all but immobilized and, worst of all, breasts that looked and felt like balloons instead of soft, warm flesh.

This woman’s breasts would feel just right in a man’s hands. The nipples would taste sweet on his tongue …

Karim felt his body stir.

Hell. He’d been too long without sex. Why else would he react to her? She was beautiful, but she was—she had been Rami’s.

Besides, he liked his women to be … well, at least somewhat demure.

He was a sheikh from an ancient kingdom, a culture still learning to accept some modern concepts about women, but he was also a man of the twenty-first century. He had been educated in the west.

He believed in male-female equality, yes, but some degree of diffidence was still a good thing in a woman. He doubted if this particular woman would even understand the concept.

Karim frowned.

What did any of that matter? Rami was dead. And it was time to get down to business. Tell her that her lover was gone—and that she had until the end of the month to vacate the flat.

She’d said it was hers, but surely only by default. She was here; Rami wasn’t.

Still, he’d write her a generous check. It was the right thing to do. Then, tomorrow—today, he thought, glancing at his watch and seeing that it was past six in the morning—he’d make good on the rest of his brother’s Las Vegas debts.

With luck, he’d be in Alcantar by the weekend. Then he’d return to Manhattan and get on with his life—

“Well?” the woman said sharply. “Say something. If you’re really Rami’s brother, what’s your name? And what are you doing here?”

Karim blinked.

Indeed, that was the big question.

Did she know about her lover’s death? He didn’t think so. She spoke of him in the present tense.