Sandra Marton - Sheikh Without a Heart

Then what was the best way to tell her? Break it to her gently? Or just state the facts?

That might be the best way. Be direct. Get it over with.

For all her feminine looks—the mouth that reminded him of a rose petal, the up-thrust breasts, the gently curved hips—for all that, he couldn’t imagine there was anything fragile about her.

She was still the picture of defiance, dark blue eyes flashing, chin raised, ready to fight.

He could change that in a heartbeat.

All he had to do was remind her that he held the upper hand.

And there was an easy way to do that.

He’d pull her into his arms, plunge one hand deep into that mass of silky gold hair, lift her face to his and take her mouth. She’d fight him, but only for a few seconds.

Then her skin would flush with desire. Her lips would part. She’d moan and surrender to him, and it wouldn’t matter if her surrender was real or if she was playing a part because he’d carry her to the sofa, strip away the bra, the thong, the spiderweb stockings, and by then her moans would be not a lie because he would make her want him, open for him, move under him …

Dammit!

Karim turned away, pretended to study the wall, the floor, anything at all while he got his traitorous body under control.

No wonder Rami had kept this one, he thought as he swung toward her again.

“What is your name?” he said sharply.

“I asked first.”

He almost laughed. She sounded like a kid squaring off for a schoolyard fight.

“Is it really that difficult to tell me who you are?”

He could almost hear her considering his request. Then she tossed her head.

“Rachel. Rachel Donnelly.”

“Well, Rachel Donnelly, I am Karim.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps Rami mentioned me.”

Rachel struggled to hide her distress.

Her unwanted visitor had confirmed her worst fear.

Rami had, indeed, mentioned Karim. Not to her. He’d never said more than “hello” and “goodbye” to her—unless you counted the times he’d brushed past her and whispered how much he wanted to take her to bed.

Suki had told her all about Rami’s brother.

Her sister had hated him, sight unseen.

Karim, Suki said, was the reason Rami had no money, the reason he would never be treated properly by their father, the King.

It was all because of him.

Karim.

Karim the Greedy. Karim the Arrogant. Karim the Prince, who had deliberately driven a wedge between Rami and his father. Karim the Prince, with no concern for anyone but himself, no greater wish than to stop anyone else from possibly inheriting even a piece of their father’s fortune.

Karim, the Sheikh with no heart.

Rachel had not paid much attention to any of it until Rami and then Suki had taken off.

Rami had left first. No warning, no goodbye. One day he was here and the next he and his things were gone.

Suki, no surprise, had hung in as long as she had to. And when it had been okay for her to take off, she had.

All she’d left behind was a stack of unwashed clothes, a wisp of cheap perfume—

And the one thing that had never mattered to Rami or even Suki but only to Rachel.

After that, Rachel had begun to think about the man she’d never laid eyes on.

About what he knew. Or didn’t know. About how he’d react if he ever learned of what Suki had left behind.

Still, she’d never expected him to turn up on her doorstep without warning.

From all Rami had told Suki, his brother traveled with a staff of sycophants and bodyguards … but here he was.

Alone.

And treating her with barely concealed contempt when he wasn’t looking at her with lust in his wintry eyes.

Rachel knew that look.

A woman who wore an outfit like this, who served drinks in a casino, was fair game.

She hated everything about her job. The customers. The atmosphere. The clink of the chips.

This awful costume.

She’d balked at wearing it until her boss said, “You want the job? Do what you’re told and stop bitching.”

The girls she worked with were even more direct.

“You wanna be Miss High and Mighty,” one of them told her, “go pick up dirty dishes at the all-the-pigs-can-eat buffet.”

Rachel had already done a turn like that. You couldn’t pay the rent and support Suki—because Suki certainly hadn’t supported herself—you couldn’t pay the rent or anything else with what she’d earned clearing tables.

So each day she gritted her teeth, hid herself inside this sleazy costume and went to work where men pretty much figured she was available for lots more than taking their drink orders.

She hated it, but then, that was how men were. No big surprise there.

Then Rami had moved in. After a few months, when she couldn’t stand living with either him or Suki anymore, Rachel had confronted her sister and demanded she and her boyfriend find a place of their own.

Suki had burst into tears and said she couldn’t do that. She was in trouble …

That “trouble” had changed everything.

Rachel could no more have tossed Suki out than she could have flown to the moon, and—and—

“Have you lost the ability to speak, Rachel Donnelly? I have no time to waste.”

No time, Rachel thought, no time …

Oh, God!

She’d been so caught up in what was happening that she’d almost forgotten the hour.

The wall clock read six-fifteen.

She’d gotten off work two hours ago, same as always. Which meant that the reason she’d stayed in Vegas was going to turn up at the door in forty-five minutes.

She’d never been sure what she was going to do if and when this moment came.

She was sure now.

She was sure of something else, too.

Rami’s brother knew nothing.

If he had, he’d have already demanded his rights to that which he surely would have seen as his.

“Such a fuss over wanting to know my name.”

Rachel looked up. The Sheikh stood with his arms folded, a big, hard-faced, hard-bodied, cold-as-ice piece of work who just happened to look like a god.

Unfortunately for him she knew the truth: that he was a cold-hearted SOB who was an expert at manipulating people to see him as he wanted to be seen.

“Such a fuss,” he said, his tone ripe with sarcasm, “and now you have nothing to say.”

She squared her shoulders.

The thing to do was face him down and get him out of here.

“Actually, I just wanted to be sure. I’d already figured it out myself.”

“Really?” he purred.

“Rami described you pretty accurately. Self-important. Arrogant. A despot. Yes, he got it right.”

A hit. She saw a flush rise over those high cheekbones.

“You’re a sheikh, aren’t you? From Alashazam. Or Alcatraz. Something like that.”

The imprints of color deepened. He took a step forward. Rachel fought the desire to retreat.

“Something like that,” he said coldly.

“Well, Rami isn’t here.”

That brought a thin smile to his lips. Had she said something amusing?

“But I’ll be sure and tell him you called. Now, Sheikh-Whatever-You’re-Called, I’m busy. And—”

“I am called Prince Karim,” Karim said stiffly. “Or Your Highness. Or I am addressed as Sheikh.”

Damn. Was he actually saying this stuff? If there was anything he despised, it was the use of these outmoded titles, but this Rachel Donnelly brought out the worst in him.

“Yes, well, your Sheikhiness, I’ll give Rami your message. Anything else?”

The way she’d combined his titles was an obviously deliberate insult. He wanted to grab her and shake her—

Or grab her and wipe that little smirk off her lips in a very different way—one that would change her demeanor altogether.