Carol Grace - Taming The Sheik

“It couldn’t be…no, if I didn’t know better I’d think it was Emma’s teacher, Miss Sheridan.”

“Anne Sheridan, the first-grade teacher at Pinehurst?”

“It isn’t, of course, but the hair…such a gorgeous color. There aren’t many people…No, what am I thinking? It couldn’t be her. What would she be doing in the arms of a playboy going up to his hotel room or hers? She’s not the type. All of the teachers at Pinehurst are screened carefully. Models of decorum. At least in public. No, it can’t be her.”

Rafik, who’d done just about every outrageous thing in the last few years in New York, felt his ears turn red. Not the type. Not his type. He knew that. But he’d brought her here anyway. What was wrong with him? He knew what was wrong with him. He didn’t want to let her go. Didn’t want to leave her anywhere. Not until he knew she was all right. On the other hand, she was a big girl. She could take care of herself. But not tonight. Tonight he was taking care of her whether she wanted him to or not. It made no sense. It made no sense at all. But there it was.

At least he should have covered Anne with something. It was one thing, as part of a colorful and wealthy international family, to be talked about in hotel lobbies. It wasn’t the first time that had happened to him. But to expose Anne to gossip was not fair. He shouldn’t have brought her here. He should have driven back to the reception, found out where she lived and taken her home. But hindsight is always 20/20. It was a little late to change his game plan.

He stared straight ahead, his teeth clenched in his jaw, praying for an early arrival of the elevator. After an eternity it arrived and gratefully he entered, Anne’s face pressed against his chest. He awkwardly hit the button for the twentieth floor and heaved a sigh of relief. But he wasn’t home free.

The elevator wasn’t empty.

“Big night?” a man in a dark suit asked with a smirk.

Rafik managed a tight smile. There was no way to explain that wouldn’t exacerbate the situation.

“Oh, my,” said an elegant woman in a beige suit, eyeing Anne’s inert body with surprise. “Is she all right?”

“Fine. She’s just fine. Just tired.”

“Beautiful red hair. Say, aren’t you one of those sheiks?” she asked.

He’d removed his headdress this morning, but somehow the woman knew. Maybe because the family had taken over the entire twentieth floor.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Damn. He could have lied. Could have said he was the hotel manager escorting a guest to her room or a doctor with a case of Lyme disease on his hands. How many more people was he going to run into before he got her to his floor, to his suite? He could only be glad he wasn’t going to meet any family members, presumably all still at the reception. He especially wanted to avoid his father who’d had a talk with him that very morning about his new image, about public relations and the family business. This kind of situation was exactly what his father was talking about. Only it wasn’t really. It just looked like it. Unfortunately his father was into appearances. In a big way.

He finally arrived in the cool, calm, quiet, high-ceilinged suite. He strode into the bedroom and laid her down on the bed on her back. Her face was pale. He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed his ear against her chest. She was breathing slowly and regularly. Thank God. Rafik knew from experience she just needed to sleep it off.

It would be just a matter of time before she came to. When she did, he’d offer her coffee and if that didn’t work, he’d mix her up a concoction that worked for him—tomato juice with Worcestershire and a touch of lemon and pepper. He’d spirit her out of the hotel, down the back stairs, if there were any, and take her home. And that would be that. Carolyn would never know. She’d be on her honeymoon. All she wanted was for him to take the woman home. Which he’d tried to do. Which he would do. Eventually.

He sat on the edge of the bed observing her, his forehead furrowed. The woman in the elevator was right. She had beautiful hair. A delicious strawberry color that curled in wisps around her face. A smattering of freckles across her nose. She looked so young and innocent. She couldn’t be that young. She was Carolyn’s age. So she couldn’t be innocent either, could she? He sighed. He knew many beautiful women with beautiful hair. Blondes, brunettes and redheads. He’d met several today at the wedding.

But he’d never met anyone quite like this woman here on his bed. Damned if he could say what it was about her that intrigued him the way she did. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t his type. Yes, that must be it. Opposites attract. Combine that with Carolyn’s warning and it had made her damned near irresistible. He loosened his tie and looked down at her. He had an uncontrollable desire to run his fingers over her bare shoulder and down her arm to her hand that was curled up. He knew what her skin would feel like. Satin smooth. Just the way it had when he touched her this afternoon after the wedding. He fought off a shaft of desire that threatened to overtake him.

He sighed loudly, wishing she’d wake up. Wishing he could get out of this monkey suit. He imagined Anne would be more comfortable without the fancy dress she’d been wearing all day, too. After a long moment of contemplation, he rolled her gently on her side and tugged clumsily at the zipper on the back of her dress.

Carefully he pulled the dress down over her hips and tossed it on a chair. Underneath the dress she was wearing lace bikini panties and a strapless bra. He sat there staring as if he’d never seen a woman in that state before. Truth was, he’d seen many female bodies in his time. Dressed and undressed. But there was something special about this one. Something that made his heart pound. Made him short of breath. It might have been the scattering of freckles across her chest, the swell of her breasts, or the curve of her hips. She was defenseless and therefore untouchable. And oh, yes, not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and definitely not his type, but very appealing, and very desirable.

This was a situation where other men might have taken advantage of her. But there was a code of conduct he adhered to which was based on a respect for women and an obligation to help those in his care.

An obligation to make them comfortable. To protect them. He tore off his shirt, the buttons flying and covered her with it. Then he very carefully put one of her arms in the sleeve, then awkwardly the other arm. He was breathing hard from exertion. Very slowly he reached under the shirt for the strapless bra she was wearing. From experience he knew how those bras worked. Unhook the front and slip it off. But should he? What if she woke up? If she did, he’d just explain. And if she did, well, wasn’t that what he wanted after all?

Under the shirt, unable to see what he was doing, he reached for the snap, but his fingers, usually so deft, felt like stubs. Finally he slid the bra off, pulled the blankets back and covered her up. She was now wearing his shirt and her panties. He’d done the best he could do.

He stood at the edge of the bed looking down at her. The red-gold hair against the white pillow. The pale face and the curve of her cheek. So sweet, so lovely. And so wrong for him. He knew that. Of course he did. As soon as he could he’d get her out of here. But when would that be? How long before she woke up? Did he dare doze off himself? All he wanted was to get her out of his bed, out of his room and out of his mind. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet while she was still sleeping it off.

He closed the bedroom door behind him and paced back and forth in the living room, staring out the window at the lights of the city below. As tired as he was, he just couldn’t go to bed. His mind was spinning. Images of the wedding filled his mind. The bride, the groom. The bridesmaid. Some time later there was a knock on the door.