Sandra Marton - The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress

Grace felt her face heat.

“As for what I called you… I said you were a predator, Lipton, which might prove quite interesting, considering that the lady you’ve targeted bears the same distinction.” He smiled tightly. “Which makes me wonder if her reaction to your pathetic attempts at seduction were real, or was she acting?”

It was an insult, but Grace knew it was also a question. All she had to do was tell Salim he had misinterpreted what he’d seen. She’d get rid of him, all right—and then she’d be trapped, alone, with her boss.

“As for who I am…” Another tight smile lifted the corners of Salim’s lips. “My name is Salim al Taj.”

No title. No “sheikh” or “prince.” It wasn’t necessary and her former lover knew it. Grace watched the color drain from Lipton’s haughty face. A moment ago, he’d been puffed up with self-importance. Now, he looked terrified.

There was a time knowing her lover had such power would have thrilled her most basic female instincts. Now, it made her shudder.

“You mean—you mean you’re the head of Alhandra Investments? You’re the sheikh? The crown prince of Senahdar?”

“I see you’ve heard of me,” Salim said with icy sarcasm.

Lipton swallowed hard. “Your majesty. Your highness. Sir. I—I beg your pardon. I had no idea the lady and you were—that the lady was— If I had known…”

“We are not,” Grace said desperately, looking from one man to the other. “I mean, I am not—the sheikh and I are not—” What was that old saying? she thought frantically. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

“Grace?”

She looked up at Salim. His pale blue eyes were cold; his smile made her feel cold but what choice did she really have?

“Salim and I,” she told Lipton. “Salim and I are—are—”

Salim’s arm curved around her waist.

“A lover’s quarrel,” he said dismissively. His sharp gaze met Grace’s. “Isn’t that right, habiba , or did I get it wrong? Perhaps you prefer to see me walk away.”

Once, she’d have melted at the soft term of endearment. Now his tone gave it a twist that all but turned it into an obscenity.

“Crunch time, sweetheart,” Salim said softly. “Make a decision and do it quickly.”

A decision, she thought, and bit back a hysterical laugh. Send Salim away and be trapped with Lipton? She had no illusions about what he wanted.

She had no illusions about what Salim wanted, either.

Revenge.

A man like him wouldn’t deal well with a dented ego. He was furious that she had left him without a word of explanation and, even worse, that she’d left him before he could leave her.

His arm tightened around her. “Well? Are you coming with me or shall I leave you here?”

He sounded like a man who knew a woman would never reject him, his question asked with almost lazy ease, but the pressure of his hand warned his patience was wearing thin. Logic told her she could only come to one decision. If she let Lipton see her go off with Salim, she wouldn’t have to fear what he might try to do later, when they were alone again.

Grace took a deep breath. “Buy me a drink,” she said brightly, as if Salim’s description of things between them were true, “and we’ll talk about old times.”

Salim’s eyes glittered. Old times, indeed.

He led her away from the lights of the hotel to a shell-strewn path that led to the beach. He had not expected her to make a decision that quickly. Perhaps the scene he’d stumbled across had actually been what it seemed: a pig of a man hitting on a woman who wanted no part of him. That had certainly been his initial reaction; it was why he’d stopped Lipton, why he wished to hell the man had come at him. He’d have taught him that a man should not treat a woman that way, any woman, even a liar and a cheat like Grace.

His desire to pound a fist into Lipton’s gut had come from something far less sophisticated.

Mine , he had thought when he had seen Grace with another man’s hands on her. He had reacted as any man would, seeing a woman he’d once called his with someone else touching her. That shot of masculine testosterone was not something one could control. It was built into male DNA; it wasn’t about Grace in particular or who could or could not have her.

He didn’t gave a damn who she seduced or who she slept with. All he cared about was getting her off this island and back to the States.

The sole question was how best to do it. He was prepared to use force, if he had to, but only as a last resort. He knew nothing of extradition arrangements between Bali and the U.S.A.; it had probably been foolish not to let Taggart check but he’d been blind to everything but getting here, finding this woman…

“Salim.”

Finding her and making her pay for what she had done.

“Salim!”

Did she think she could stop him? That he’d lead her away from Lipton and release her? There wasn’t a way in hell he’d do that. She was a thief. As for the rest, the fact that she’d left him…Yes, that bothered him. Why wouldn’t it? Women came and went in a man’s life but the time of leaving was up to the man. That was just how it was. How Nature intended it. Ending an affair was a man’s prerogative, but that was not what this was all about.

“Are you deaf?” Grace demanded, trying to twist free of his encircling arm. “Let go of me!”

“Stop complaining,” he growled, “and be grateful I didn’t tell your would-be lover the truth about you.”

“He’s not my would-be lover, and what you know of truth could fit into a thimble!”

He spun her toward him so suddenly that she teetered on her spiked heels. His hands bit into her shoulders. To steady her? To let out some of his rage? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way the moonlight cast an ivory glow over her skin, the way her eyes glittered, her lips trembled.

He’d expected to find her… What? Looking like the criminal she was? Pale? Desperate? Driven? Instead she looked no different than when she had been his. Beautiful. Elegant. Innocent, and wasn’t that a fine choice of words to use for such a woman?

What she had done to him had truly meant nothing to her. If anything, she was lovelier than ever, or was it only that his dreams of her were no match for the reality?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He barked a laugh. “Like what, habiba? How, exactly, is one supposed to look at a fugitive?”

Oh, the expression on her face was priceless! Stunned. Horrified. And then—and then, by Ishtar, was that a smile? Was she laughing? At him? Did she dare laugh at him?

Salim’s grip on her tightened as he lifted her to her toes. “What are you laughing at?”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Answer the question. What do you find so amusing?”

“You,” Grace snapped. “You and that—that supersized ego.”

“You want to discuss egos, habiba? How about yours? Did you really think you’d cover your trail so well that I wouldn’t find you?”

“I didn’t cover anything!”

“Really? Since when is your name Grace Hunter?”

“Since I figured out that I didn’t want you finding me. Not that I really thought you’d even try. I mean, why would you give a damn that I’d decided our relationship had run its course?” She tossed her head, a gesture of defiance he remembered all too well. “You just didn’t like me being the one who made the first move.”

He hadn’t liked it, not one bit. But that wasn’t why he’d looked for her. He’d had ten million reasons to find her, and what she’d called a relationship was definitely not one of them.

“Leaving something out, aren’t you, darling?” he said, his tone silken.