Sandra Marton - The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress

“You left out the part where I find you and take you back to New York.”

“But—but why would you want to take me to New York?”

“That’s fine, Grace. Keep playing games.” Salim tugged her toward him. She struggled, but he was too tall, too big, too powerful. Her struggles got her nowhere except exactly where he’d wanted her: pressed tightly against him.

“What are you talking about? Why would you think I’d agree to go back with you?”

“Who said anything about agreement?” His voice was low and dangerous. “You will go with me and face the consequences of your actions because it is what I demand, habiba .”

She was looking up at him in a way that told him all he needed to know.

“Don’t,” she said, and he cupped her face in one hand.

“Don’t what, habiba ?” he said thickly, and he stopped thinking, bent his head and sought her mouth.

In a second, in a heartbeat, she was his again.

THE SHEIKH TYCOONS

by

Sandra Marton

They’re powerful, passionate— and as sexy as sin!

Three desert princes—

how will they tame their feisty brides?

THE SHEIKH’S DEFIANT BRIDE

August 2008

THE SHEIKH’S WAYWARD WIFE

December 2008

THE SHEIKH’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS

February 2009

BY

SANDRA MARTON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the sort of December afternoon that touched Fifth Avenue with magic.

Dusk had not yet fallen but the streetlights had already blinked on, gilding the fat snowdrops that fell lazily from the sky. Windows glowed with honeyed warmth from the multimillion dollar condos that filled the high-rise buildings lining the fabled street. Across the way, Central Park glittered under its soft dusting of white.

It was enough to make even jaded New Yorkers smile but not the man who stood at a window sixteen stories above the scene.

Why would a man smile when he was consumed by cold rage?

Sheikh Salim al Taj, crown prince of the Kingdom of Senahdar, Lion of the Alhandra Desert and Guardian of his Nation, stood motionless, a Baccarat snifter of brandy clutched in his hand. A casual observer might have thought his pale blue eyes were fixed on the scene below. The truth was, he’d hardly noticed it.

His vision was turned inward. He was reliving what had happened five long months ago until a sudden flash of movement brought him back to the present.

It was a hawk.

For a moment, the wild creature seemed poised in midair. Then it dropped gracefully on to the parapet of the terrace beyond the window, clinging to it with razor-sharp talons as it had done so often these past months.

The hawk didn’t belong in the city. It certainly didn’t belong in these concrete canyons at this time of year but the bird, like Salim, was a survivor.

Salim felt some of his tension ease. He smiled, lifted his glass in silent salute, then drank deep of the amber liquid it held.

He was not a sentimentalist. Sentimentality was a weakness. He was, however, a man who admired courage, resolve and single-minded determination. The hawk embodied all those qualities. It had survived in this alien setting; hell, it had flourished.

So had he.

Perhaps the metaphor was self-indulgent. Still, it was impossible to avoid. Salim was many things, not all of them good as these last months had proven, but he was not given to avoidance. Reality had to be faced, no matter what the consequences.

Outside, on the parapet, the hawk ruffled its brown and amber feathers and fixed its blazing eyes on the park. Night would descend soon; the hawk was readying itself for its final hunt of the day.

Would the hunt be successful? Salim had no doubt that it would. The creature was a predator. A consummate hunter whose cool intent, when properly focused, spelled doom for its fleeing prey.

Another metaphor, Salim thought, and felt a muscle tic high in his cheek.

The hawk had appeared a year ago, soaring effortlessly over the snarled traffic, then landing on the parapet as Salim watched.

The sight had startled him.

He knew hawks well. He had raised them, trained them, flown them in the mountains and deserts of Senahdar. He knew their courage. Their independence. The elegant savagery that beat in their blood, no matter how calmly they learned to sit on a man’s fist.

Watching the bird, he’d felt a wrenching sorrow at what would surely be its fate. A wild creature could not survive here.

Wrong.

The hawk had claimed the elegant avenue and the park as its own, dominating them as it would have dominated the forests or deserts that surely should have been its home. Salim had gladly given over the terrace. There were two others—one on each floor of his triplex; he was more than willing to share ownership of one with his wild guest.

The hawk thrived on solitude and by trusting its own instincts. It would never let anything defeat it.

Salim’s smile faded.

Neither would he. He’d been made a fool of five months before and the insult would be dealt with, and soon. Lifting the brandy snifter to his lips, he let the last of the liquid’s fire sear his throat.

It still infuriated him to remember. How he had been lied to. How he had fallen for the oldest game in the world.

How the woman had humiliated him.

She had lied to him in the worst way possible. She had played a game in his arms, the kind he’d never believed he would fall victim to.

She had lied to him with her body.

Her sighs. Her moans. The little whispers that had driven him crazy.

Yes, oh, yes. Do that again. Touch me, there, Salim. Ah. Ah, like that. Like that. Just…yes. Your mouth. Your hands …

Damn it!

Just remembering turned him hard. Lies, all of it but still, he couldn’t forget the feel of her. All that silken heat. The sweetness of her mouth. The weight of her breasts in his hands.

None of it had been real. Her sexual appetite, yes. But her hunger for him—for him, not for what or who he was—had been a lie. She had deceived him, toyed with him, made him blind to the truth.

Made it possible for her to steal his honor.

How else to describe waking up one morning to discover that she was gone and with her, ten million dollars?

A tremor of pure rage shot through him. He turned his back to the window, crossed the elegant room to a wall-length teak cabinet. The bottle of Courvoisier stood where he’d left it; he unstoppered it and poured himself a second drink.

All right. Part of that was an overstatement. He had not actually awakened to find Grace gone. How could he, when they’d never spent the entire night together?

Salim frowned.

Well, once. Twice, perhaps. Not more than that, and those times he’d stayed the night because of the weather or the lateness of the hour. Never for any other reason. She had her apartment. He had his. That was the way he liked it, always, no matter how long an affair lasted. Too much togetherness, no matter how good the sex, invariably led to familiarity and familiarity led to boredom.