CAROL MARINELLI - Desert Hearts - Sheikh Without a Heart / Heart of the Desert / The Sheikh's Destiny

“Goooal!” Karim said solemnly.

Rachel laughed. “Right. Oh, and infomercials.”

“Infomercials?”

“Yes. You know—men shouting as they try to sell you things you never heard of and never dreamed you needed.”

Karim took two glasses from a cabinet, filled them with juice and handed one to Rachel.

“Oh,” she said quickly, “no. No, thanks. I, ah, I should get out of your way—”

“You’re not in my way. Besides,” he said, his expression dead-pan, “if you order this glass of OJ right now, we’ll include a cup of coffee at no extra charge. You’ll just pay separate shipping and handling.”

She burst out laughing. It was as perfect an infomercial as any she’d ever seen.

Karim smiled. “Seriously, I make one heck of a cup of coffee. No shipping or handling charge at all. Okay?”

Not okay , her head told her …

“Okay,” she said, because, after all, what harm could there be in something so simple?

He made coffee.

She made toast.

He took his with strawberry jam. She took hers with cream cheese.

“Jam’s better,” he said.

She shook her head. “Too sweet first thing in the morning.”

“I like sweet tastes first thing in the morning,” he said, and though he hadn’t meant it as a double entendre she flushed, and he thought, just for a second, about leaning across the counter and kissing her …

But he didn’t.

Somehow this moment, this brief détente , was important.

So he cleared his throat, said the weather was unseasonably cool, and then they talked about this and that, the traffic, the newest plans for Central Park …

And then they fell silent.

What if he kisses me? Rachel thought.

I want to kiss her, Karim thought.

Her heartbeat quickened. So did his.

Their eyes met.

“Well …” he said.

“Well …” she said.

They got to their feet.

And moved in opposite directions.

“Got to get moving,” he said briskly.

Rachel nodded. “Me, too,” she said, just as briskly.

He told himself he was glad he hadn’t touched her.

She told herself the same thing.

But those easy moments in the quiet early-morning hours were all either of them thought of that entire day.

The early-morning meeting didn’t happen again.

Rachel made sure of that. She didn’t leave her room until she was certain Karim was gone.

Yes, she’d discovered her captor had a human side.

So what?

Days passed, and though he didn’t mention DNA tests or legal appointments eventually he would.

What would she do then?

Clearly she’d been wrong, thinking she’d be able to take Ethan and fade into the crowd.

She decided she had to confront him.

At the end of a long day—Ethan’s first tooth had come in, and he was cutting another—Rachel showered, put on a nightgown, tucked the baby into his crib and settled into the wing chair, pen and notepad in hand.

Time to get organized, she told herself, and began writing.

Contact Legal Aid. Or look up names of attorneys?

Qualifications? General law? Family law?

How to know if a lawyer is a good one?

Would a lawyer work on a payment plan?

Rachel yawned. She was exhausted. A nap. A brief one. And then—and then—

The pad and pen fell to the floor and she dropped into sleep.

HOURS later, Karim stepped from his private elevator.

The penthouse was silent; lamps glowed discreetly, just enough to chase away the gloom.

Rachel was always in her rooms by now.

And they hadn’t run into each other in the morning again.

They couldn’t; he’d taken to skipping his workouts. He left even earlier than before.

It was safer that way.

Otherwise, he thought grimly as he loosened his tie and went quietly up the stairs, otherwise he’d—

What?

Take Rachel in his arms? No way. That could only lead to disaster. He was going to take custody of the child. The last thing he needed was to sleep with that child’s mother.

Right.

Then, why hadn’t he started the ball rolling? Why had he not yet called his lawyer or the DNA lab?

A better question was, why did he walk quietly down the corridor each night, pause outside Rachel’s always-closed door, feel his pulse quicken as he imagined himself opening that door, going to her, waking her by taking her in his arms …?

Dammit.

He’d been over this ground before. Hadn’t he just thought the same thing again? The complications if he did such a crazy thing? Even the nasty possibility that her responses to him had been deliberate because she figured she could divert him from his plan?

His body tightened.

Or maybe, like him, she needed to get this impossible hunger out of her system.

Maybe this was the night to do it. Maybe—

What was that?

A sound. A whimper.

It was the baby.

Karim hesitated. He thought of the last time he’d heard the child crying, how he’d found him awake and Rachel asleep …

He stepped forward and opened the door.

It was the same. The dark sitting room. The soft light glowing through the partly open door of the nursery. And Rachel, asleep in the big wing chair, her hair loose and shining against the ivory fabric of one of those old-fashioned nightgowns he’d never known any other woman to wear.

His mistresses wore silk. Or lace. Sexy stuff, meant to turn up the heat …

And never getting it half as high as Rachel did in throat-to-toe cotton.

He wanted to kneel beside her, take her in his arms, draw her down to the floor with him. Kiss her, taste her, make her moan with hunger.

The baby. Concentrate on the baby.

Ethan was in the crib, wide awake, kicking those little arms and legs like a marathon runner and smiling from ear to ear.

Karim smiled back.

“Hey, pal,” he whispered.

He moved forward. Stepped on something. A pen and, under it, a notebook. He picked it up, glanced at the page. Rachel had scrawled a “To Do” list. None of his business what it was …

Except he could see it was about keeping Ethan.

He felt a quick tug of guilt. Which was ridiculous.

He had no reason to feel guilty. The baby was a prince’s son. He owed it to his brother’s memory, his king and his people, to see to it he was raised as a prince.

“Gaa gaa?”

Karim put the pad and pen on a table, scooped the baby into his arms and tiptoed from the room.

It was close to dawn when something drew Rachel from sleep.

A noise. A stir of sound somewhere in the vast apartment.

“Mmm,” she murmured, stretching her arms high over her head.

Falling asleep in this big chair had become something of a habit. It was surprisingly comfortable; she awoke feeling rested and—

“Ethan?”

The crib was empty.

Rachel shot to her feet.

Had he awakened and started to cry and she’d slept through it?

She told herself to calm down.

Ethan was fine. He was somewhere in the apartment and he was fine. But when she found the person who’d taken him instead of waking her—

Barefoot, she made her way down the silent corridor, down the stairs, through the dark rooms …

And ended her search by following the pale flow of light into the big living room, where she found her little boy and her captor.

They were fast asleep.

Rachel’s throat constricted.

The room reflected the life and wealth of its owner. White walls. White furniture highlighted by touches of deepest black. It was a sophisticated setting for a sophisticated man …

A man who lay sprawled on one of the long white sofas, shoes, suit coat and tie tossed aside, with Ethan lying spread-eagled against his chest—Ethan so small and sweet in the powerful arms of the powerful man who, except for that first night, behaved as if he didn’t exist.