Amanda couldn’t help it. She laughed. “I guess it doesn’t sound like much of a recommendation.”
“No, it doesn’t. And I thought we both just agreed you need this job.”
“You’re right,” Amanda said glumly, “I do.”
“Darned right, you do. At least redo the suite Nicky lets me use whenever I’m in town. Did you ever see such awful kitsch?” Dawn gave Amanda a quick hug when she smiled. “That’s better. Just let me do the talking, okay?”
“Okay.”
Dawn quickened her pace as they started up the wide staircase that led to the second floor. “We’ll have to hurry. You put on that slinky red dress, fix your hair, spritz on some perfume and get ready to convince my brother he’d be crazy to turn up his regal nose at the chance to have this place done by the one, the only, the incredible Amanda Benning.”
“You ever think about going into PR?”
“You can put me on the payroll after the first time your name shows up in the—oh, damn! We never finished our tour. You haven’t seen Nick’s suite.”
“That’s all right.” Amanda patted the pocket of her silk trousers. “I’ll transfer my camera into my evening bag.”
“No, don’t do that.” Dawn shuddered dramatically as she opened the door to her rooms. “If Nick sees you taking pictures, he’ll figure you for a media spy and…” She grinned and sliced her hand across her throat. “How’s this? You shower first, get dressed, then grab a quick look. His rooms are at the other end of the hall.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Amanda said quickly. “What if the sheikh comes in while I’m poking around?”
“He won’t. Nicky promised he’d be on time, but he’s always late. He hates stuff like this. You know, public appearances, being the center of attention. The longer he can delay his entrance, the better he likes it.”
Amanda thought about the walking ego who’d shoved his way into her room, unasked and unannounced.
“I’ll bet,” she said, and softened the words with a smile. “But I’d still feel more comfortable if you were with me.”
“I promise I’ll join you just as soon as I turn myself into the gorgeous, desirable creature we both know I am. Okay?”
Amanda hesitated, told herself she was being an idiot, then nodded. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dawn kicked off her shoes. “In that case, the shower’s all yours.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Amanda paused outside the door to the sheikh’s rooms.
If anybody took her pulse right now, they’d probably enter the result in the record books. She could feel it galloping like a runaway horse, but why wouldn’t it?
It wasn’t every day she sneaked into a man’s bedroom to take pictures and make notes. Into the bedroom of a man who demanded people address him as “Lord”. A man to whom other men bowed.
Instinct told her to turn tail and run. Necessity told her to stop being a coward. She was wasting time, and there really wasn’t much to waste. Ten minutes, if Dawn was wrong and the sheikh showed up promptly.
She ran a nervous hand through the short, pale gold hair that framed her face, took the tiny digital camera from her evening purse and tapped at the door.
“Sheikh Rashid?”
There was no answer. The only sounds that carried through the vastness of the penthouse were snatches of baroque music from the quartet setting up in the library far below.
Amanda straightened her shoulders, opened the door and stepped inside the room.
It was clearly a man’s domain. Dawn had said her brother hadn’t changed any of the furnishings in the penthouse and Amanda could believe that—everywhere but here. This one room bore a stamp that she instantly knew was the sheikh’s.
She didn’t know why she would think it. Asked to describe a room Nicholas al Rashid would design for himself, she’d have come up with mahogany furniture. Dark crimson walls. Velvet drapes.
These walls were pale blue silk. The furniture was satin-finished rosewood, and the tall windows had been left unadorned to frame the view of Central Park. The carpet was Persian, she was sure, and old enough to date back to a century when that had been the name of the country in which it had been made.
A sleek portable computer sat open on a low table.
The room spoke of simplicity and elegance. It spoke, too, of a time older than memory that flowed into a time yet to come.
Amanda began taking photos. The room. The bed. The open windows and the view beyond. She worked quickly while images of the sheikh flashed through her mind. She could see him in this room, tall and leanly muscled, stiff with regal arrogance. He belonged here.
Then she saw the oil painting on the wall. She hesitated, then walked toward it, eyes lifted to the canvas.
The room was a sham. All the sophistication, the urbanity…a lie, all of it. This was the real man, the one she’d met that night, and never mind the jeans and T-shirt he’d worn then, and the nonsense about his half-American ancestry.
The painting was of Nicholas al Rashid dressed in desert robes of white trimmed with gold, seated on the back of a white horse that looked as wild as he did. One hand held the reins; the other lay on the pommel of the elaborate saddle.
And his eyes, those silver eyes, seemed to be staring straight at her.
Amanda took a step back.
She was wrong to have come here, wrong to have let Dawn convince her she could take this job, even if the sheikh permitted it.
Wrong, wrong, wrong—
“What in hell do you think you’re doing in my bedroom?”
The tiny camera fell from Amanda’s hand. She swung around, heart racing, and saw the Lion of the Desert, the Heir to the Imperial Throne of Quidar, standing in the doorway, just as he’d been doing that night in her dormitory room.
No jeans and T-shirt this time.
He wore a dark gray suit, a white-on-white shirt and a dark red tie. He was dressed the same as half the men in Manhattan—but it was easy to imagine him in his flowing robes and headdress, with the endless expanse of the desert behind him instead of the marble hall.
Maybe it had something to do with the way he stood, legs apart, hands planted on his hips, as if he owned the world. Maybe it was the look on his hard, handsome face that said he was emperor of the universe and she was nothing but an insignificant subject….
Get a grip, Amanda.
The man had caught her off guard that night, but it wouldn’t happen again. She wasn’t eighteen anymore, and she’d learned how to deal with hard men who thought they owned the world, men like her father, her stepfather, her ex-husband.
Whatever else they owned, they didn’t own her.
“Well? Are you deaf, woman? I asked you a question.”
Amanda bent down, retrieved her camera and tucked it into her beaded evening purse.
“I heard you,” she said politely. “It’s just that you startled me, Sheikh Rashid.” She took a breath, then held out her hand. “I’m Amanda Benning.”
“And?” he said, pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand.
“Didn’t your sister tell you about me?”
“No.”
No? Oh. Dawn? Dawn, where are you?
Amanda smiled politely. “Well, she, um, she invited me here tonight.”
“And that gives you the right to sneak into my bedroom?”
“I did not sneak,” she said, trying to hold the smile. “I was merely…” Merely what? Dawn was supposed to handle all this. It was her surprise.
“Yes?”
“I was, um, I was…” She hesitated. “I think it’s better if Dawn explains it.”
A chilly smile angled across his mouth. “I’d much rather hear your explanation, Ms. Benning.”
“Look, this is silly. I told you, your sister and I are friends. Why not simply ask her to—”
“My sister is young and impressionable. It would never occur to her that you’d use your so-called friendship for your own purposes.�
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“I beg your pardon?”
The sheikh took a step forward. “Who sent you here?”
“Who sent me?” Amanda’s eyes narrowed. Nearly eight years had gone by, and he was as arrogant and overbearing as ever. Well, she wasn’t the naive child she’d been the last time they’d dealt with each other, and she wasn’t frightened of bullies. “No one sent me,” she said as she started past him. “And there’s not enough money in the world to convince me to—”
His hand closed on her wrist with just enough pressure to make her gasp.
“Give me the camera.”
She looked up at him. His eyes glittered like molten silver. She felt a lump of fear lodge just behind her breastbone, but she’d sooner have choked on the fear than let him know he’d been able to put it there.
“Let go of me,” she said quietly.
His grasp on her wrist tightened; he tugged her forward. Amanda stumbled on her high heels and threw out a hand to stop herself. Her palm flattened against his chest.
It was like touching a wall of steel. The cover photo from Gossip sprang into her head. Savage, the caption had called him, just as she had, that night.
“Or what?” His words were soft; his smile glittered. “You are in my home, Ms. Benning. To all intents and purposes, that means you stand on Quidaran soil. My word is law here.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true if I say it is.”
Amanda stared at him in disbelief. “Mr. Rashid—”
“You will address me as Lord Rashid,” he said, and she saw the sudden memory spark to life in his eyes. “We’ve met before.”
“No,” Amanda said, too quickly. “No, we haven’t.”
“We have. Something about you is familiar.”
“I have that kind of face. You know. Familiar.”
Nick frowned. She didn’t. The pale hair. The eyes that weren’t brown or green but something more like gold. The elegant cheekbones, the full, almost pouty lower lip…
“Let go of my wrist, Sheikh Rashid.”
“When you give me your camera.”
“Forget it! It’s my cam—Hey. Hey, you can’t…”
He could, though Nick had to admit, it wasn’t easy. The woman was twisting like a wildcat, trying to break free and keep him from opening her purse at the same time, but he hung on to her with one hand while he dug out her camera with the other.
She was still complaining, her voice rising as he thumbed from image to image. What he saw made him crazy. Photos of his home. The terrace. The living room. The library. The bathrooms, for God’s sake.
And his bedroom.
She had done more than invade his privacy. She had stolen it and would sell it to the highest bidder. He had no doubt of that.
He looked up from the digital camera, his eyes cold as they assessed her.
She was a thief, but she was beautiful even in a city filled with beautiful women. She seemed so familiar…but if they’d met before, surely he’d remember. What man would forget such a face? Such fire in those eyes. Such promised sweetness in that lush mouth.
And yet, for all of that, she was a liar.
Nick looked down at the little camera in his hand.
Beautiful, and duplicitous.
She played dangerous games, this woman. Games that took her into a man’s bedroom and left her vulnerable to whatever punishment he might devise.
He lifted his head slowly, and his eyes met hers.
“Who paid you to take these pictures?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Well, that’s progress. At least you admit you’re doing this for money.”
“I am. But it isn’t what you—”
“You came here in search of information. A story. Photos. Whatever you could find that was salable.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Do you know what the punishment in my country is for those who steal?”
“Steal?” Amanda gave an incredulous laugh. “I did not—”
“Theft is bad enough,” he said coldly. “Don’t compound it by lying.”
His eyes were flat with rage. Amanda’s heart thumped. Dealing with her father, her stepfather, even her ex, was nothing compared to dealing with a man who ruled a kingdom. She wasn’t one of his subjects, but she had the feeling this wasn’t exactly the time to point that out.
If Nick finds out, Dawn had said, he’ll be angry at me.
But Dawn was among the missing, the sheikh was blocking the doorway, and clearly, discretion was not the better part of valor.
“All right.” Amanda stood straighter, even though her heart was still trying to fight its way out of her chest. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“An excellent decision, Ms. Benning.”
She licked her lips. “I’m—I’m your surprise.”
Nick frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“My services. They’re your gift. What Dawn talked about, on the phone.”
His gift? Nick’s brows lifted. His little sister had a strange sense of humor, but how far would she go for a joke? It could be that Amanda Benning was willing to tell one gigantic whopper as a cover story.
“Indeed,” he purred.
Amanda didn’t like the tone in his voice.
“I’ll have you know that I’m much sought after.” Oh, Amanda, what a lie. “And expensive.” Well, why not? She would be, one day.
“Yes,” Nick said softly. “That, at least, must be the truth.”
And then, before she could take a breath, Nick reached for the blonde with the golden eyes and the endless legs, pulled her into his arms, and crushed her mouth under his.
CHAPTER THREE
IF THERE was one thing Nick understood, it was the art of diplomacy.
He was the heir to the throne of an ancient kingdom. He represented his people, his flag, his heritage. And he never forgot that.
It was his responsibility to behave in a way that gave the least offense to anyone, even when he was saying or doing something others might not like. He understood that obligation and accepted it.
But when the spotlight was off and Nick could be himself, the truth was that he often had trouble being diplomatic. There were instances when diplomacy was about as useful as offering condolences to a corpse. Sometimes, being polite could distract from the truth and confuse things.
He wanted no confusion in Amanda Benning’s mind when it came to him. She was sophisticated and beautiful, a woman who lived by her wits as well as her more obvious charms, but he was on to her game.
And he wanted to be sure she knew it.
That was the reason he’d taken her in his arms. He was very clear about the purpose, even as he gathered her close against him, bent her back over his arm and kissed her.
He’d caught her by surprise. He’d intended that. She gasped, which gave him the chance to slip his tongue between her lips. Then she began to fight him.
Good.
She’d planned everything so carefully. The tiny camera that he should never have noticed. The sexy dress. The soft scent of her perfume. The strappy black silk shoes with the high, take-me heels…
Seduction first, conveniently made simple by his foolish sister, whose penchant for silly jokes had finally gotten out of hand. And then, having bedded the Lion of the Desert, the Benning woman would sell her photographs and a breathless first-person account of what it was like to sleep with him.
Nick caught Amanda’s wrist as she struggled to shove a hand between them. What a fool Dawn had been to hire a woman like this and bring her into their midst. But he’d have been a greater fool not to at least taste her.
He wouldn’t take her to bed. He was too fastidious to take the leavings of other men, but he’d give her just enough of an encounter to remember. Kiss her with harsh demand. Cup her high, lush breasts with the easy certainty that spoke of royal possession.
When she responded, not out of desire but because that was her job, he’d shove her from him, let her watch him grind her camera unde
r his heel. After that, he’d call for Abdul and direct him to hustle the lady straight out the door.
Then he’d go in search of his sister. Dawn needed to be reminded how dangerous it was to consort with scum. A few months in Quidar, under the watchful eye of their father, would work wonders.
That was Nick’s plan anyway.
The kiss, the reality of it, changed everything.
Amanda had stopped struggling. That was good. She’d been paid to accept his kisses, welcome his hands as they caressed her pliant body…except, he suddenly realized, she wasn’t pliant.
She was rigid with what seemed to be fear.
Fear?
She’d cried out as his mouth covered hers. A nice touch, he’d thought coldly, that little intake of breath, that high, feminine cry. Righteous indignation didn’t go with the dress or the heels, certainly not with the face or the body, but he could see where she might try it, just to heighten the tension and his arousal before her ultimate surrender.
There were games men and women played, and a woman like this would know them all. Either Amanda Benning was an excellent actress or he’d started the game before she was ready.
Was she the kind who wanted to direct the performance and the pace? Or was her imagination running wild? Innocent maiden. Savage sheikh. The story wasn’t new. Nick had come across women who hungered for it and would accept nothing else, but he never obliged. It was a stereotype, a fantasy that offended him deeply, and he refused to play it out.
Sex between a man and a woman involved as much giving as taking or it brought neither of them pleasure.
But this was different.
He had neither wooed the Benning woman nor won her. She hadn’t seduced him with a smile, a glance, a touch. She was here because his sister had decided it would be amusing to give her to him as a gift.
In other words, none of the usual rules applied.
The woman was his. He could do as he wanted with her. And if what she thought he wanted was some rough sex, he could oblige. He could play along until it was time to toss her out.
Mistress of the Sheikh Page 3
