Mistress of the Sheikh

by Sandra Marton

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “We have other customs you would probably call ridiculous, as well, including one that demands a woman’s silence in my presence until I grant her permission to speak.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a promise.”

  Amanda shook her head in disbelief. “I have no idea how Dawn tolerates you.”

  “And I have no idea how someone like you managed to insinuate yourself into my sister’s life. Now, smile and behave yourself.”

  “You’re a horrible man, Lord Rashid.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Ms. Benning.”

  They reached the bottom of the steps. Nick smiled. So did Amanda. The crowd surged forward and swallowed them up.

  * * *

  An hour later, Nick was still leading Amanda from guest to guest.

  If her ex could only see her now, she thought wryly.

  Not wanting to be stage center was one of the first things they’d quarreled over, but that was where she’d been all evening. If there’d been a spotlight in the room, it would have been beamed at her head.

  Nicholas al Rashid might be the Lord of the Realm, the Lion of the Desert, the Heir to the Imperial Throne and the Wizard of Oz, but not even he could control people’s tongues. And those tongues were all wagging. Wagging, Amanda thought grimly, at top speed.

  “My sister’s friend,” he said each time he introduced her. “Ms. Amanda Benning.”

  The answers hardly varied. “Oh,” people said, “how…interesting.”

  She knew that what they really wanted to say was that if she was Dawn’s friend, why had she made such a spectacular entrance on his arm, with no Dawn in sight? For that matter, where was Dawn now?

  On the other side of the room, that was where. Dawn had smiled and waggled her fingers, but clearly, she was going to adhere to the rules and keep her distance.

  As Nick was walking her toward another little knot of people, Amanda snagged a glass of wine from a waiter and took a sip.

  Rules. The sheikh was full of rules. And, fool that he was, he seemed to think people abided by them.

  “You see?” he’d said smugly, after he’d marched her around for a while. “No one’s asking any questions. It wouldn’t be polite.”

  Idiot, Amanda thought, and took another mouthful of wine.

  Etiquette could keep people from saying what they were thinking, but nothing could stop the thoughts themselves or the buzz of speculation that followed them around the room.

  Finally, she’d had her fill.

  “I don’t like this,” she murmured. “Everyone is talking about me.”

  “You should have thought of that possibility before you sneaked into my bedroom. Keep moving, please, Ms. Benning.”

  “They think I’m your—your—”

  “Probably.” Nick’s jaw knotted; his hand clasped her elbow more tightly as he steered her toward the terrace door. “That’s why it’s important to show no reaction to the whispers.”

  “There isn’t anything to whisper about,” Amanda said crossly. “Can’t you tell them that?”

  Nick laughed.

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing.” She yanked her arm free of his hand as they stepped into the cool night air. “Can’t you tell them—”

  “Sire?”

  Amanda looked over her shoulder. Abdul, looking more like a pretzel than a man, came hurrying toward them.

  “Your slave approacheth,” she said, “O Emperor of the World.”

  Nick ignored her as Abdul dropped to one knee. “What is it, Abdul?”

  The old man lifted his head just enough to give her a meaningful look. Nick sighed, eased his secretary to his feet and led him a short distance away. He bent his head, listened, then nodded.

  “Thank you, Abdul.”

  “My lord,” Abdul said, and shuffled backward into the living room.

  “He’s too old to be doing that whenever he comes near you.”

  “I agree. But—”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s the custom, right? And we wouldn’t want to ignore the custom even if it means that poor little man has to keep banging his knees against the floor.”

  Nick’s jaw shot forward. “Abdul was my father’s secretary. He was my grandfather’s apprentice clerk. This is the way he’s always done things, the way he expects to do…” He stopped talking. Amanda was looking at him as if he were some alien species of life. “Never mind,” he said coldly. “I’m not going to spend the evening in debate.”

  “Of course not, because you know you’d lose.”

  “What I know,” Nick said even more coldly, “is that Abdul’s just reminded me of some things that need my attention. You’re on your own.”

  Amanda raised her hands and flexed her wrists. “Off with the handcuffs,” she said brightly.

  “You’re to keep away from Dawn.”

  “Certainly, sire.”

  “You’re not to bother anyone with personal questions.”

  “Darn,” she cooed, batting her lashes. “And here I was, hoping to ask the governor what he wore to bed.”

  “Other than that, you’re free to move among my guests unattended.”

  “Does that mean I passed the background check?”

  “It means I’m too busy to go on playing baby-sitter, and that if you try to leave before I’m done with you, you’ll be stopped by my security people.”

  “How gracious of you, Lord Rashid.”

  Nick flashed a grim smile. “What man would not wish to be gracious to you, Ms. Benning?” he answered, and strolled back into the brightly lit living room.

  “Good riddance,” Amanda muttered, watching him.

  “Nicky!”

  He was halfway across the room when Deanna Burgess launched herself into the sheikh’s arms. Amanda’s eyebrows lifted. It was a warm greeting, to say the least, but the look she shot over his shoulder was far from warm.

  Obviously, Deanna Burgess knew Nick had made his entrance with her on his arm. Of course she knew, Amanda thought grimly. She drank some more wine. Two hundred and fifty absolute strangers had witnessed that entrance and the odds were excellent that most of them were still talking about it.

  Oh, if only she could get that sort of publicity for Benning Designs.

  Amanda lifted her glass to her mouth. It was empty. She tilted it up and let the last golden drops trickle onto her tongue. Time for another drink, she thought, and strolled into the living room.

  There had to be a way to turn this disaster into something useful. Dawn’s original plan certainly wasn’t going to work now. No way would the sheikh agree to let Benning Designs decorate the penthouse.

  Amanda smiled at the bartender, put down her empty glass and exchanged it for a full one.

  Think, she told herself, think. What would Paul do? Her ex, with his toothpaste smile, had been unsurpassed at turning political liabilities into political bonuses.

  She took a drink. Mmm. The wine was delicious. And cooling.

  Jonas, then. Her stepfather was the sort of man who’d never let a difficult situation stop him. What would Jonas do?

  “…old friend, or so he…”

  The whispered buzz sounded as clearly as a bell in the seconds it took the chamber quartet to segue from Vivaldi to Mozart. The little knot of people that had produced it looked at her. Amanda looked back, lifted her glass. One man colored and lifted his, too.

  The bastards were, indeed, talking about her.

  She buried her frown in her glass.

  If only they’d talk about Benning Designs instead of Amanda Benning, but there was no way that would happen. Not even Jonas Baron could turn this silk purse into a sow’s ear. Or maybe it was the other way around. Even old Jonas would be helpless in this situation. The best he’d do would be to come up with some creaky saying.

  Like, you had to roll with the punches. Like, those were the breaks. Like, when life hands you lemons…

  “Make lemonade,�
� Amanda said, and blinked.

  “Sorry?”

  She swung around, gave the bartender a big smile. “I said, could I have another glass of wine, please?”

  Glass in hand, smiling brilliantly, she headed straight for the little group of whisperers.

  “Hello,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “I’m Amanda Benning. Of Benning Designs. I apologize for making His Highness late for his own party, but I had him all excited.” She smiled modestly and wondered if the woman to her left knew her mouth was hanging open. “He’s so private, you know.”

  “Oh,” the woman with the hanging jaw said, “we know!”

  “He probably thought it would upset me if he told anyone what we’d really been doing upstairs.”

  Four mouths opened. Four heads leaned toward her. Amanda tried not to laugh.

  “I’d just shown him some fabric swatches, and he—Nicky—well, he just loved them.” She did laugh this time, but in a way that made it clear she was sharing a charming anecdote with her new acquaintances. “And then he wanted to see some paint chips, and before we knew it, the time had just flown by.”

  Silence. She knew what was happening. She hoped she did anyway. The little group of guests was processing what she’d said. Come on, she thought impatiently, come on! Surely one of you wants to be first—

  “You mean,” the man who’d had the decency to blush said, “you’re the sheikh’s interior decorator?”

  “His interior designer.” Amanda smiled so hard her lips ached. “And I can hardly wait to get started. I had to shift my calendar around to make room for the sheikh—”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Really.” Amanda curled her free hand around the slender shoulder strap of her evening purse and hoped nobody could see her crossed fingers. “The vice president will be a bit put out, I know, but, well, when the Lion of the Desert makes a request—”

  “The vice president? And the sheikh?” The woman with the drooping jaw was almost drooling as she leaned closer. “Isn’t it funny? That you should mention interior decorating, I mean?”

  “Design,” Amanda said, and smiled politely.

  “Oh. Of course. But what I meant is, we’ve been thinking of redoing our cottage in the Hamptons.”

  Amanda arched a brow. A cottage in the Hamptons. She knew what that meant. A dozen rooms, minimum. Or maybe fifty.

  “Really,” she said with what she hoped was the right mix of politeness and boredom. “How nice.”

  A waiter floated by with a tray of champagne. She grabbed his elbow, swapped her now empty glass for a flute of bubbly and took a drink. Her head felt light. Well, why wouldn’t it? She hadn’t eaten in hours.

  “I wonder, Ms Benning…would you have time to fit us in?”

  Thank you, God. Amanda frowned. “I don’t know. My schedule—”

  “We’d be grateful if you could just come out and take a look.”

  “Well, since you’re friends of the sheikh—”

  “Old friends,” the woman said quickly.

  “In that case…” Amanda opened her evening purse and whipped out a business card. “Why don’t you phone me on Monday?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful.”

  Wonderful didn’t quite do it. Incredible was more like it. She fought back the desire to pump her fist into the air, made a bit more small talk and moved on to the next group of guests.

  Before long, her cards were almost all gone. Everybody seemed to want one now that they knew she was Amanda Benning, the sheikh’s designer. It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. She’d have been his designer if Dawn’s plan hadn’t backfired.

  “Ms. Benning,” someone called.

  Amanda smiled, relieved a waiter of another flute of champagne and started toward the voice. Whoa. The floor was tilting. She giggled softly. You’d think a zillion-billion-million-dollar penthouse wouldn’t have warped—

  “Amanda.”

  A pair of strong hands closed on her shoulders. She looked up as Nick stepped in front of her. Wow. His head was tilting, too.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  How come he wasn’t smiling? Amanda gave him a loopy grin. “How ’bout you, Nicky? Are you envoy—enboy—enjoying you’self?” she said, and hiccuped.

  Nick marched her through the room, out the door and onto the terrace. It wasn’t deserted as it had been before. He clutched her elbow, kept her tightly at his side as he walked her past little clusters of guests.

  “Hello,” he kept saying. “Having a good time?”

  “Hello,” Amanda sang happily. “Havin’ a goo’ time?”

  Someone laughed. Nick laughed, too, but his laughter died once they turned the corner of the terrace. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a furious whisper.

  Amanda blinked owlishly. It was darker out here. She couldn’t see Nick’s face clearly, but she didn’t have to. He was angry, angry that she’d finally been having fun.

  “Half my guests are marching around, clutching your address and phone number.”

  She giggled. “Only half?” Champagne sloshed over the edge of her glass as she raised it to her lips. “Jus’ let me finish this and I’ll—Hey,” she said indignantly as he snatched the flute from her hand. “Give me that.”

  “Who told you that you could hand out business cards?”

  “Who told me? Nobody told me. I didn’t ask. I wouldn’t ask! People don’t need permission to hand out business cards.”

  “They do when they’re in my home.”

  “Tha’s ridiculous.”

  “I won’t have you bothering my guests.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I wasn’t bothering anybody.” She laughed slyly. “Matter of fact, your guests are eager to meet me.”

  “I’ll bet they are.”

  “Ever’body wants the sheikh’s designer to do their house.”

  “You’re not my designer,” he said coldly. “And as soon as they realize that, your little scheme will collapse.”

  “A minor teshnic—technic—a minor inconvenience.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, and hiccuped again.

  “Have you eaten anything tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Amanda lifted her chin. “I was too busy drinking wine.”

  Nick said something under his breath. She looked at him.

  “Was that Quidaran again? Must have been. I couldn’t understand it.”

  “Be glad you didn’t,” he said, his voice grim. “Let’s go, Ms. Benning.”

  “Go where?”

  “You need a pot of strong coffee and a plate of food.”

  The mention of food made her stomach lurch. “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “Coffee, then. And something for your head before it starts to ache.”

  “Why should it…?” She caught her breath. “Ow,” she whispered, and put the back of her hand to her forehead. “My head hurts.”

  “Indeed.” Nick pulled her into the circle of his arm and led her to the end of the terrace.

  “Is that a door?”

  “That’s what it is. Let me punch in the code.”

  The door swung open. Amanda took a step and faltered. Nick lifted her into his arms, carried her inside, kicked the door shut and switched on the light. She threw her arm over her eyes. “Agh. That’s so bright.”

  “I’ll turn it down. Okay. Sit here. And don’t move.”

  She sat. It didn’t help. Her head spun. Or the room spun. Either way, she felt awful.

  “Nick?”

  “Here I am. Open your mouth.”

  She opened an eye instead. He was holding out a glass and four tablets.

  “What’s that?”

  “I know you’d like to think it’s poison, but it’s only water and something that’ll make your head feel better.”

  “How abo
ut my stomach?” she said in a whisper.

  Nick grinned. “That, too. Go on. Take them.”

  She took the tablets and gave them a wary look. “Are they from Quidar?”

  Nick didn’t just grin, he laughed. “They’re from a pharmacy in Bond Street. Come on. Swallow them down.”

  She did. He took the glass from her.

  “Now, put your feet up.” His voice sounded far away, but he was right there, beside her. She could feel his hands, lifting her. Shifting her so her head was propped on something. A bed? A pillow?

  His lap.

  “Where are we?” she mumbled, and opened one eye.

  “My study,” Nick said.

  The room was small, with an interior door that she assumed led into the rest of the penthouse. It was cozy, she thought. Everything looked lived in: the threadbare old rug, the battered leather sofa and the equally battered desk.

  “Dawn didn’t show me this.”

  “No.” His voice hummed with amusement. “She doesn’t have the combination, so it wouldn’t have been on the dollar tour. Shut your eyes and let the tablets do their job.”

  She did. For five minutes. For an hour. Time passed; she had no idea how long she lay there. A hand stroked her forehead and she sighed and turned her face into it.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Nick lifted her head gently from his lap. She lay back, eyes closed, heard a door open, heard him say, “Thank you,” heard the door swing shut.

  “Coffee,” Nick said. “Freshly ground and brewed.”

  “It’s wonderful to be king,” Amanda murmured.

  “Wonderful,” he said dryly. “Can you sit up?”

  She did. He held out an enormous mug, filled to the brim with liquid so black it looked like ink.

  She took it, held it in both hands. “It’s hot.”

  “Clever of you to figure that out.”

  “It’s black.”

  “Clever again.”

  “I like cream and sugar in my coffee.”

  “Drink it,” he said, “or I’ll grab your nose and pour it into your mouth.”

  He looked as if he might do just that. Amanda drank, shuddered, and drank again. When the cup was empty, she gave it to him. He refilled it, looked at her, sighed and put it down on the desk. Then he took a chair, turned it backward, straddled it and sat.

  “Better?”