Mistress of the Sheikh

by Sandra Marton

  “Sweetheart.” Nick leaned close and brushed his lips over hers. “I’m only protecting you from reading about yourself in tomorrow’s papers.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly serious. I’ve no reason to distrust the attendant, but why take chances? There’s a heavy market in celebrity gossip.”

  “Yes, but…” But you’re not a celebrity, she’d almost said because she didn’t think of him that way. He was a man to her, a man with whom she’d fallen in love, but to the rest of the world, he was the stuff of tabloid headlines. She sighed and rubbed her forehead against his sleeve. “It must be awful,” she murmured. “Never having any privacy, never being able to let down your guard.”

  “That’s the way it’s been most of my life…until now.” Nick put his hand under Amanda’s chin and smiled into her eyes. “I’ve let down my guard with you, sweetheart.”

  “Have you?” she said softly.

  He nodded. “I’ve told you more about myself than I’ve ever told anyone. And I’ve never taken anyone with me to Quidar.”

  Her heart leaped at what he’d said.

  “No one?”

  “No one,” he said solemnly. “You’re the first.” He leaned closer. “The first woman I’ve ever—”

  “Dom Pérignon or Taittinger, Your Highness?” the flight attendant asked cheerfully.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nick said, his eyes locked on Amanda’s face. “What we drink doesn’t matter at all.”

  They ate dinner, though Amanda was too wound up to do more than pick at hers. What would her first glimpse of Nick’s homeland be like? What would his father think about her being with him? What would Nick tell him?

  She stole a glance at Nick. He’d opened his omnipresent briefcase and read through some papers. Then he’d reached for the telephone and made several calls, sounding more purposeful, even imperial, with each conversation. He even looked different, his mouth and jaw seemingly set in sterner lines, as if he were changing from the man who’d made such passionate love to her into the man who was the heir to the throne of his country.

  Her throat tightened.

  “Nick?” she said as he hit the disconnect button.

  He frowned, blinked, stared at her as if, just for a moment, he’d all but forgotten her presence.

  “Yes,” he said a little impatiently, and then he seemed to give himself a little shake. “Sorry, sweetheart.” He put his arm around her, drew her close. “I wanted to take care of some things before we land.”

  “Have you told your father that you’re bringing me with you?”

  Nick hesitated. “Yes, I told him.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he hoped you were even more beautiful than Scheherazade,” Nick said lightly. “I assured him that you were.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s an ancient legend that says Scheherazade visited Zamidar and the Ivory Palace centuries ago.”

  Amanda gave him a puzzled smile. “The same Scheherazade who saved her neck by telling that sultan all those stories?”

  “The very one.” Nick smiled. “Unfortunately, she didn’t tell any tall tales when she visited the monarch of Quidar.”

  She grinned. “Your grandpa, no doubt, a zillion times removed. Well, why didn’t she? Tell him stories, I mean.”

  “There was no reason.”

  “Ah.” Amanda tucked her head against Nick’s shoulder. “Nice to know.”

  “Hmm?”

  “That the monarch of Quidar didn’t have the power to…” She sliced her hand across her neck and Nick laughed.

  “Of course he did.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes.” He tipped her chin up and lightly folded his hand around her throat. “He still can,” he said softly. “The rulers of my country have always held life-and-death power over those who cross into the kingdom.”

  “Oh.” Her heart skipped a beat. “Does that include the heir to the throne?”

  Nick smiled into her eyes, then brushed his mouth over hers. “I can do anything I want with you, once we reach Quidar.”

  His tone was light, his smile gentle. Still, even though she knew it was foolish, she couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy.

  “That sounds ominous,” she said, and managed a smile in return.

  Nick kissed her again. “Come on. Put your head on my shoulder. That’s it. Now, love, shut your eyes and get some sleep.”

  She let him draw her head down, let him gently kiss her eyes closed.

  He could do anything he wanted with her, he’d said. And what he wanted was to bring her to the Ivory Palace and call her his love.

  * * *

  They changed planes in Paris, going from the commercial jet to a smaller plane, similar to the one they’d flown to Espada. It, too, bore the emblem of Quidar on the fuselage.

  Butterflies were beginning to swarm in Amanda’s stomach.

  “How much longer until we reach your country?” she asked.

  “Just a few hours.” Nick took her hand. “Nervous?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  Why wouldn’t she be? She was flying to an unknown place to meet a king. The king was Nick’s father, and yes, Nick was a prince—but the Nick she knew was only a man, and her lover.

  So long as she kept sight of that, she’d be fine.

  The final leg of their journey went quickly. Nick held her hand but spoke to her hardly at all. He seemed—what was the right word? Preoccupied. Even distant. But he would be, considering that all his energies would have to be centered on the problems that had brought him home.

  The plane touched down, coasted to a seamless stop. Nick rose to his feet, held out his hand and she took it.

  “Ready?” he said softly, and she nodded, even though her heart was pounding, and let him lead her to the exit door.

  Blinking, she stepped out into bright sunlight.

  All during the past few hours, she’d tried to envision what she’d find at the end of their long journey. She’d conjured up an endless strip of concrete spearing across a barren desert.

  What she saw was a small, modern airport, graceful palm trees and, just ahead, the skyline of a small city etched in icy-white relief against a cerulean sky. A line of limousines stood waiting nearby, but she’d lived in New York long enough to have seen strings of big cars before.

  The only really startling sight was at their feet, where a dozen men, all wearing desert robes, knelt in obeisance, their foreheads pressed to the concrete runway.

  Amanda shot a glance at Nick. His face seemed frozen, as if an ancient, evil wizard had changed him into a stranger.

  One of the men stirred. “My Lord Rashid,” he said, “we bid you welcome.”

  “English?” Amanda whispered.

  Nick drew her beside him. “English,” he said softly, a touch of amusement edging his voice. “The Royal Council usually uses it when addressing me. It’s their very polite way of reminding me that I am not truly of Quidar.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You couldn’t understand,” he said wryly, “without roots that go back three thousand years.”

  He stepped forward, thanked the council members for the greeting and told them to rise. He didn’t mention her or introduce her, but she felt the cold glances of the men, saw their stern expressions.

  A shudder raced along her skin.

  “You didn’t introduce me,” she said to Nick as their limousine and the others raced toward the city.

  “I will, when the time is right.”

  “Won’t those men wonder who I am?”

  “They know you’re with me, Amanda. That’s sufficient.”

  The shudder came again but stronger this time.

  “Nick?” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Nick, I’ve been thinking. Maybe…maybe I shouldn’t have come with you.”

  “Don’t be ridic
ulous.”

  “I mean it. I want to go back.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no? I’m telling you—”

  “And I said, no.”

  Amanda swung toward Nick. He was staring straight ahead, arms folded, jaw set.

  “Don’t speak to me that way,” she said carefully. “I don’t like it.”

  Seconds passed. Then he turned toward her, muttered something under his breath and took her in his arms. “Sweetheart, forgive me. I have a lot on my mind. Of course you can leave if that’s what you really want. I’m hoping it isn’t. I want you here, with me.”

  “I want to be with you, too. It’s just that…I think—”

  Nick stopped her with a kiss. “Remember what I once told you? Stop thinking.”

  She knew he was teasing, but the throwaway remark still angered her. “Dammit,” she said, pushing free of his arms, “that is such a miserably chauvinistic—”

  “Okay. So I’m a chauvinist.” Nick put his hand under her chin and gently turned her face away from him. “Chew me out later, but for now, wouldn’t you like to take a look at the Ivory Palace?”

  “No,” she said tersely. “I’m not the least bit…”

  Oh, but she was.

  The Ivory Palace rose from the dusty white city of Zamidar like a fairy-tale castle. Ornate, brightly polished gates swung slowly open, admitting them to a cobblestone courtyard. Flowers bloomed everywhere, their colorful heads nodding gently in a light breeze. Beyond the palace, jagged mountain peaks soared toward the sky.

  Their limousine stopped at the foot of a flight of marble steps. Amanda reached for Nick’s hand as a servant opened the door, then all but fell to the ground as they stepped from the car. Nick didn’t give any sign that he’d noticed. He didn’t seem to notice the servants who lined the steps as they mounted them, either, even though each one bowed to him.

  It was, Amanda thought dazedly, like being passed from link to link along a human chain that led, at last, into the vast entry hall of the palace itself, where Abdul, shiny black suit and all, waited to greet them.

  Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how good it would be to see a familiar face.

  “Abdul,” she said, holding out her hand, “how nice to—”

  “My lord,” the old man said, and bowed. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Abdul. Is my father here?”

  “Your father has been called away from the palace. He says to tell you he is happy you have returned and that he will dine with you this evening. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  “Pleasant but tiring.” Nick gathered Amanda close to his side. “Ms. Benning and I will want to rest.”

  “Everything is in readiness, sire.”

  “You will call me when you know my father is en route.”

  “Of course, Lord Rashid. May I get you something to eat?”

  “Not now, thank you. Just have a tray sent to my quarters in an hour or so.”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  Abdul bowed. Nick stepped past him and led Amanda through the hall, past walls of pink-veined marble and closed doors trimmed with gold leaf, to a massive staircase. Halfway to the second floor, she peered over her shoulder.

  “Nick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “He’s still bent in half.”

  “Who?”

  “Abdul. Aren’t you going to tell him to stand up?”

  “No.”

  “For heaven’s sake—”

  Nick’s arm tightened around her. “Keep walking.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There is no ‘yes, but.’ This is Quidar. Things are different here. The customs—”

  “Damn your customs! That old man—”

  She gasped as Nick swung her into his arms, strode down the hall, elbowed open the door to one of the rooms, stepped inside and kicked it shut.

  “Watch what you say to me, woman,” he growled, and dumped her on her feet.

  “No, you watch what you say to me!” Amanda slapped her hands on her hips. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

  “I’m the Lion of the Desert. And you would do well to remember it.”

  “My God,” she said with a little laugh, “you’re serious!”

  “Completely serious.”

  “So much for what you said on the plane. About not being the Lion of the Desert when you’re with me.”

  “My private life isn’t the same as my public life,” Nick said sharply. “Those customs you think so little of matter a great deal to my people.”

  “They’re antiquated and foolish.”

  “Perhaps they are, but they’re also revered. If I were to tell Abdul not to bow to me, especially on Quidaran soil, he would be humiliated.”

  “I suppose that’s why you left that lineup of slaves standing on their heads outside the palace.”

  “They’re not slaves,” Nick said, his voice cold. “They’re servants.”

  “And you like having servants.”

  “Dammit!” He marched away, turned and marched back. “It’s an honor to serve in the royal household.”

  Amanda gave a derisive snort.

  “You might not understand that, but it’s true. And yes, that’s exactly why I didn’t stop them from bowing to me. Only my father, the members of his council and, someday, the woman I take as my wife, will not have to bow to me.”

  “I’m sure that will thrill her.”

  Nick grabbed Amanda’s arms, yanked her against him and kissed her.

  “You can’t solve every problem that way,” she gasped, twisting her face from his, but he caught hold of her chin, brought her mouth to his and kissed her again and again until her lips softened and clung to his.

  “I don’t want to talk about Quidar,” he said softly, “or its rules and customs. Not right now.”

  “But we have to—”

  “We don’t,” he murmured, and slipped his tongue between her lips.

  She moaned, lifted her hands and curled them into his shirt. “Nick—”

  “Amanda.” He smiled and kissed her throat.

  “Nick, stop that. I’m serious.”

  “So am I. I’m seriously interested in knowing which you’d rather do—debate the historical and social validity of Quidaran culture or take a bath with Quidar’s heir to the throne.”

  She drew back in his encircling arms and tried to scowl, but Nick’s eyes glinted with laughter and, after a few seconds, she couldn’t help laughing, too.

  “You’re impossible, O Lion of the Desert.”

  “On the contrary, Ms. Benning. I’m just a man who believes in cleanliness.”

  She laughed again, but her laughter faded as he began unbuttoning her blouse.

  “What are you doing?” she said with a catch in her voice.

  “I’m doing what I’ve ached to do for hours,” he whispered. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he undressed her. Then he stepped back and looked at her, his gaze as hot as a caress. “My beautiful Amanda.” He reached for her, gathered her against him until she could feel the race of his heart against hers. “Tell me what you want,” he said as he had done once before, and she moaned and showed him with her mouth, her hands, her heart.

  Nick lifted her into his arms and carried her into an enormous bathroom, to a sunken marble tub the size of a small swimming pool. Water spilled into the tub from a winged gold swan; perfume-scented steam drifted into the air like wisps of fog.

  Amanda sighed as he stepped down into the tub with her still in his arms. “Mmm. Someone’s already run our bath. How nice.”

  “Uh-huh.” Nick lowered her gently to her feet, linked his hands at the base of her spine. “Another little benefit you get when you’re known as a lion.”

  She laughed softly and stroked her hands down his chest. “Lions are pussycats in disguise.”

  Nick caught his breath as she curled her fingers around him. “I’ve always liked cats,” he said thickly. He
drew her against him with one arm, slipped his hand between her thighs. “I like to hear them purr when I stroke their silken fur.”

  Amanda caught her breath. “Nick. Oh, Nick…”

  He stepped back, sat on the edge of the tub, then drew her between his legs. “Your breasts are so beautiful,” he whispered, and bent his head to taste them. “I could feast on them forever.”

  I could love you forever, she thought. I could be yours, Nicholas al Rashid. I could—

  He clasped her hips, drew her to him. “Come to me, sweetheart,” he said softly.

  She put her hands on his shoulders. Then, slowly, she lowered herself on him, impaled herself on him, took him deep into her silken softness until his velvet heat filled her. Nick groaned, lifted her legs, wrapped them around his waist.

  “Amanda.” He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her deeply. “My beloved.”

  My beloved. The words had the sweetness, the softness, of a promise. Her heart filled with joy.

  “You’ll be mine forever,” he said quietly. “I’ll never let you leave me.”

  “I’ll never want to leave you,” she said in a broken whisper, and then he moved, moved again until she was clinging to his shoulders and sobbing his name.

  She collapsed in his arms as he drove into her one last time. They stayed that way, she with her face buried against him, he with his arms tightly around her. At last he stirred. He kissed her mouth, her breasts, swung her into his arms, carried her to his bed and held her until she drifted into exhausted sleep.

  When she awoke, night held the room in moonlit darkness. She was alone in the bed; Nick was gone and she smiled, imagining him talking with his father, telling him what he had told her, that he loved her, that she would be with him forever.

  Tonight, she thought, tonight she would say the words.

  “I love you, Nicholas al Rashid,” she whispered into the silence. “I love you with all my heart.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Nick?” she said happily. But Nick wouldn’t be so formal. Ah. Of course. He’d told Abdul to have a tray sent to his rooms. “Just a minute.”

  She reached for the lamp on the table beside the bed and switched it on. What was protocol in such a situation? She had no robe. Would it be all right to stay where she was, wrapped in the silk sheet like a mummy? Was that the custom for the woman who was the beloved of the Lion of the Desert? The woman who would spend her life with—