Taming the Sheik

by Carol Grace

  But he’d never met anyone quite like this woman here on his bed. Damned if he could say what it was about her that intrigued him the way she did. Maybe it was just that she wasn’t his type. Yes, that must be it. Opposites attract. Combine that with Carolyn’s warning and it had made her damned near irresistible. He loosened his tie and looked down at her. He had an uncontrollable desire to run his fingers over her bare shoulder and down her arm to her hand that was curled up. He knew what her skin would feel like. Satin smooth. Just the way it had when he touched her this afternoon after the wedding. He fought off a shaft of desire that threatened to overtake him.

  He sighed loudly, wishing she’d wake up. Wishing he could get out of this monkey suit. He imagined Anne would be more comfortable without the fancy dress she’d been wearing all day, too. After a long moment of contemplation, he rolled her gently on her side and tugged clumsily at the zipper on the back of her dress.

  Carefully he pulled the dress down over her hips and tossed it on a chair. Underneath the dress she was wearing lace bikini panties and a strapless bra. He sat there staring as if he’d never seen a woman in that state before. Truth was, he’d seen many female bodies in his time. Dressed and undressed. But there was something special about this one. Something that made his heart pound. Made him short of breath. It might have been the scattering of freckles across her chest, the swell of her breasts, or the curve of her hips. She was defenseless and therefore untouchable. And oh, yes, not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and definitely not his type, but very appealing, and very desirable.

  This was a situation where other men might have taken advantage of her. But there was a code of conduct he adhered to which was based on a respect for women and an obligation to help those in his care.

  An obligation to make them comfortable. To protect them. He tore off his shirt, the buttons flying and covered her with it. Then he very carefully put one of her arms in the sleeve, then awkwardly the other arm. He was breathing hard from exertion. Very slowly he reached under the shirt for the strapless bra she was wearing. From experience he knew how those bras worked. Unhook the front and slip it off. But should he? What if she woke up? If she did, he’d just explain. And if she did, well, wasn’t that what he wanted after all?

  Under the shirt, unable to see what he was doing, he reached for the snap, but his fingers, usually so deft, felt like stubs. Finally he slid the bra off, pulled the blankets back and covered her up. She was now wearing his shirt and her panties. He’d done the best he could do.

  He stood at the edge of the bed looking down at her. The red-gold hair against the white pillow. The pale face and the curve of her cheek. So sweet, so lovely. And so wrong for him. He knew that. Of course he did. As soon as he could he’d get her out of here. But when would that be? How long before she woke up? Did he dare doze off himself? All he wanted was to get her out of his bed, out of his room and out of his mind. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not yet while she was still sleeping it off.

  He closed the bedroom door behind him and paced back and forth in the living room, staring out the window at the lights of the city below. As tired as he was, he just couldn’t go to bed. His mind was spinning. Images of the wedding filled his mind. The bride, the groom. The bridesmaid. Some time later there was a knock on the door.

  “What happened to you?” his brother asked when he opened the door. “Couldn’t believe you left so early. You missed the throwing of the garter. I caught it.”

  “Good, that means you’ll be the next to be married. And not me.”

  “You first,” Rahman said. “You’re the eldest.”

  “Forget it. I’ve heard enough of that from father. You know what happened the last time he tried to arrange a marriage for me.”

  “Don’t blame father for that. It was nobody’s fault,” his brother said. “You can’t give up on marriage because of one woman.”

  “I can’t? Why not? If you feel that way, then why don’t you lead the way and set an example for me,” Rafik said, knowing it was a safe suggestion. Rahman was an even bigger playboy than Rafik had ever been.

  “I’ll give it a thought,” Rahman said amiably. “Hey, aren’t you going to invite me in? We can order up some coffee and rehash the wedding.”

  “Uh…I don’t think so.” Good Lord, what if the woman woke up and stumbled into the room? Not that Rahman would be shocked. Rafik just…he just didn’t want his brother to think she was that kind of woman. Of course he himself didn’t know what kind of woman she really was, but he could guess. She was the type to drink to cover her shyness, to make it easier to socialize.

  “All right. But you still haven’t explained why you left so early. I thought you and I would be rolling up the sidewalk.” Leaning against the door frame, Rahman looked at his brother curiously.

  “I’ve got to be in the office at nine tomorrow. They’re installing the computer system. That’s why I left early. Yeah, that’s it. I can’t carouse the way I used to, you know.” Brilliant. That ought to satisfy his brother who knew about the increased duties his father had put on him.

  Rahman observed him closely. No one knew him as well as his brother. If he could fool him, he was home free.

  A soft muffled sound came from the bedroom. A sound like a sneeze. “What was that?” Rahman asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Nothing.” Damn. She hadn’t made a peep since they’d arrived and she chose that moment to sneeze. Next thing he knew she’d be opening that bedroom door and…

  Rahman grinned. “You’ve got somebody in there, haven’t you? You’re holding out on me. Who is it? Is it that bridesmaid I saw you with? Yeah, it’s her, isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t. Goodnight, Rah. Get some sleep. You need it. See you tomorrow.” Very firmly and very forcefully Rafik closed the door on his brother and locked it. Then he strode across the room and flung the bedroom door open.

  Chapter Two

  Rafik held his breath. She was still there. Still asleep. Curled up on her side, one bare arm on the spread, her copper-colored hair still spread over the pillow, a vibrant splash of color in the soft lamplight. His heart stopped beating for a full moment, maybe longer. Good Lord, whether she was his type or not, she really was beautiful. Damn. He’d been hoping that sneeze meant she’d be up and dressed and ready to leave. Not yet.

  What to do? He couldn’t think straight. He was exhausted. He went into the bathroom and stripped down to his boxers. When he came out, he stood at the end of the bed debating about what to do. Watching her sleep make him feel tired and envious. Why should she get a chance to sleep in that big, comfortable bed and not him? He’d had just as hard a day as she had. Was just as tired. On the opposite side of the bed, he slid beneath the sheets and closed his eyes. Just for a few minutes.

  The next thing he knew the phone was ringing. It was his wake-up call. He jumped out of bed and did a double take. She was still there.

  “Anne,” he said, “wake up. It’s morning.”

  She sighed softly. It wasn’t possible for anyone to sleep through a wake-up call. She’d wake up any minute now. But he couldn’t wait around until she did. He hurried into the bathroom to take a shower, then came out and dressed carefully but quickly. He couldn’t be late today. From the closet he chose a London-tailored suit with a pin-striped shirt and dark tie. Then went to the living room and briskly wrote a note on his new business stationery.

  “Dear Anne,” he began. No, too formal. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket.

  “Anne,” he wrote. No, too brusque. Another toss in the basket.

  “Hi.” Yes, just the right casual tone.

  Thanks for a great evening. We’ll do it again some time when you’re in better shape. Sorry I couldn’t take you home last night but it didn’t work out that way for obvious reasons. I’ve got things to do this morning or I’d stick around and see some more of you. I’ll give you a call. Here’s some taxi money.

  Sheik Rafik Harun.

 
Anne turned over when she heard a door close somewhere in the distance. She tried to open her eyes, but the sunlight that shone through the window was blinding. She pulled the sheet over her head and wondered what time it was. Though she was enjoying a summer off from teaching, she was usually up early, out in her backyard, filling her bird feeders and the birdbath. Funny. She couldn’t hear the chirp of a single robin or the screech of a blue jay reminding her of her obligation to feed them and give them water.

  She threw back the covers, sat up in bed and gasped. She was in a huge king-sized bed. The opposite side from hers was rumpled, covers thrown back and an indentation in the pillow. She picked it up and pressed it against her face. There was a distinct manly smell that clung to the soft cotton. What on earth? Where was she? How did she get here? Who had slept with her and, just as important, what was she wearing? It appeared to be a large man’s shirt with several buttons missing. She always slept in a long flannel nightgown, suitable for the cool San Francisco summer nights. But for some inexplicable reason she had slept in someone else’s shirt. And she hadn’t slept alone.

  She swallowed hard. Her pulse was racing. “Hello?” she called weakly. No answer. She tried again, this time louder. Silence.

  Across the room her pink dress was spread across a chair. It all came back to her in a rush. The wedding. The champagne. The allergy medicine. The flirtatious sheik. But where was she? She’d obviously never made it home.

  Wherever she was, she was alone. And she had a splitting headache. She was scared she couldn’t remember what had happened. Even more scared she might remember.

  She jumped out of bed, pressed one hand against her aching head and went to the window. She muffled a shriek. She was high above the sidewalk, looking out at the city and the San Francisco Bay. Fortunately no one could look in the window at that height, to see her in a man’s white dress shirt with missing buttons, but she ought to get dressed. She found her strapless bra on the bureau and stared at it. How, where, why…and who?

  She took off the shirt and buried her face in it for a brief moment. The smell was pure exotic masculinity the likes of which she’d never smelled before, and it caused her knees to tremble. The smell of the shirt reminded her of someone or something but she couldn’t remember who it was. It made her head hurt more to try to remember. There were no answers to her questions. No one to ask. It was time to get dressed and get out of there. Before someone came back. The someone who’d slept next to her. The someone who belonged to the shirt.

  Once she was dressed in her own clothes, she walked into the large living room, picked up the phone and pressed O for Operator.

  “Front Desk.”

  “Yes,” Anne said. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in room 2004 at the Stanford Arms,” said a bored, uninterested voice.

  “Oh, of course. Thank you.” The Stanford Arms. She couldn’t afford to stay at the Stanford Arms, a luxurious landmark hotel on Nob Hill. She especially couldn’t afford to stay in a top-of-the-line suite there. That was when she saw the note on the table and read, the words ringing through her head:

  A great evening…better shape…see more of you…taxi money…Sheik Rafik Harun.

  Who on earth was that? What on earth had happened? She sat on the edge of a large overstuffed chair with her head in her hands and told herself to think. To remember. But it was so hard with her head feeling as if it were caught in a vise. Slowly, slowly it came to her. The handsome groomsman. The flirtatious sheik, driving her home. Why hadn’t he? Could it be that he’d never intended to take her home? That he’d wanted to seduce her, not because she was so gorgeous or desirable, which she wasn’t, but just to add another notch to his belt?

  But had he? How would she know? She was a virgin. She had no idea how you felt after a night of lovemaking. She only knew that her head hurt and her whole body felt as if she’d been wrung through a wringer. Someone had removed her bra. Someone had put his shirt on her. Someone had slept next to her. That someone was a sheik. What else had he done? What had she done? The jumble of thoughts, the myriad of possibilities made her face flame. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do now? She was going to get out of there. Then she was going to find the sheik and find out what had happened last night.

  She stumbled into the bathroom to wash her face. The mirror was still steamed up. The smell of soap and after-shave still in the air. She’d just missed him. Why hadn’t he woken her up? Because that’s the way it was. After a night of seduction, after the man got what he wanted, he left you a note saying he’d call you, left taxi money and then disappeared. Out of your life forever. Though she’d had no experience of spending the night with strange men, or any men for that matter, she knew that’s how it was.

  In this case he’d left his address and phone number on the stationery, as if she’d want to call him! She didn’t want him to call her either. She never wanted to see him again. But she had to. She had to find out what had happened. If she could only find her shoes. And more important, her little clutch purse with her money and her house keys. They weren’t under the bed and they weren’t in the closet. The closet contained only men’s clothes. Very expensive men’s clothes. Not only suits and shirts and ties, but slacks and designer jeans and polo shirts.

  She took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the office number on his stationery. Her palms were damp. What would she say exactly?

  How dare you take advantage of me?

  Where are my shoes and my purse?

  What happened anyway?

  I never want to see you again!

  What would he say? Would he pretend nothing happened? That he didn’t know what she was talking about? She didn’t get a chance to say anything because she got his voice mail and she froze. The things she thought she would say, the questions she wanted to ask, could not be spoken into a machine. They had to be spoken to a person. Sheik Rafik to be exact. She hung up.

  There was only one thing to do. She’d call the house where the wedding reception had been. Perhaps the housekeeper had found her purse there.

  “There was no purse here,” the housekeeper said when Anne got her on the phone. “I believe you had it with you when the gentleman drove you home.”

  The gentleman! If only he was a gentleman. Maybe she’d left her purse and shoes in his car. She thanked the housekeeper, grabbed the money from the table and walked out the door, barefoot. She would have loved to have left the money there, but under the circumstances, she couldn’t afford to. She got quite a few stares in the elevator, and even more in the lobby as she sauntered through, head held high, trying to act as if spending the night with a rich, eligible bachelor and sneaking out the next morning in the same dress happened to her every day. Why couldn’t she remember coming in last night?

  If only she could sneak out. But it was hard to sneak when you were barefoot, and wearing a pink bridesmaid’s dress. You were bound to get a few curious glances in your direction. She got more than a few.

  What a relief to get into a taxi. The driver barely gave her a second glance as she gave him Rafik’s office address. Thank heavens for blasé cabdrivers. The only expression on his face was a frown when she handed him the hundred-dollar bill. He emptied his pockets and gave her change which she clutched in her hand after giving him a generous tip.

  Then she stood in front of the office building on Montgomery Street in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. The pavement was cold beneath her bare feet as she stood staring up at the high-rise. Bike messengers whizzed by, horns honked, but she scarcely noticed. She wondered which office was his, wondered if she’d have the nerve to actually go up and confront him.

  She had to. She had no choice. She squared her shoulders, walked through the revolving doors and strode across the marble lobby as if she belonged there. She looked straight ahead, pretending she had blinders on, ignoring whatever curious looks were directed her way, and they must have been numerous.

  The office of United Venture Capital
ists was on the fourteenth floor and smelled of fresh paint and new carpets. A well-groomed receptionist behind a cherrywood desk first greeted her with a smile then her mouth fell open in surprise as she took in Anne’s unusual and unbusiness-like appearance.

  “My name is Anne Sheridan. I’m here to see Sheik Rafik Harun,” Anne said, summoning all the dignity she had.

  “Uh…yes. Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked. As if a barefoot woman in a formal dress would have an appointment with a sheik.

  “No, but I have to see him.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said coolly. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Anne was too nervous to sit down. Instead she stood looking at the pictures on the wall of the ventures the company had funded. She examined a portrait of the grandfather who’d founded the company, a distinguished-looking sheik in traditional Arab dress. When she heard male voices approaching, she whirled around. It was not Rafik. It was an older man who looked very much like the sheik in the picture on the wall with an American who was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

  “May I help you, my dear?” the older man asked with a slight bow.

  She swallowed hard. “I’m here to see Rafik.”

  His gaze flicked over her dress. He pressed his lips together in a tight line. He seemed to understand without asking, just what had happened. Though he couldn’t possibly know when she didn’t even know herself. Unless it was a common occurrence for women to appear in evening gowns unannounced, asking for his son. She wouldn’t be surprised.