Mistress of the Sheikh

by Sandra Marton

  “And,” she said, her chin lifting, daring him to say anything judgmental, “after I’d lost a hundred bucks, I quit.”

  Nick lifted his brows. “Interesting.”

  “I couldn’t see the sense in losing more money.”

  “Ah. And you figured why bother betting unless you had a better chance of winning.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Suppose somebody offered you the chance to make a bet where you controlled the odds.”

  Something had changed in his smile. It made her uncomfortable. This whole conversation made her uncomfortable. She knew it was ridiculous, but talking about his wanting to sleep with her made her less uneasy than talking about bets and stakes and odds.

  “Well,” she said, “that, um, that would be, um, interesting.”

  Not as interesting as the way he was looking at her. His gaze was intense, as if she were the only thing in the universe worthy of his attention. It was flattering. It was disturbing. It reminded her of something she’d almost forgotten.

  Once, just after her mother had married Jonas and gone to live at Espada, she’d visited the ranch and gone horseback riding in the hills that surrounded it. She’d dismounted beside a clear-running stream, tied the reins to a tree branch, strolled maybe a hundred yards—and come almost face-to-face with a cougar.

  The cat had looked at her. She’d looked at the cat. And when it finally hissed and melted into the trees, she’d known that she’d gotten away because it had chosen to let her go, not because she’d been brave enough to stare it down.

  That was how she felt now. Her heart gave a little shiver. As if she’d gone for an innocent stroll and ended up face-to-face with a cougar.

  Nick reached back, slid open a drawer in the desk, took something from it. A coin, she saw. A bright silver coin. He smiled, tossed it, caught it in his hand. “Heads or tails,” he said. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s time I went home. Good night, Nick. It’s certainly been—”

  “Scared?”

  She sighed, rolled her eyes, folded her arms over her chest. “Heads.”

  “Heads it is.” The coin spun through the air. Nick caught it, showed it to her. “Good guess. How about another try?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s…Heads.”

  He tossed the coin again, caught it, held out his hand. The silver piece lay, heads up, in his palm.

  “Great,” she said with an artificial smile.

  “One last time.” Nick tossed the coin. It spun like quicksilver before he caught it and closed his fingers around it. “What’s it going to be this time? Heads or tails?”

  “This is…Okay, I’ll humor you. Tails. It has to be. I remember enough of my college stats course to know that the odds of it coming up heads again are…”

  He opened his hand. She blinked.

  “…One in six,” she said, and frowned. “How’d you do that?”

  He smiled, tossed the coin to her. She caught it, examined it, then looked at him.

  “Heads on both sides,” she said. “It’s a phony.”

  “The gentleman who gave it to me preferred to refer to it as a device for assuring a positive outcome.”

  Nick grinned. She almost smiled back at him. He had, she thought, a wonderful smile…but then she thought of the cougar, of how she could never have matched either its strength or its cunning, and she felt more like running than smiling.

  “If there’s a point here,” she said carefully, “I don’t get it.”

  He rose to his feet, came slowly toward her, his smile gone. The room seemed to have reduced in size until there was barely space in it for the both of them. Foolishly, she held out the coin. Nick shook his head, took her hand, folded her fingers around it.

  “Keep it,” he said softly.

  “I—I don’t want it. I don’t—”

  “Amanda.” He clasped her shoulders, slid his hands down her arms, twined his fingers with hers. “We’re going to make a bet, you and I.” A slow, sexy smile curled across his mouth. “A bet that will assure you of a positive outcome.”

  “Nick, I told you. I don’t gamble. Just that one time…”

  “You’re going to give me a week of your life.”

  Her eyes widened. “A week of my—”

  “One week.” He kissed her, his mouth tender, soft against hers. “Just seven days.”

  “Nick, listen to me. You can’t just—”

  “When the week ends, I’ll sign a contract with Benning Designs.”

  “Damn you!” Amanda jerked her hands free. “Haven’t you heard a word I said? I won’t sleep with you for a contract.”

  “No,” he said softly, “I’m sure you won’t.”

  “Great. We understand each other. Now, I’m going to open this door. And you’re not going to stop me.”

  “I’ll sign the contract whether you’ve slept with me or not.”

  “What?” She moved past him, dragged a hand through her hair. “What is this? Another quaint custom straight from the homeland? I wasn’t born yesterday. Do you really think I believe life is like that coin of yours? Heads on both sides?” She frowned, opened her hand and looked at the quarter. “Where’d you get this anyway?”

  Nick sighed. “It’s a long, dull story.”

  “Amazing.” She smiled brightly. “I just happen to be in the mood for a long, dull story.”

  “I was sixteen, and I stopped to watch a guy working a three-card-monte game in Greenwich Village. Each time he thought a mark—”

  “A what?”

  “A player.” Nick grinned. “Or, more accurately, a loser. Whenever he thought a loser was going to leave, he’d take a coin from his pocket, show it and say, ‘Call it. Double or nothing.’ It never came up anything but heads.”

  “And the reason the Heir to the Imperial Throne was standing on a corner, betting against a street hustler, was…?”

  “Well, it was fun.”

  “Fun,” she said dryly.

  “Yeah. I was at a private prep school.”

  “Of course,” Amanda said politely.

  “My tuition was paid, but my father was strict about my allowance. I wanted more money for something—I don’t recall what. And my mother was in Europe, making a movie. Anyway, I was pretty good with cards. It was a weekend and I had nothing better to do—”

  “So you went down to the village and got hustled.” She narrowed her eyes at him. He had to have invented the story. The Lion of the Desert, a cardsharp? “And, what? The guy gave you the coin?”

  He laughed softly. “I paid him twenty bucks for it. I figured it made a great souvenir.”

  “Uh-huh. He hustled you. And now you’re trying to hustle me. Did you really think I’d fall for that?” Amanda tossed the coin on the desk. “The ‘you give me a week and I’ll give you a contract’ routine?”

  “Well, no.” Nick put one hand on the wall beside her and slid the other around the back of her head. “Actually, I didn’t.”

  “Ha,” she said, and tried to pretend she didn’t feel the drift of his fingers along the nape of her neck. “I knew there was a catch.”

  He gave her the kind of smile that made her heart try to wedge its way into her throat. “I meant what I said. You’ll give me a week. If we become lovers, you get the contract. If we don’t…” He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. “If we don’t, you still get the contract.” His eyes met hers, and what she saw in them made her feel dizzy. “But if you do give yourself to me,” he said softly, “then you’ll agree to be my mistress. To be available only to me, accessible only to me, for as long as it suits us both.” A quick smile angled across his mouth. “Despite what you may think, I believe in equality of the sexes.”

  His words, the way he was looking at her, conjured up images more erotic than anything she’d ever experienced in a man’s arm. Talk, that was all it was. Not even Nicholas al Rashid could really expect her to accept such a proposition.

  “I mean every word,�
� he said softly.

  She tilted her head up, stared into his eyes and knew, with breathtaking certainty, that he did.

  He turned her hand over, brought it to his mouth again, kissed the soft flesh at the base of her thumb. “Are you afraid to trust yourself?”

  Amanda laughed. “Such modesty. Do you really think—”

  He kissed her even though he knew it was a mistake. The last thing a wise man would do right now was give Amanda Benning graphic proof of how sure he was he’d win the bet.

  But he’d underestimated her. She made a little sound as their mouths met, but that soft, sweet whisper of breath was the only sign she gave of the emotional storm he knew raged within her. It made what lay ahead all the more exciting.

  “You’re very sure of yourself, Lord Rashid.”

  “As are you, Ms. Benning.” He smiled. “You’ll be a worthy adversary.”

  “If I were to accept your proposition. But it’s out of the question. It’s so outlandish.”

  “Is it?”

  She started to answer, caught herself just in time and wondered if this was really happening.

  Yes. Yes, it was.

  Twenty-five stories below, a siren wailed through the night. Music from the party drifted under the door. Life was going on all around them; people were doing the things people did on a warm evening in Manhattan…and she stood here, discussing whether or not she’d agree to become the mistress of a man she hardly knew.

  It wouldn’t happen. There wasn’t even a remote possibility she’d let Nick seduce her. He was handsome. All right. He was gorgeous. He was rich and powerful and he ruled a desert kingdom.

  But a man would need more than that to get her into his bed. She was a twenty-first-century American woman. She was educated and independent and she couldn’t be lured into a man’s arms like some trembling virgin.

  What she could do was win the bet.

  A week. That was all he’d asked. Seven days of what would basically be simple dating. And, at the end of those days, she’d walk away from Nicholas al Rashid with her virtue intact, a contract in her pocket. She’d give the man who thought he could buy everything a lesson in how to choke down a large helping of humble pie.

  She had to admit the possibility was intriguing.

  “Well?” Nick said.

  Amanda looked at him. She could read nothing in his face, not even desire. Oh, yes. He’d be very good, playing cards.

  “Tell me,” she said softly, “have you ever wanted something you couldn’t have?”

  “You’re doing it again. Answering a question with a question.”

  “You’ve asked me to allow you to try to seduce me.” She smiled tightly. “I think that entitles me to ask as many questions as I like.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll succeed?”

  “Seduction requires a seducer and a seducee, Lord Rashid. You can’t succeed unless I cooperate.” This time, her smile was dazzling. “And I promise you, I’d never do that.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Her eyes met his. She could see something there now, glinting in the silver depths. What do you think you’re doing, Amanda? a voice inside her whispered.

  “There’d have to be rules,” she said.

  “Name them.”

  “No force.”

  “I’m not a man who believes in forcing himself on a woman.”

  “No tricks.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “And I don’t want anybody to know that we’ve entered into this—this wager.” She hesitated. “It would be difficult to explain.”

  “Done.”

  He held out his hand as if they were concluding a business deal. She looked at it, then at him. Amanda, the voice said desperately, Amanda…

  She took a quick step back. “I’ll—I’ll think about it,” she said, the words coming out in a rush.

  Nick reached for her. “You already did.”

  And then his mouth was on hers, she was curling her arms tightly around his neck, and the wager was on.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AT FOUR forty-three in the morning, Nicholas al Rashid, Lion of the Desert, Lord of the Realm and Sublime Heir to the Imperial Throne of Quidar, gave up all attempts at sleep. He threw back the blankets, swung his legs to the floor, ran his fingers through his tousled hair and tried to decide exactly when he’d lost his mind.

  A man had to be crazy to do the things he’d done tonight. He’d found a woman going through his things, accused her of spying, made passionate love to her, locked her in his closet and, in a final show of lunacy, fast-talked her into a wager so weird he still couldn’t believe he’d come up with it.

  “Hell,” Nick muttered.

  He rose, paced back and forth enough times to wear a path in the silk carpet, pulled on a pair of jeans and went quietly down the stairs.

  Not quietly enough, though. He’d hardly entered the kitchen when a light came on in the hallway that led to Abdul’s rooms. A moment later, the old man stood in the doorway, wearing a robe and blinking against the light.

  “Excellency?”

  It was, Nick thought with mild surprise, the first time he’d ever seen Abdul wearing anything but a black, somewhat shiny, suit.

  “Yes, Abdul. It’s me.”

  “Is something wrong, sire?”

  “No, nothing. I just…Go on back to bed, Abdul.”

  “Did you want a sandwich?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Some tea? Coffee? I shall wake the cook.”

  “No!” Nick took a breath and forced a smile to his lips. “I don’t need the cook, Abdul. I just—I’m thirsty, that’s all.”

  “Of course, sire.” Abdul bustled into the kitchen. “What would you like? Mineral water? Spirits? Sherry? You’re right, there’s no need to wake the cook. I’ll—”

  “Abdul,” Nick said pleasantly but firmly, “go back to bed.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “Good night, Abdul.”

  The little man hesitated. Nick could see that he wanted to say something more, but custom prevented it. And a good thing, too, he thought grimly, because he had the feeling his secretary had developed as many doubts about his sanity as he had.

  “Very well, Lord Rashid. If you change your mind—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Abdul nodded, bowed and backed out of the room. Nick waited until the hall light went out. Then he opened the refrigerator, peered inside, found a bottle of the New England ale he’d developed a taste for back in his university days, and popped the cap. Bottle in hand, he walked through the darkened apartment and out onto the terrace.

  The city lay silent below him.

  At this hour on a Sunday morning, traffic was sparse, the sound of it muted. Central Park stretched ahead of him, its green darkness broken by the diamond glow of lamps that marked its paths.

  Nick leaned against the low wall, tilted the bottle of ale to his lips, took a long drink and wished he were home. There’d been times before when he’d felt like this, when thoughts had whirled through his head and sleep had refused to come. The night before he’d left for Yale and a course of study that he knew would set him irrevocably on the path toward eventual leadership of his people. The night word had come of his mother’s death in a plane crash. The night before he’d left for New York and the responsibilities that came with representing his country’s financial affairs…

  Nick took another drink.

  Each time, he’d found peace by riding his Arabian stallion into the desert, alone under the night sky, the moon and the majestic light of the stars.

  He sighed, turned his back to the city and swallowed another mouthful of ale. There was no desert to give him solace now. He was trapped in the whirlwind of his thoughts and the knowledge that nothing he’d done tonight made sense.

  He wasn’t a man who’d ever forced himself on a woman, yet he’d come close to doing that with Amanda Benning. Not that he’d have needed force. The way she’d melted against h
im. The way she’d returned his kisses, fitted her body to his…

  Nick held the bottle of ale against his forehead, rolled it back and forth to cool his skin.

  And that proposal he’d made her. Give me a week, he’d said. If I can seduce you, you’ll agree to be my mistress.

  Talk about acting like a second-rate Valentino, he thought, and groaned again. It was ludicrous. Besides, who knew if he’d even want her more than once? The lady might turn out to be a dud in bed instead of a smoldering ember just waiting to be fanned into an inferno.

  “Dammit!”

  Nick swung around and glared out over the quiet park. What was wrong with him? He was standing alone in the middle of the night, thinking about a woman he hardly knew, and doing one fine job of turning himself on.

  Okay, so she’d probably be good in bed. Terrific, even. There really wasn’t much doubt about that. Still, a man needed more than sex from a mistress. Well, he did anyway. She had to be interesting and have a sense of humor. She had to like some of the things he liked. Riding, for instance. Walking in the rain. Could she watch the film, When Harry Met Sally, for the third or fourth time and still laugh over that scene in the delicatessen?

  Nick frowned. What was he thinking? So what if it turned out Amanda didn’t like those things? Deanna certainly didn’t. Rain made her hair frizzy, she said. Movies were boring the second time around. And riding was best done in a limousine, not on a horse.

  The women who’d come before her had tastes different from his, too.

  All he’d ever asked of a woman was that she be attractive, fun and, of course, good in bed. If Amanda had those qualifications, fine. He wanted to sleep with her, not live with her. And she’d agreed.

  He was making a mountain out of a molehill. It was a bet, that was all it was. And he’d win it. He had no doubt about that. They’d go to bed together and he’d take it from there.

  The sky was lightening, changing from the black of night to the pink of dawn. Somewhere in the leafy bowers of the park, a bird chirped a sleepy homage to that first hint of day.

  Nick yawned and stretched, then decided he felt much better. Amazing what a little clear thinking could do. Okay, then. In a while, he’d tell Abdul to call Amanda and inform her that his car would pick her up at, say, seven this evening. That would get her here by seven-thirty for drinks and dinner.