Mistress of the Sheikh

by Sandra Marton

  If they ever made it to dinner, he thought with a little smile. As wagers went, this was the best he’d ever made. How come he’d wasted half the night figuring that out?

  He strolled back through the darkened penthouse, put the empty bottle neatly on the kitchen counter, went up to his bedroom, pulled off his jeans and threw himself across the bed on his belly. He closed his eyes, yawned, punched his pillow into shape…

  Twenty minutes later, he was still awake, lying on his back with his hands clasped under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. The distant whisper of the fax machine came as a relief.

  Nick put on his jeans and went down to his study. The fax was long and still coming in. He plucked the first page from the basket, smiled as he read his father’s warm greeting, but his smile changed to a frown as he read further.

  His father, whose Arabian horses were world renowned, had reached agreement with an old American friend. He’d arranged to fly a stallion to the States in exchange for the friend’s gift of a Thoroughbred mare. He hated to impose upon Nicholas on such short notice, etc. etc., but would he meet with the friend and work out the details in person?

  Nick huffed out a breath. He would do it, of course. It would mean a day, perhaps two, spent out of the city, time during which he wouldn’t be able to do what he had to do to win his wager with Amanda.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Nick said, and tossed the fax on the table.

  Enough was enough. The truth was, the bet was a bad one. A man didn’t win a woman as if she were the stakes in a hand of poker. He didn’t tempt her into his arms with a contract.

  A smart man wouldn’t want Amanda Benning at all. She was as prickly as a porcupine, as unpredictable as the weather. She was city heat; she was desert night. She was either the roommate who’d pointed his sister toward trouble seven years ago or the one who’d been wise enough to avoid it.

  The one, the only, thing she absolutely was, was female.

  So what?

  He’d wearied of Deanna. That had to be the reason he’d been attracted to Amanda. Right?

  “Right,” Nick muttered.

  Well, he could be attracted to another woman just as easily. He could have any woman he wanted. He could have his choice—blondes, brunettes and redheads in such profusion they’d cause a traffic jam, just lining up outside the door.

  Nick went back upstairs, pulled on a white T-shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He put on sneakers, grabbed his wallet, his keys and his cell phone, went down the steps and into his private elevator. There was only one way to deal with this. He’d go to see Amanda, tell her the bet was off and put this whole foolish episode behind him.

  He was in the elevator, halfway to the underground garage, when he realized he didn’t have the slightest idea where she lived.

  “Hell,” he said wearily, punched the button for the penthouse and headed back the way he’d come. Was she in the phone book? he wondered as the door slid open…but he didn’t have to bother checking. There, lying forlornly on a table, was one of those little business cards she’d been handing out like souvenirs.

  Nick picked it up, lifted it to his nostrils. The card still bore a trace of her perfume. He shut his eyes, saw her as she’d gone from guest to guest, chin up, back straight, facing down the whispers and making the best of a difficult situation.

  He frowned, looked at the address, then tucked the card into his pocket and rode the elevator down again. If the situation had been tough, it was her fault, not his. The only thing he cared about now was making sure she understood that he wasn’t the least bit interested in following through on their bet.

  Not in the slightest, he thought as his Ferrari shot like a missile into the quiet of the Sunday morning streets.

  * * *

  Amanda sat cross-legged in the center of her bed and watched the hands of the clock creep from 6:05 to 6:06.

  Was the clock broken? She reached for it, held it to her ear. Ticktock, it said, ticktock, which was what it had been saying since she’d checked it the first time, somewhere around four.

  She frowned, set the clock down on the night table and wrapped her arms around her knees. The only thing that wasn’t working was her common sense.

  What on earth had she done?

  “You said you’d sleep with Nicholas al Rashid,” she muttered. “That’s what you’ve done.”

  No. Her frown deepened as she unfolded her legs and got out of bed. No, she thought coldly, she most definitely had not done anything as simple as that.

  What she’d done was agree to become Nick’s newest sexual toy, assuming he managed to seduce her in the next seven days.

  God, it was hot in here!

  She padded to the window where an ancient air conditioner wheezed like the Boston terrier her mother had once owned. She put her hand to the vents and waggled her fingers. An anemic flow of cool air sighed over her skin.

  “Great,” she said. No wonder she couldn’t sleep.

  Amanda jerked her nightgown over her head, marched into the bathroom and stepped into the shower, gasping at the shock of the cold water. It was the only way to stay cool in this tiny oven of an apartment. The place was so hot that when she’d awakened at four, she’d been drenched in very unladylike sweat.

  She lowered her head and let the water beat against the nape of her neck,

  She’d been dreaming just before she awoke. A silly dream, something straight out of a silent movie. Nick had been dressed in a flowing white robe and riding a white horse. She’d been seated behind him, her arms tight around his waist, her cheek pressed to his back. And then the scene had shifted, and he’d been carrying her into a tent hung with royal-blue silk.

  “Amanda,” he’d said softly as he lowered her to her feet, and she’d sighed and lifted her mouth for his kiss….

  Shower or no shower, she was hot again. But not from the dream. Certainly not from the dream. It was the apartment, she thought briskly. The stuffy, awful apartment.

  Amanda turned off the water and blotted herself dry. She ran her fingers through her hair, tugged an oversized cotton T-shirt and cotton bikini panties over her still-damp skin and headed for the kitchen.

  “Forget about sleep,” she muttered.

  Obviously, it wasn’t a very good idea to drink lots of champagne before bedtime, especially if you spent the time between the wine and the attempt at sleep in the arms of a man who thought he could talk you into something he was certain you couldn’t possibly refuse.

  She filled the kettle with water, set it on the stove and turned on the burner.

  Thought, Amanda?

  “Let’s be honest here,” she said.

  Nick had talked her into it. And—to stay with the honesty thing—he hadn’t had to work all that hard to do it.

  What a smooth character he was. Proposing a wager like that, making it sound so simple…

  But, of course, it was.

  Amanda sighed, walked to the window and gazed at the view. It wasn’t exactly Central Park, but she could see a tree. All she had to do was stand on her toes, crook her neck, tilt her head and aim at a spot beyond the fire escape.

  Nick wouldn’t know what that was like. To have to contort yourself for a view. For anything. What Lord Rashid wanted, Lord Rashid got.

  And Lord Rashid wanted her.

  Well, he wasn’t going to have her. And wouldn’t that come as a huge surprise? All he’d get out of their wager was a handsomely furnished home. As for a woman to warm his bed—he’d always have plenty of those. A man like that would.

  The kettle whistled. She turned off the stove, took a mug from the cupboard, dumped a tea bag into it and then filled it with water. She looked at the sugar bowl, turned away, then looked at it again.

  “The hell with it,” she said, and reached for the bowl.

  Calories didn’t count tonight. Comfort did, and if that meant two, well, three heaping spoonfuls of that bad-for-you, terrible-for-your-teeth and worse-for-your-waistline overprocessed white
stuff, so be it.

  “Ah,” she said after her first sip.

  The tea tasted wonderful. Funny how a hot liquid could make you feel cooler. She hadn’t believed it until she’d spent a couple of weeks visiting her mother in Texas last year.

  “Hot tea cools you off,” Marta had insisted, and when Amanda finally tried it and agreed it was true, she’d hugged her and smiled. “You just come to me for advice, sweetie, and I’ll always steer you right.”

  Amanda took another sip of tea as she walked through her postage-stamp living room, sank into a rocker she’d rescued from a sidewalk where it had awaited death in the jaws of a garbage truck, and watched the sun claw its way up the brick sides of the city.

  What advice would her mother offer about Nick? That was easy. She knew exactly what Marta would say.

  “Mandy, you have to telephone that man this minute and tell him you can’t possibly agree to the wager. A lady does not bet her virtue.”

  Excellent advice it would be, too.

  Not that she was afraid she’d lose the bet. Amanda took a drink of tea and leaned back in the rocker. A woman who didn’t want to be seduced couldn’t be seduced. It was just that the implications of the wager were—well, they were…

  Sleazy? Immoral?

  “Humiliating,” she mumbled.

  Yes, she would call Nick and tell him the wager was off. She’d reached that conclusion hours ago. How best to do it, though? That was the problem.

  She’d thought about calling Dawn for suggestions, but then she’d have to tell her all the details, and what, exactly, was there to say?

  Hi, sorry we didn’t get the chance to spend any time together last night. Are you okay? And oh, by the way, I’ve agreed to become your brother’s mistress if he can first lure me into his bed.

  No way. Discussing this with Dawn wasn’t even an option. Neither was discussing it with Marta. How could a daughter tell her mother she’d even considered a proposal like that?

  Amanda drank some more tea.

  She could call one of her sisters for help, but there wasn’t much sense in that, either. Carin would just tell her, in that irritatingly proper tone of voice, that if a deal sounded too good to be true, it probably was. As for Samantha…she couldn’t begin to imagine what Sam would say unless it was something outrageously facetious, maybe that the deal sounded like lots of fun if it weren’t for all the bother involved.

  “Fun,” Amanda muttered, and drained the last sugary drops from the mug.

  Okay, then. She’d just have to do the deed without consulting anybody but herself. Phone Nick, tell him she was sorry but she’d changed her mind. Not that she was afraid she’d lose their bet, but…

  Amanda scowled. Why did she keep telling herself that? Certainly she wouldn’t lose it.

  Someday she’d tell her sisters the story. They’d laugh and laugh; the whole thing would be one big joke.

  “He was a sheikh,” she’d say, “and he said, ‘Come wiz me to zee Casbah.”

  Except he hadn’t. If only he had. If he’d played the scene as if he’d stolen it from a bad movie, with a smoldering look and a twirl of his mustache…

  She groaned and closed her eyes.

  The truth was, Nick was gorgeous and sexy. He could have any woman he wanted, but he wanted her.

  She had to admit it was thrilling. Maybe that was the reason she’d lost all perspective. Maybe it was why she’d let him fast-talk her into agreeing to a bet on her own morality.

  Was that the doorbell? Amanda sat up straight. Who’d be at her door at this hour? This building had awful security, but still, did burglars really ring the bell and announce themselves?

  The bell rang again. She rose to her feet and hurried to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Nick.”

  Nick? Her heart thumped. She opened the peephole, peered out. It was Nick, and he didn’t look happy.

  “Nick.” Her mouth felt as dry as cotton. “Nick, you should have called first. I—”

  “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “You didn’t want to wake me? What did you think leaning on my doorbell at—at what, six in the morning, would do?”

  “It’s seven-thirty, and if you want to have a discussion about the propriety of phoning first, I’d prefer having it in your apartment. Open the door, please, Amanda.”

  Open the door. Admit Nick into this tiny space. Into her space, where he’d seem twice as tall, twice as big, twice as commanding.

  “Amanda.” There was no “please” this time. She jumped as his fist thudded against the door. “Open up!”

  She heard a lock click, a door creak open. Oh, God. Her neighbors were preparing themselves for a bit of street theater. New Yorkers might live on the same floor in an apartment building, collect their mail at lobby boxes ranged side by side and never so much as make eye contact, but she suspected none of them would pass up a little drama going on right in the hall.

  Amanda rose on the balls of her bare feet, put her eye to the peephole and looked at Nick. “People are listening,” she whispered.

  “And watching,” he said coldly. “Perhaps you’d like to sell tickets.”

  She stepped back, slipped the lock, the chain and the night bolt. The door swung open and he stepped inside.

  “An excellent decision,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

  “What are you doing here, Nick?”

  What was he doing there? Just for a second, he couldn’t quite remember. Amanda was standing before him, barefooted. She was wearing a loose T-shirt and nothing else. Nothing he could see anyway. Her hair was tousled, her face was scrubbed and shiny, and he couldn’t imagine anything more urgent than finding out if she tasted as sweet and fresh as she looked.

  But that wasn’t why he’d come here, Nick reminded himself, and folded his arms. “I want to talk,” he said.

  “Good.” She lifted her chin. “That’s—that’s really good. Because I—I…” She stopped, the words catching in her throat, and stared at him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re not wearing a tux.”

  “No.” His smile was all teeth. “No, actually, I’ve been known to get through an entire day without feeling the need to put on a pair of pants with satin stripes down the legs.”

  “I didn’t mean—it’s just that you look—you remind me—”

  “Of the night we first met.” She was right, he thought, and gave her a long, measuring look, except she was older now, and the soft curves outlined beneath the cotton shirt were more lush. “Instant replay,” he said, and flashed a smile that upped the temperature in the room another ten degrees.

  Amanda stepped back. “I’m not dressed,” she said, and blushed when she realized how stupid she sounded. “For company. If you’ll just wait—”

  “I’ve been awake half the night. I’ll be damned if I’ll wait any longer.”

  “Look, Nick, I want to talk, too. About that bet. Just let me put on some clothes.”

  “You’re already wearing clothes.” His voice turned husky as he took a step toward her. “What else would you call what you have on?”

  Provocative, he thought, silently answering his own question, although how a T-shirt could be provocative was beyond him to comprehend. He liked his women in silk. In lace. In things that flowed and shimmered.

  “Nick?”

  “Yes.” Somehow, he was standing a breath away from her. Somehow, his hands were on her hips. Somehow, he was bunching the cotton fabric in his hands, lifting it, sliding it up her skin and revealing the smallest pair of white cotton panties he’d ever seen.

  “Nick.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Her head was tilted back; her eyes were huge, luminous and locked with his. “Nick, the bet is—”

  He bent his head, brushed his mouth over hers. She gave a delicate moan, and he cupped her breasts, felt the delicate weight and silken texture of them in his palms. He feathered his thumbs over the crests and Amanda moaned again, trembled ag
ainst him and lifted herself to his hungry embrace.

  He kissed her over and over, offered her the intimacy of his tongue, groaned when she touched it with her own, then sucked it into the heat of her mouth. He backed her against the wall; she gave a cry of protest as he took his lips from hers to peel off her shirt, then his.

  Oh, the feel of her satin skin against his, when he took her back into his arms. The softness of her breasts against the hardness of his chest. He trembled, felt the air driven from his lungs.

  “Amanda,” he whispered, and she sighed and kissed him, breathed a soft “yes” against his lips as he lifted her off her feet and into his arms—

  A buzz sounded from his pocket.

  “Nick?”

  His pocket buzzed again.

  “Nick.” Amanda tore her mouth from his. “Something’s buzzing.”

  He lifted his head, his breathing harsh. She was right. His cell phone was making sounds like an angry wasp. He mouthed an oath, let her down to her feet, kept an arm firmly around her as he dug the phone from his jeans.

  “What?” he snarled.

  “Sire.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “Abdul. This had better be important.”

  “It is, my lord. There is a fax from your father. I thought you would wish to know of it.”

  The color was high in Amanda’s cheeks. He could read her eyes, see her growing embarrassment. She looked up at him, shook her head and tried to step away. Nick bent quickly and kissed her, his mouth soft against hers until, at last, she kissed him back.

  “Lord Rashid? There is a fax—”

  “I already saw it, Abdul. Goodbye.”

  “Excellency, it is a second fax and arrived only moments ago. Your father asks if you would fly to this place called Texas—”

  “He asked me that in the first fax. Dammit, Abdul—”

  “He asks if you would fly there today. The stallion he sent arrived much sooner than expected, and the animal has been hurt in transit.”

  Nick uttered a violent oath. The only place he wanted to be right now was in Amanda’s bedroom, but he knew the importance of duty and obligation. Would the woman in his arms be as understanding?