A Surprise For The Sheikh. Sarah M. Anderson
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her out of trouble, but if you, you know, could just keep an eye on her while you’re in town, I’d really appreciate it.”
Now this was ironic. Here Rafe was, doing everything within his power to avenge the honor of his sister and his family, and Mac, the source of all his troubles, was asking Rafe to look after Violet?
That would be a new layer to Rafe’s revenge—corrupting Mac’s sister just as Mac had corrupted Rafe’s.
“But of course,” Rafe said as he bowed his head, trying to look touched that Mac would extend him this much trust. The fool. He was making this too easy.
“My ears are burning.” Rafe heard the soft feminine—and familiar—voice seconds before its owner entered the room. “What are you two...talking...”
She stood in the doorway, her mouth open, all the color draining from her cheeks.
Rafe’s body responded before his brain could make sense of what he was seeing. His gut tightened and his erection stiffened and one word presented itself in his mind—mine. The reaction was so sudden and so complete that Rafe was momentarily disoriented. This woman was lovely, yes, but her body was not the kind that usually invoked such an immediate, possessive response from him.
Then the conscious part of his brain caught up with the rest of him and he realized exactly who she was.
She looked different in the light of day. Rafe had not known her in such mannish clothing—jeans and work shirts. Her hair was pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck and her face was scrubbed clean.
But he recognized her nonetheless.
V.
His mind spun in bewilderment. His mysterious, beautiful V was here? The woman he had been unable to put from his mind was...in Mac’s home?
Mac stood and Rafe stood with him. This was an...unexpected development. He would have to brazen it out as best he could. “Ah, here you are. Violet, this is my old college friend, Rafe bin Saleed.”
“Bin Saleed?” she said, her eyes so wide they were practically bursting out of her head. “Bin?”
“Um, yeah,” Mac said, his gaze darting between the two of them. “Rafe, this is my little sister, Violet.”
V was Violet. V was his mortal enemy’s younger sister.
Destiny had a twisted sense of humor.
Inwardly, he was kicking himself, as the Americans said. Rafiq bin Saleed did not randomly bring a woman back to his bed. He did not seduce her and strip her and he most certainly did not send her love notes the next morning. He was a sheikh. He had no need for those things. His one night of passion with the exact wrong woman could threaten twelve years of planning.
Outwardly, however, he kept his composure. Years of facing his father’s wrath had trained him well in remaining calm in the face of danger. He had to put a good face on this. His scheme had not yet come to fruition, and if Violet placed him in the greater Royal area four months before his “arrival” today, everything could be at risk.
All his schemes could fall apart in front of him, all because he had been unable to resist a beautiful woman.
Unless...a new thought occurred to him. Unless Violet already knew of his schemes. Unless she had been sent by her brother to find him all those months ago. Unless Mac had anticipated Rafe’s attack and launched a counterattack while Rafe was distracted by a beautiful smile and a gorgeous body.
But she had insisted on no names. He had never used his real name, just as she had hidden hers. Was it possible that she had really just been looking for a night’s passion?
He had no choice but to continue to play the part of the long-lost friend. He couldn’t show his hand just because he had accidentally slept with this woman. “Violet,” he said, letting the hard T sound of her name roll off his tongue, just as so many other things had rolled off his tongue. He bowed low to her, a sign of respect in his culture. “It is an honor to finally meet Mac’s beloved sister.”
“Is it?” she snapped.
Mac shot her a warning look. “Violet,” he said quietly. “We talked about this.”
“Sorry,” she said, clearly not sorry at all. “I was expecting someone else entirely.”
Rafe wanted to laugh. Truthfully, he had been, as well. But he did no such thing. Instead, he said calmly, “Have I come at a bad time?”
Americans had an expression that Rafe had never heard before he’d attended university at Harvard—“If looks could kill.” In his sheikhdom of Al Qunfudhah, no one would dare look at a sheikh with such venom—to do so was to risk dismemberment or even death at the hands of Hassad bin Saleed, who had ruled with an iron fist and an iron blade.
But he was no longer in Al Qunfudhah, and if looks could kill, Violet would have finished him off several minutes ago.
He notched an eyebrow at her. He was more than capable of controlling himself. Could she say the same? Or was that why Mac had gone to speak to her privately—were they getting their stories straight?
You were capable of controlling yourself, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered. Until you met her.
“No, no,” Mac said warmly. “Violet, maybe you should get us something to drink.”
She turned her wrathful gaze to Mac and Rafe decided that, even if Mac had sent Violet to him, she had not told her brother the truth of their evening together. “Excuse me? Do I look like your maid?”
“Violet!” Mac sent another worried grin toward Rafe. “Sorry, Rafe.”
Rafe waved his hand as if Violet’s attitude were nothing. “We are not in Al Qunfudhah,” he said, trying to set Mac at ease even as he enjoyed his old friend’s discomfort. “I remember how things in America are quite different than they are back home. I do not expect to be served by the women in the house.”
But even as he said it, he casually sat back in the middle of the sofa, spreading his arms out along the back and waiting to be served by someone. He took up as much space as he could. I am here, he thought at Violet, catching her eye and lifting his chin in challenge. What are you going to do about it?
Oh, yes. If looks could kill, he would be in extreme pain right now. “That’s where you’re from?”
The bitterness of her tone was somewhat unexpected. The last time he had seen her, she had been asleep in his bed, nude except for the sheets that had twisted around her waist. Her beautiful auburn hair had been fanned out over her shoulder, and even as she slept, her rosebud lips had been curved into a satisfied, if small, smile. She had looked like a woman who had been thoroughly pleasured, and Rafe had almost woken her up with a touch and a kiss.
But she had only asked for a night, so he quietly let himself out of the room, arranged to have breakfast sent up and then met with Nolan to go over his plans for purchasing more of the land around Mac’s Double M ranch. He had tried mightily to put his night of wanton abandon with the beautiful V out of his mind.
Which was not to say he had succeeded. Not for the first time, he replayed their evening together. He had not coerced her—no, he specifically remembered several points where he had given her a respectable out.
It had been her choice to come to his room. Her choice to make it one night. Her choice not to use names or places.
As far as Rafe was concerned, Violet had nothing to be bitter about. He had made sure she had been well satisfied, just as he had been.
“I’ll get us something to drink. Violet, can I talk to you in the kitchen?” Mac said, forgoing subtlety altogether.
“I’ll take some lemonade,” Violet responded, ignoring her brother’s request and sitting in a chair across from Rafe. “Thanks.”
Of course Rafe knew they were not in Al Qunfudhah anymore, but it was something