Desert Hearts: Sheikh Without a Heart / Heart of the Desert / The Sheikh's Destiny. Carol Marinelli
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would demand custody and he’d get it.
He had money. Power. Access to lawyers and politicians and judges—people she couldn’t even envision.
She had nothing.
This dark little apartment. Maybe four hundred dollars in the bank. A job she despised and, yes, she could just see how “Occupation: half-dressed cocktail waitress” would stack up against “Occupation: powerful prince who spends the days counting his money.”
The answer was inevitable.
He’d take Ethan from her.
Raise him as Rami had told Suki he’d been raised.
No love. No affection. Nothing but discipline and criticism and the harsh words and impossible demands of an imperious father and now, for Ethan, the demands of a heartless uncle.
A lump rose in Rachel’s throat.
She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.
She’d do whatever was necessary to keep her baby—and there was only one way to accomplish that.
Show the Sheikh that he couldn’t intimidate her, get him out the door—then pack a suitcase and run.
The baby’s cries had faded to wet snuffles. Rachel took a breath and turned toward the Sheikh.
“He needs a new diaper.”
“And I need answers.”
“Fine. You’ll get them when I have time. I’ll meet you later. Say, four o’clock in front of the Dancing Waters at the … What’s so amusing?”
“Did you really think I’d fall for such a stupidly transparent lie?” His smile vanished. “Change the child’s diaper. I’ll wait.”
“Don’t try to give me orders in my own home.”
“It was my brother’s home, not yours. You lived here with him. You were his mistress.”
“Wrong on both counts. This apartment is mine.”
“And my brother just happened to have the key.”
His tone was snide and self-confident, and if it weren’t for Ethan, she’d have slapped it off his all-too-handsome face.
“My mistake for giving him one. He moved in with me, not me with him. And, for the record, I’ve never been anybody’s mistress. I’ve always supported myself and I damned well always will.”
There it was again. Fire. Spirit. Absolute defiance. Her eyes were snapping with anger even as she kept her voice low for the baby’s sake, kept stroking her hand gently down his back.
Karim watched that slow-moving hand.
The feel of it would soothe anyone. A child. A beast.
A man.
Without thinking, he reached out and touched the baby. His fingers brushed accidentally against the curve of the Donnelly woman’s breast.
She caught her breath. Their eyes met. Color rushed into her face.
“The boy is asleep,” Karim said softly.
“Yes. He is.” She swallowed hard. He could see her throat arch. “I—I’m going to take him into the bedroom, change his diaper and put him down for a nap.”
“Fine,” he said briskly.
He watched her walk away with the dignity of a queen, back straight, only the slightest sway of her hips.
He wanted to laugh.
What an act! The personification of dignity in a cheap costume.
It was an act, wasn’t it? The way she held herself. The love she seemed to show the baby. Her adamant refusal to name Rami as the child’s father, as if she suspected what Karim’s next move would be.
She wasn’t stupid; far from it. Surely, she knew he would demand custody of the boy.
And he would get it. A DNA test, quickly performed, would settle things.
She was—whatever she was. A dancer. A stripper. She was broke or close to it, judging by where she lived.
And he was a prince.
There was no doubt which of them would win in a court of law—if this ever got that far.
But there was no need for that to happen.
Rachel Donnelly would not give up the child without a fuss. If he were generous, he’d say it was because she cared for the boy but he was not feeling generous. He was feeling deceived. By Rami. By fate. And now, for all he knew, by a woman who was an excellent actress, making a show of being a caring mother.
Whatever her motive, she could not be permitted to keep the boy.
That was out of the question.
He would not leave the child to be raised in squalid surroundings by a woman who, at best, might euphemistically be called a dancer.
With him, the boy—Ethan—would have everything Rami could have given him. A comfortable home. The best possible education. The knowledge of his ancient and honorable past.
He would not have a mother but Rami had not had one, either. For that matter, neither had he, and he was none the worse for it today.
Karim looked at the closed bedroom door and frowned. What was taking her so long? Changing a diaper could not be a complicated procedure.
Did she expect him to stand here, cooling his heels?
He had things to do. Settling Rami’s debts, of course. And now he’d have to make arrangements for taking the child to Alcantar. What would he need? Clothes? Formula? The boy’s birth certificate?
Not really.
He had diplomatic status. Only the State department had the authority to question him, and they would not do so.
What else would he require?
Of course.
A nanny.
That was the primary requirement. A woman who’d be capable of knowing a baby’s needs. She could care for the boy from now until Karim had him back home, where he could make more permanent arrangements.
Relatively simple, all of it.
Assuming Rachel Donnelly didn’t cause trouble—but why would she? He would write her a handsome check and if she balked he’d make her see how much better off her son would be in his new life as a prince in his father’s kingdom.
He might even agree to permitting her to visit a couple of times a year—
And, dammit, he was wasting time!
Karim strode to the closed door and rapped his knuckles against it.
“Miss Donnelly?”
Nothing.
“Miss Donnelly, I cannot spend the entire morning waiting for you. I have other business to conduct.”
Still nothing.
Hell.
Was it possible there was another exit from the apartment? A window that opened on an outside stairway?
Karim flung the door open.
The furnishings were spare.
A chest of drawers. A chair. A crib, Ethan sound asleep in it, his backside in the air.
And a bed.
Narrow. Covered in white. The only color came from the bra, the thong, the dark mesh stockings that lay in a tiny heap in its center.
His belly knotted.
His gaze flew to a half-open door, wisps of steam curling from it.
The sound of