The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress. Sandra Marton
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had only to respect his position as her employer.
That was it… At least, that was it until the plane was in the air.
It turned out that James Lipton the Fourth, that pillar of the community, wasn’t a pillar at all. He belonged at the bottom of its most rancid garbage dump. To call him a sleazebag was being generous.
Twenty minutes after leaving San Francisco, the pilot announced they’d reached cruising altitude and her dipped-in-starch employer morphed into a monster.
They were seated side by side. He had suggested the arrangement. “So we can go over some notes,” he’d said.
Logical enough.
What was not logical was the moment he leaned into her, his shoulder against hers, and said that if she grew weary during the flight, she could use the private bedroom in the rear of the plane.
“Thank you, sir, but—”
“With me in it, of course,” he added.
Or had he?
At first, it seemed impossible. Grace decided she’d misunderstood him. Maybe the whine of the engines had distorted his words. So, she didn’t reply.
But there was no way to misunderstand the fingers that drifted across her breast when he reached for a book, the hand that dropped on her thigh when he asked about a report, the lascivious flick of his disgustingly wet tongue across his disgustingly wet lips when she caught him watching her.
Still, Grace tried to convince herself her imagination was playing tricks. That might easily happen to a woman who had a decidedly jaundiced opinion of men.
She played it safe.
She retreated into work. Or pseudo-work. She stared at her laptop’s screen until she was afraid her eyes would cross. When Lipton finally left her side to use the toilet, she slammed down the cover of her computer, scurried across the aisle to a single leather seat, put her head back, closed her eyes and pretended to sleep until the pilot announced they were ten minutes from landing, which they did at four in the afternoon.
By four-fifteen, Grace knew she hadn’t misunderstood anything. The pillar of the community had feet of clay. A bad metaphor but it worked.
She had been duped.
Lipton had not brought her here to learn and network. He’d brought her here so he could seduce her, and that was as likely to happen as snow falling from the perfect Balinese sky.
A bright pink golf cart collected them at the airstrip. Lipton insisted on helping her into the cart; one of his hands brushed lightly over her buttocks as he did.
“Oops,” he said, with his I-Am-A-Trustworthy-Banker smile.
Bull, she thought coldly…and then she thought, maybe it really had been an accident. Maybe her imagination was working overtime. How could Lipton be doing any of what she thought he was doing? The driver of the cart was right there, smiling politely. She had worked for Lipton all these months, spent late evenings poring over files and accounts with him and he’d behaved like a gentleman.
Was she letting the actions of the Don Juan of Senahdar color her thoughts? No. She hated Salim now; she always would, but until that Sunday evening they’d gone into each other’s arms, he’d never done so much as touch her. No matter what else he was—unfeeling, arrogant, heartless—he would never have pawed a woman like this.
The golf cart deposited them at the hotel.
The first thing she saw when they entered the atrium lobby was a big sign that said Welcome SOPAC-PBA.
The second was a huge glass aviary filled with small, vividly colored birds.
And then she looked down and saw Lipton’s arm as it snaked around her waist, his hand coming to rest just beneath her breast. She jerked away; his hand settled more firmly on her.
“Reception desk’s right over there,” he said briskly.
Grace looked at her boss. His eyes were on the desk, not her. It was as if he and the hand were not connected. What now? Struggle? Pull away? No time to do either. They reached the desk and Grace deftly sidestepped. Lipton’s hand fell to his side.
The clerk flashed a toothy smile. Not at her. At her escort.
“Sir?”
“James Lipton the Fourth,” Lipton said briskly.
“Of course. Mr. Lipton. Delighted to have you with us, sir. Welcome to Bali.”
Still no acknowledgment of Grace, but why would there be? Lipton was the big attraction. She was invisible until he’d been dealt with. That was the way it went. Hadn’t she seen it happen enough when she was with—with her prior employer?
Lipton didn’t bother with niceties. “I take it my suite is ready?”
“Certainly, sir. If you’d be good enough to sign here… Excellent. Thank you.” The clerk snapped his fingers. A boy dressed in a brightly flowered shirt and khaki shorts came running. “Wayan. Escort our guests to the Presidential Suite.”
The boy reached for their luggage. Lipton reached for Grace. Grace did another quick sidestep.
“My name is Hud— My name is Hunter,” she said pleasantly. “Grace Hunter. I have a reservation of my own.”
“Nonsense,” Lipton said, as if Grace weren’t there. “Miss Hunter is my assistant. She will share my suite.”
“I’m not your assistant,” Grace said. “I’m the chief auditor of your bank.”
What a stupid thing to say. The expression on the clerk’s face said as much.
“I mean,” she said carefully, “there’s been an error. I arranged for—”
“Grace.” Lipton spoke softly, but there was no mistaking the steel in his voice. “We are here on business. I have reserved a two bedroom, two bath suite. It has a dining room, a sitting room—all we’ll require so we can confer whenever necessary and meet with other attendees in complete privacy. Do you have a problem with that?”
He made it sound so reasonable but yes, she had a problem…
“Grace?”
Lipton’s eyes were as cold as his tone. What now? Make a scene in front of the bright-eyed desk clerk? Find a way to get back to San Francisco on her own? Lose the job it had taken her two months to land without a letter of reference?
No one knew better than she what it was like to be at the mercy of a ruthless, powerful man.
“Grace? I asked if you had a problem assisting me on this trip.”
She looked at him. His expression was disdainful, his eyes icy. Grace took a deep breath.
“Not at all,” she said politely. “Not when you explain it so well.”
Lipton smiled. She was certain there were sharks with fewer teeth.
They followed the bellman to a suite that took up half the top floor. The boy pointed out the white sand beach, the view of the sea, the sixty-inch plasma TV, the Waterford chandeliers, the Gauguin prints on the walls.
The only things that mattered to Grace were that her bathroom was accessible only through her bedroom and that there was a lock on the bedroom door.
She secured it the second the boy left and, for two days, un-did it only when she was ready to leave the suite. She ignored Lipton’s suggestions she join him for drinks. For dinner. For breakfast. For anything and everything unless it involved other people. He made no comment, but the tension between them had grown palpable and she suspected he wasn’t going to let things go on this way much longer.
But then, she wasn’t going to give him a choice. He’d behave. He’d admit defeat.
That was possible, wasn’t it? Maybe she was overreacting.