The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress. Sandra Marton
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would play.
Darkness outside the windows. Darkness in her room. He, waiting motionless. The snick of her key card in the lock, the door swinging open, then closing behind her. Before she could touch the light switch, he’d speak her name.
“Grace.”
She would cry out and he would turn on a lamp so he could see the shock in her eyes. And then he would…
What?
What would he do, when they were alone in her room, she terrified, he triumphant? He’d spent hours thinking about it.
Imagined himself going toward her, telling her that he was taking her back to the States to face charges of embezzlement.
Imagined her panic at that news…and her reaction when he said that first, she was going to pay a very private penance.
He would tell her she had to strip for him, take off the businesslike suit or dress, the surprisingly delicate bits of silk she always wore beneath. Take those off, too, until she was naked. Until he could see the roundness of her breasts, the soft pink blush of her nipples, her flat belly and the delicate dark gold curls between her thighs.
“Now undress me,” he’d say, and she would, undoing his tie, his shirt, his trousers, her hands moving over him with the delicacy of butterfly wings. And when they were both naked, he would make her do all those things with her hands and mouth and body she had once claimed she did out of desire when the truth was, her desire had been not for his kisses, his arms, his possession but for ten million dollars of his money.
“Who do you think you are?”
Lipton’s voice was sharp with aristocratic demand. For a minute, Salim had forgotten him. He knew the man by reputation. James Lipton the third or fourth or some such inane thing, a principled banker, an unprincipled seducer of young women. Interesting, that Lipton and Grace should have found each other.
Who would seduce whom?
“I asked you a question,” Lipton said with presumptive authority. “Who are you? And how dare you intrude on a private conversation?”
“No,” Grace said in a tremulous voice. She put her hand on Lipton’s arm. “Mr. Lipton…”
“Mr. Lipton.” Salim’s lip curled. “Is that how you’re playing it? Are you the terrified innocent this time, Grace? Did I interrupt the big seduction scene as opposed to saving you from the unwanted attention of a predator?”
“What did you call me?” Lipton sputtered.
“Salim. Please…”
Grace’s boss swung toward her. “You know this man?”
“So many questions,” Salim said coldly, his eyes locked on his adversary’s. “Suppose we take them one at a time. What am I doing here? That’s easy. I am here on business. Does your charming companion know me?” An icy smile. “She knows me very well. Intimately, one might say.”
Grace felt her face heat.
“As for what I called you… I said you were a predator, Lipton, which might prove quite interesting, considering that the lady you’ve targeted bears the same distinction.” He smiled tightly. “Which makes me wonder if her reaction to your pathetic attempts at seduction were real, or was she acting?”
It was an insult, but Grace knew it was also a question. All she had to do was tell Salim he had misinterpreted what he’d seen. She’d get rid of him, all right—and then she’d be trapped, alone, with her boss.
“As for who I am…” Another tight smile lifted the corners of Salim’s lips. “My name is Salim al Taj.”
No title. No “sheikh” or “prince.” It wasn’t necessary and her former lover knew it. Grace watched the color drain from Lipton’s haughty face. A moment ago, he’d been puffed up with self-importance. Now, he looked terrified.
There was a time knowing her lover had such power would have thrilled her most basic female instincts. Now, it made her shudder.
“You mean—you mean you’re the head of Alhandra Investments? You’re the sheikh? The crown prince of Senahdar?”
“I see you’ve heard of me,” Salim said with icy sarcasm.
Lipton swallowed hard. “Your majesty. Your highness. Sir. I—I beg your pardon. I had no idea the lady and you were—that the lady was— If I had known…”
“We are not,” Grace said desperately, looking from one man to the other. “I mean, I am not—the sheikh and I are not—” What was that old saying? she thought frantically. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.
“Grace?”
She looked up at Salim. His pale blue eyes were cold; his smile made her feel cold but what choice did she really have?
“Salim and I,” she told Lipton. “Salim and I are—are—”
Salim’s arm curved around her waist.
“A lover’s quarrel,” he said dismissively. His sharp gaze met Grace’s. “Isn’t that right, habiba, or did I get it wrong? Perhaps you prefer to see me walk away.”
Once, she’d have melted at the soft term of endearment. Now his tone gave it a twist that all but turned it into an obscenity.
“Crunch time, sweetheart,” Salim said softly. “Make a decision and do it quickly.”
A decision, she thought, and bit back a hysterical laugh. Send Salim away and be trapped with Lipton? She had no illusions about what he wanted.
She had no illusions about what Salim wanted, either.
Revenge.
A man like him wouldn’t deal well with a dented ego. He was furious that she had left him without a word of explanation and, even worse, that she’d left him before he could leave her.
His arm tightened around her. “Well? Are you coming with me or shall I leave you here?”
He sounded like a man who knew a woman would never reject him, his question asked with almost lazy ease, but the pressure of his hand warned his patience was wearing thin. Logic told her she could only come to one decision. If she let Lipton see her go off with Salim, she wouldn’t have to fear what he might try to do later, when they were alone again.
Grace took a deep breath. “Buy me a drink,” she said brightly, as if Salim’s description of things between them were true, “and we’ll talk about old times.”
Salim’s eyes glittered. Old times, indeed.
He led her away from the lights of the hotel to a shell-strewn path that led to the beach. He had not expected her to make a decision that quickly. Perhaps the scene he’d stumbled across had actually been what it seemed: a pig of a man hitting on a woman who wanted no part of him. That had certainly been his initial reaction; it was why he’d stopped Lipton, why he wished to hell the man had come at him. He’d have taught him that a man should not treat a woman that way, any woman, even a liar and a cheat like Grace.
His desire to pound a fist into Lipton’s gut had come from something far less sophisticated.
Mine, he had thought when he had seen Grace with another man’s hands on her. He had reacted as any man would, seeing a woman he’d once called his with someone else touching her. That shot of masculine testosterone was not something one could control. It was built into male DNA; it wasn’t about Grace in particular or who could or could not have her.
He didn’t gave a damn who she seduced or who she slept with. All he cared about was getting her off this island and back to the States.
The sole question was how best to do it. He was prepared to use force, if he had to, but only as a last resort. He knew nothing of extradition arrangements between Bali and the U.S.A.; it had probably been foolish not to let Taggart check but