Sleeping with the Sheikh. Brenda Jackson
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father?”
“I’m admitting nothing. I’m saying it doesn’t matter, Sheikh Yaman. None of this matters. The past is over. I don’t want to dredge it up again.”
“It doesn’t matter what either of us wants, Andrea. What matters is our child. I’m determined to settle this. If not now, then later. And soon.”
Andi opened the door and tried to slide out, but not before he caught her hand and said, “I will be in touch.”
She responded with tingles where his fingers curled around hers, with regret when she saw a sadness in his expression that she’d only seen one other time. But that surprising display of vulnerability soon disappeared, and his eyes once again took on the mystery—deep, dark waters that threatened to suck Andi into their shadowy depths. Without breaking his gaze, he turned her hand over and slid a slow fingertip along her palm, reminding Andi of that long-ago night when his masterful touch had made her beg him to stop, beg him to never stop.
Andi yanked her hand from his grasp and hurried away to her truck, sprinted as fast as her heels would let her. She raced from the panic that he might intend to take her child away from her, ran from the love for him that had never died.
But in her heart she knew that no matter how hard she tried to get away, Andrea Hamilton could never escape Sam Yaman, even after he left her again.
Samir Yaman sat alone in darkness in the hotel suite, surrounded by the luxury he had known most of his life. He needed a drink and would welcome the bitter taste of whiskey on his tongue, but he didn’t dare give in to the craving, not when he needed a clear head. Truthfully, he hadn’t touched alcohol since that night—the night he had made two grave mistakes.
After all this time Sam had not been able to escape the guilt over his best friend’s demise. He had realized all too late that he should have stopped Paul’s postgraduation drinking binge, but he’d allowed him his freedom that night, feeling it had been hard-earned due to the responsibility placed upon Paul after his father’s death. That freedom had cost Paul his life, and Sam still paid the price for his own poor judgment.
And if only he hadn’t gone to Andrea after he’d left the hospital with the knowledge that her brother had not survived. If only he had waited until dawn instead of following her to the pond where she always went to think, that night to mourn. If only he hadn’t forgotten that she was no more than a grief-stricken girl who had needed comfort. Giving in to that need had been his second mistake. He’d been powerless to resist her, perhaps because of his own need to forget or perhaps because she had always been his ultimate weakness.
She still was.
He had recognized that tonight the moment he’d glimpsed her standing before the masses, wearing a black dress that revealed a woman’s curves. She had looked poised and proud until no one offered a decent bid—the reason he had spontaneously decided to remedy that situation.
Leaning his head back, Sam closed his eyes against images of Andrea that burned in his mind, a flame that would not die, had not died since he’d left her the day they had buried her brother, his friend. No matter how he tried, they refused to disappear, forcing him to acknowledge what he had known all along—time and distance had changed nothing.
Her eyes were still azure, her long hair still the color of a desert sunset, reds mixed with gold. He imagined she still possessed a free spirit, an undeniable passion for life, a strong heart, the attributes that had attracted him to her from the beginning. Qualities he still admired. Yet he had sensed defiance when she’d entered the car, perhaps even hatred. He couldn’t blame her. She had much to hate about him. At times he hated himself. He had thrust himself into his duty, losing his honor in the process by not facing his failures.
Since his return to Barak, he’d had his guard and confidant, Rashid, covertly track Andrea’s life as much as possible. But a few months ago, when he had planned the trip to the States, Rashid had finally revealed that Andrea had a six-year-old son. No matter what Andrea had told him tonight, Sam knew the boy was his. The timing was too coincidental for it not to be the case. He intended to prove it and make certain the child’s needs were being met, though he could never claim him, or Andrea.
He could promise Andrea nothing beyond providing for her and their child. He could never tell her all the things he felt as a man. He could never speak of the times he had considered giving up his wealth, his legacy, to be with her again. She would never know that not one day had passed when he hadn’t thought of her, longed for her.
Sheikh Samir Yaman, first son of the ruler of Barak, heir to his father’s legacy, was bound by duty to his family, his country, groomed from birth to lead, and tied to an arrangement of marriage to a woman he had never touched. A woman he would never love, for his heart always had, always would, belong to a woman he could not have—Andrea Hamilton.
“Mama! There’s a big black car in the driveway!”
Andi froze with her arms full of the clothes she’d gathered for her son’s summer trip to camp. She had hoped this wouldn’t happen today. Hoped that Sam would have waited to contact her until tomorrow. If only she’d hurried and gotten Chance out of the house sooner, she might have been able to avoid this scene. Maybe she still could.
“Get away from the window, Chance.”
He looked back over his shoulder, confusion calling out from dark eyes much like his father’s. “Why, Mama?”
“Because it’s not nice to stare at strangers, that’s why.”
Ignoring her, Chance continued to look out the window. “He’s got a towel on his head and a big man with him.”
“Chance Samuel Paul Hamilton, come over here right now and help me get your things together, otherwise you’ll miss the bus.”
With a sigh he turned and trudged toward her. “I just want to look at the man.”
That’s the last thing Andi wanted, at least now. She would prefer to put Sam off until she could get her child on his way to camp. Then she would deal with the questions that were sure to come—or demands as the case might be.
Andi stuffed the clothing into the nylon tote and told Chance, “Get your toothbrush and put it in the plastic bag in the bathroom with your medicine. Then pick out some books and make sure you pack your paper so you can write home.”
Chance’s lip pooched out in a pout. “Then can I meet him?”
“Not today. I’m not sure what he wants.” A less-than-truthful version. Andi knew exactly what he wanted, to see his son. “He’ll probably be gone before you’re finished packing.”
“I’ll hurry up.” With that, Chance sprinted into the hall.
Andi was right behind him, relieved that he’d gone toward the hall bathroom, not down the stairs. Her son was well behaved most of the time, although he could be determined. He came by it naturally, she guessed, considering she was much the same way. That had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion. A particular summer night came to mind.
The doorbell sounded, jarring Andi into action. “I’ll get it,” came from the first floor.
“I’ll get it, Tess,” she called to her aunt in hopes of stopping her. “I—”
“Well good gracious! Sam!”
Too late. Andi should have forewarned Tess that they might be having a visitor, and exactly who that visitor would be.
Andi slowly walked down the stairs that ended in the entryway now containing her aunt, a bodyguard and her son’s father. Sam immediately looked up and met her gaze. She hugged her arms across her middle as she spanned the remaining stairs. When she came to the last one, she was afraid to go any farther, especially when Sam kept staring at her as if he could see all the secrets she had held in her heart for years.
Tess turned a huge grin on Andi. “Well, looky here what the cat dragged in, Andi. It’s our Sam.”
Our