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The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress

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2019
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SALIM had been told that the hotel’s villas were spacious and handsome.

Maybe, but he’d dismissed those amenities without a second thought. A man on his way to apprehend a thief didn’t give a damn about aesthetics.

Now, as he paced the floor of his villa, he thought that “spacious” might be a good thing. You could only march from room to room just so long before the walls began closing in.

Where was Grace?

Salim glowered at his watch. Was it working? Of course it was. The gold Cartier had been passed from his grandfather to his father to him. It was entirely—and, tonight, unfortunately—dependable.

His common sense was not.

Why had he let Grace go back to the hotel and to Lipton? At the time, it had seemed eminently sensible. Let her get hold of her anger, he’d told himself. Let her stalk away, sulk, roar at the moon if she wanted. Once she came to her senses, she’d figure out she had no choice but to return to New York as his prisoner.

She was a thief, not a fool.

She knew she was caught. Her days of freedom were over. Why go through the hassle of extradition, assuming there was an extradition agreement between Indonesia and the States? Even if there wasn’t, what she’d done would become public knowledge. The media would be all over the story. She had to see there was no sense fighting the inevitable.


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