Mistress Of The Sheikh

“You disappoint me.” The bastard didn’t just smile this time; he laughed. “You sneaked into my home—”

“I didn’t sneak into anything. Your sister invited me.”

“Did she tell you that once the party begins, no one will be permitted on this floor?”

Her heart thumped with fear. “They will, if they hear me screaming.”

“My men would not permit it.”

“The police don’t need your permission.”

“The police can’t do anything to help you. This is Quidaran soil.”

“It’s a penthouse on Fifth Avenue,” Amanda said, trying to free her hands, “not an embassy.”

“We have no embassy in your country. By the time our governments finish debating the point, it will be too late.”

“You’re not frightening me.”

It was a lie and they both knew it. She was terrified; Nick could see it in her eyes. Good. She’d deserved the lesson. She was immoral. She was a liar. A thief. She was for sale to any man who could afford her.

What did that make him, then, for still wanting her?

Nick let go of her hands, rolled off her and got to his feet. “Get out,” he said softly.

She sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, her eyes wary. She shot a glance at the door and he knew she was measuring her chances of reaching it. It made him feel rotten but, dammit, she wasn’t worth his pity. She wasn’t worth anything except, perhaps, the price his foolish sister had paid for her.

“Go on,” he said gruffly, and jerked his head toward the door. “Get out, before I change my mind.”

She rose from the bed. Smoothed down her skirt with hands that shook. Bent and picked up her purse, grabbed the camera and put it inside.

She stumbled backward as Nick came around the bed toward her.

“No,” she said sharply, but he ignored her, snatched the purse from her hands and opened the flap. “What are you doing?”

He looked up. He had to give her points for courage, he thought grudgingly. She’d lost one of her ridiculously high heels in their struggle. Her dress was a mess and her hair hung in her eyes.

Those unusual golden eyes.

He frowned, reached for a memory struggling to the surface of his mind….

“Give me my purse.”

She lunged for the small beaded bag. He whipped it out of her reach. She went after it, lifting up on her toes and batting at it with her hands.

“Dammit, give me that!”

Nick took out the camera and tossed the purse at her feet. “It’s all yours.”

“I want my camera.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Grinding the camera to dust under his heel would have been satisfying, but the carpet was soft and he knew he might end up looking like an ass if the damned thing didn’t break. Instead, he strolled into the bathroom.

“What are you…?”

Nick pressed a button on the camera, took out the tiny recording disk and dumped it into the toilet. He shut the lid, flushed, then dropped the camera on the marble floor. Now, he thought, now it would smash when he stepped on it.

It did.

Amanda Benning was scarlet with fury. “You—you bastard!”

“My parents would be upset to hear you call me that, Ms. Benning,” he said politely. He walked past her, pleased that the toilet hadn’t spit the disk back—it had been a definite possibility and it surely would have spoiled the drama of the moment.

A little more drama, and he’d send Amanda Benning packing.

He swung toward her and folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, addressing me in such a fashion could get you beheaded in my homeland.”

Amanda planted her hands on her hips. “It could get you sued in mine.”

He laughed. “You can’t sue me. I’m—”

“Believe me, I know who you are, Mr. Rashid.”

“Lord Rashid,” Nick said quickly, and scowled.

What was he saying? He didn’t care about his title. Everyone used it. It was the custom but occasionally someone forgot, and he never bothered correcting them. The only time he had was years ago. Dawn’s roommate…

The girl with the golden eyes. Strange that he should have remembered her after so long a time. Stranger still that he should have done so tonight.

“…and ninety-eight cents.”

He blinked, focused his eyes on Amanda Benning. She hadn’t moved an inch. She was still standing in front of him, chin lifted, eyes flashing. He felt a momentary pity that she was what she was. A woman as beautiful, as fiery as this, would be a true gift, especially in a man’s bed.

“Did you hear me, Lord Rashid?” Amanda folded her arms, tapped her foot. “You owe me $620.98. That includes the film.”

One dark, arched brow lifted. It made him look even more insolent. She was boring him, she thought, and fought back a tremor of rage.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The camera.” She marched past him, plucked her purse from the floor, dug inside it and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper. “The receipt. From Picture Perfect, on Madison Avenue.”

She held it out. Nick looked at it but didn’t touch it.

“An excellent place to buy electronic devices, or so I’ve been told.”

“I want my money.”