Mistress Of The Sheikh

But someone had, once. Nick frowned. A woman or, more accurately, a girl. The memory surfaced, wavering like a mirage from the hot sand.

Nothing but a savage, she’d said….

The image faded, and Nick frowned. “That photo was taken at the festival. It was Id al Baranda, Quidar’s national holiday, for God’s sake!” He stepped out from behind his massive beechwood desk and paced to the wall of windows that gave way onto one of New York City’s paved canyons. “That’s why I was wearing a robe, because it is the custom.”

Abdul bobbed his head in agreement.

“And the tent,” Nick said through his teeth. “The damned tent belonged to the caterer.”

“I know, my lord.”

“It was where the food was set up, dammit!”

“Yes, sire.”

Nick stalked back to his desk and snatched up the magazine. “Look at this. Just look at it!”

Abdul took a cautious step forward, rose up on the balls of his feet and peered at the photo. “Lord Rashid?”

“They’ve taken the ocean out of the picture. It looks as if the tent was pitched in the middle of the desert!”

“Yes, my lord. I see.”

Nick dragged his hand through his hair. “Miss Burgess cut her foot.” His voice tightened. “That was why I was carrying her.”

“Lord Rashid.” Abdul licked his lips. “There is no need to explain.”

“I was carrying her into the tent, not out. So I could treat the—” Nick stopped in midsentence and drew a ragged breath deep into his lungs. “I will not let this anger me.”

“I am so glad, my lord.”

“I will not!”

“Excellent, sire.”

“There’s no point to it.” Nick put the magazine on his desk, tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers and threw his secretary a chilling smile. “Isn’t that right, Abdul?”

The little man nodded. “Absolutely.”

“If these idiots wish to poke their noses into my life, so be it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If people wish to read such drivel, let them.”

Abdul nodded. “Exactly.”

“After all, what does it matter to me if I am called an uncultured savage?” Nick’s smile tightened until his face resembled a mask. “Never mind my law degree or my expertise in finance.”

“Lord Rashid,” Abdul said carefully, “sire—”

“Never mind that I represent an ancient and honorable and highly cultured people.”

“Excellency, please. You’re getting yourself upset. And, as you just said, there is no point in—”

“The fool who wrote this should be drawn and quartered.”

Abdul nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a balloon on a string. “Yes, my lord.”

“Better still, staked out, naked, in the heat of the desert sun, smeared with honey so as to draw the full attention of the fire ants.”

Abdul bowed low as he backed toward the door. “I shall see to it at once.”

“Abdul.” Nick took a deep breath.

“My Lord?”

“You are to do nothing.”

“Nothing? But, Excellency—”

“Trust me,” the sheikh said with a faint smile. “The part of me that is American warns me that my fellow countrymen are probably squeamish about drawing and quartering.”

“In that case, I shall ask for a retraction.”

“You are not to call the magazine at all.”

“No?”

“No. It would serve no purpose except to bring further unwanted attention to myself, and to Quidar.”

Abdul inclined his head. “As you command, Lord Rashid.”

Nick reached out, turned the copy of Gossip toward him, handling it as gingerly as he would a poisonous spider.

“Phone the florist. Have him send six dozen red roses to Miss Burgess.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I want the flowers delivered immediately.”

“Of course.”

“Along with a card. Say…” Nick frowned. “Say that she has my apologies that we made the cover of a national magazine.”

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Burgess is most unhappy to find her photo on that cover,” Abdul said smoothly, so smoothly that Nick looked at him. The little man flushed. “It is most unfortunate that either of you should have been placed in such a position, my lord. I am glad you are taking this so calmly.”

“I am calm, aren’t I?” Nick said. “Very calm. I have counted twice to ten, once in Quidaran and once in English, and—and…” His gaze fell to the cover again. “Very calm,” he murmured, and then he grabbed the magazine from the desk and flung it against the wall. “Lying sons of camel traders,” he roared, and kicked the thing across the room the second it slid to the floor. “Oh, what I’d like to do to the bastards who invade my life and print such lies.”