Sheikh Without a Heart

His mistress. His girlfriend. Whatever she’d been, for once in his life Rami had apparently fallen for a woman who wasn’t his usual type.

He’d been into flash. This woman’s costume, whatever you called it, was flashy, and yet somehow or other she was not. There was something removed about her, something in those dark blue eyes that said, Be careful how you deal with me.

Perhaps that had appealed to Rami. The challenge of getting past the invisible barricade around her. Maybe that had made up for the fact that she didn’t speak in breathy little sentences or flutter her lashes.

Rami had been a sucker for nonsense like that.

Karim couldn’t imagine this woman doing either.

She was tough. Hell, she was fearless.

Any other woman would have screamed for help. Run shrieking into the night. Or, at the very least, begged an intruder for mercy.

She’d come at him with a weapon.

A rather unusual weapon, he thought with wry amusement.

The stiletto-heeled shoe lay on the floor next to him; its mate lay a few feet away. The thing could have done real damage, considering that the heels had to be four or five inches high.

“Stilettos are torture,” a mistress had once admitted, but she’d worn them anyway.

He knew the reason.

Women wore them because they knew damned well that men loved the look those high, thin heels gave to a female body: the slight forward tilt of the pelvis, the added length of leg.

Not that Rami’s woman needed anything to make her legs look longer.

Even now, they seemed endless.

She had stockings on. Hose. Whatever you called sheer black mesh that drew his eyes up and up to where the mesh disappeared beneath that thong.

With stilettos or without them she was a fantastic sight. Sleek. Sexy. All woman.

Why deny it?

She was beautiful, and he was sure it was natural. He’d seen enough women who’d been surgically and chemically enhanced until they were little more than mannequins.

Cheekbones implanted. Lips injected. Foreheads all but immobilized and, worst of all, breasts that looked and felt like balloons instead of soft, warm flesh.

This woman’s breasts would feel just right in a man’s hands. The nipples would taste sweet on his tongue …

Karim felt his body stir.

Hell. He’d been too long without sex. Why else would he react to her? She was beautiful, but she was—she had been Rami’s.

Besides, he liked his women to be … well, at least somewhat demure.

He was a sheikh from an ancient kingdom, a culture still learning to accept some modern concepts about women, but he was also a man of the twenty-first century. He had been educated in the west.

He believed in male-female equality, yes, but some degree of diffidence was still a good thing in a woman. He doubted if this particular woman would even understand the concept.

Karim frowned.

What did any of that matter? Rami was dead. And it was time to get down to business. Tell her that her lover was gone—and that she had until the end of the month to vacate the flat.

She’d said it was hers, but surely only by default. She was here; Rami wasn’t.

Still, he’d write her a generous check. It was the right thing to do. Then, tomorrow—today, he thought, glancing at his watch and seeing that it was past six in the morning—he’d make good on the rest of his brother’s Las Vegas debts.

With luck, he’d be in Alcantar by the weekend. Then he’d return to Manhattan and get on with his life—

“Well?” the woman said sharply. “Say something. If you’re really Rami’s brother, what’s your name? And what are you doing here?”

Karim blinked.

Indeed, that was the big question.

Did she know about her lover’s death? He didn’t think so. She spoke of him in the present tense.

Then what was the best way to tell her? Break it to her gently? Or just state the facts?

That might be the best way. Be direct. Get it over with.

For all her feminine looks—the mouth that reminded him of a rose petal, the up-thrust breasts, the gently curved hips—for all that, he couldn’t imagine there was anything fragile about her.

She was still the picture of defiance, dark blue eyes flashing, chin raised, ready to fight.

He could change that in a heartbeat.

All he had to do was remind her that he held the upper hand.

And there was an easy way to do that.

He’d pull her into his arms, plunge one hand deep into that mass of silky gold hair, lift her face to his and take her mouth. She’d fight him, but only for a few seconds.

Then her skin would flush with desire. Her lips would part. She’d moan and surrender to him, and it wouldn’t matter if her surrender was real or if she was playing a part because he’d carry her to the sofa, strip away the bra, the thong, the spiderweb stockings, and by then her moans would be not a lie because he would make her want him, open for him, move under him …

Dammit!

Karim turned away, pretended to study the wall, the floor, anything at all while he got his traitorous body under control.

No wonder Rami had kept this one, he thought as he swung toward her again.

“What is your name?” he said sharply.

“I asked first.”

He almost laughed. She sounded like a kid squaring off for a schoolyard fight.