Книга - The Sheikh’s Rebellious Mistress

The Sheikh's Rebellious Mistress
Sandra Marton


This sheikh takes his revenge! Sheikh Salim al Taj never mixes business with pleasure. But one night with his employee Grace Hudson and his rule is broken – now he wants her exclusively! When Salim ends their passionate affair, he can’t believe it when Grace walks out on her job, apparently taking company secrets with her.He resolves to bring his runaway rebellious mistress to heel – slowly, pleasurably and mercilessly.The Sheikh Tycoons, They’re powerful, passionate – and as sexy as sin!







“You left out the part where I find you and take you back to New York.”

“But—but why would you want to take me to New York?”

“That’s fine, Grace. Keep playing games.” Salim tugged her toward him. She struggled, but he was too tall, too big, too powerful. Her struggles got her nowhere except exactly where he’d wanted her: pressed tightly against him.

“What are you talking about? Why would you think I’d agree to go back with you?”

“Who said anything about agreement?” His voice was low and dangerous. “You will go with me and face the consequences of your actions because it is what I demand, habiba.”

She was looking up at him in a way that told him all he needed to know.

“Don’t,” she said, and he cupped her face in one hand.

“Don’t what, habiba?” he said thickly, and he stopped thinking, bent his head and sought her mouth.

In a second, in a heartbeat, she was his again.

THE SHEIKH TYCOONS

by

Sandra Marton

They’re powerful, passionate—and as sexy as sin!

Three desert princes—

how will they tame their feisty brides?

THE SHEIKH’S DEFIANT BRIDE

August 2008

THE SHEIKH’S WAYWARD WIFE

December 2008

THE SHEIKH’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS

February 2009




THE SHEIKH’S REBELLIOUS MISTRESS


BY

SANDRA MARTON




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS the sort of December afternoon that touched Fifth Avenue with magic.

Dusk had not yet fallen but the streetlights had already blinked on, gilding the fat snowdrops that fell lazily from the sky. Windows glowed with honeyed warmth from the multimillion dollar condos that filled the high-rise buildings lining the fabled street. Across the way, Central Park glittered under its soft dusting of white.

It was enough to make even jaded New Yorkers smile but not the man who stood at a window sixteen stories above the scene.

Why would a man smile when he was consumed by cold rage?

Sheikh Salim al Taj, crown prince of the Kingdom of Senahdar, Lion of the Alhandra Desert and Guardian of his Nation, stood motionless, a Baccarat snifter of brandy clutched in his hand. A casual observer might have thought his pale blue eyes were fixed on the scene below. The truth was, he’d hardly noticed it.

His vision was turned inward. He was reliving what had happened five long months ago until a sudden flash of movement brought him back to the present.

It was a hawk.

For a moment, the wild creature seemed poised in midair. Then it dropped gracefully on to the parapet of the terrace beyond the window, clinging to it with razor-sharp talons as it had done so often these past months.

The hawk didn’t belong in the city. It certainly didn’t belong in these concrete canyons at this time of year but the bird, like Salim, was a survivor.

Salim felt some of his tension ease. He smiled, lifted his glass in silent salute, then drank deep of the amber liquid it held.

He was not a sentimentalist. Sentimentality was a weakness. He was, however, a man who admired courage, resolve and single-minded determination. The hawk embodied all those qualities. It had survived in this alien setting; hell, it had flourished.

So had he.

Perhaps the metaphor was self-indulgent. Still, it was impossible to avoid. Salim was many things, not all of them good as these last months had proven, but he was not given to avoidance. Reality had to be faced, no matter what the consequences.

Outside, on the parapet, the hawk ruffled its brown and amber feathers and fixed its blazing eyes on the park. Night would descend soon; the hawk was readying itself for its final hunt of the day.

Would the hunt be successful? Salim had no doubt that it would. The creature was a predator. A consummate hunter whose cool intent, when properly focused, spelled doom for its fleeing prey.

Another metaphor, Salim thought, and felt a muscle tic high in his cheek.

The hawk had appeared a year ago, soaring effortlessly over the snarled traffic, then landing on the parapet as Salim watched.

The sight had startled him.

He knew hawks well. He had raised them, trained them, flown them in the mountains and deserts of Senahdar. He knew their courage. Their independence. The elegant savagery that beat in their blood, no matter how calmly they learned to sit on a man’s fist.

Watching the bird, he’d felt a wrenching sorrow at what would surely be its fate. A wild creature could not survive here.

Wrong.

The hawk had claimed the elegant avenue and the park as its own, dominating them as it would have dominated the forests or deserts that surely should have been its home. Salim had gladly given over the terrace. There were two others—one on each floor of his triplex; he was more than willing to share ownership of one with his wild guest.

The hawk thrived on solitude and by trusting its own instincts. It would never let anything defeat it.

Salim’s smile faded.

Neither would he. He’d been made a fool of five months before and the insult would be dealt with, and soon. Lifting the brandy snifter to his lips, he let the last of the liquid’s fire sear his throat.

It still infuriated him to remember. How he had been lied to. How he had fallen for the oldest game in the world.

How the woman had humiliated him.

She had lied to him in the worst way possible. She had played a game in his arms, the kind he’d never believed he would fall victim to.

She had lied to him with her body.

Her sighs. Her moans. The little whispers that had driven him crazy.

Yes, oh, yes. Do that again. Touch me, there, Salim. Ah. Ah, like that. Like that. Just…yes. Your mouth. Your hands…

Damn it!

Just remembering turned him hard. Lies, all of it but still, he couldn’t forget the feel of her. All that silken heat. The sweetness of her mouth. The weight of her breasts in his hands.

None of it had been real. Her sexual appetite, yes. But her hunger for him—for him, not for what or who he was—had been a lie. She had deceived him, toyed with him, made him blind to the truth.

Made it possible for her to steal his honor.

How else to describe waking up one morning to discover that she was gone and with her, ten million dollars?

A tremor of pure rage shot through him. He turned his back to the window, crossed the elegant room to a wall-length teak cabinet. The bottle of Courvoisier stood where he’d left it; he unstoppered it and poured himself a second drink.

All right. Part of that was an overstatement. He had not actually awakened to find Grace gone. How could he, when they’d never spent the entire night together?

Salim frowned.

Well, once. Twice, perhaps. Not more than that, and those times he’d stayed the night because of the weather or the lateness of the hour. Never for any other reason. She had her apartment. He had his. That was the way he liked it, always, no matter how long an affair lasted. Too much togetherness, no matter how good the sex, invariably led to familiarity and familiarity led to boredom.

That last time, he’d left her bed on a Friday night, flown to the West Coast on business. And when he’d returned to New York a week later, she was gone. So was the ten million, embezzled from the investment firm he’d built into a worldwide power.

Embezzled from an account inaccessible to anyone but him.

Salim took a long drink of the brandy, turned and walked slowly to the wall of glass. The snow had eased; the hawk was still perched on the parapet, motionless except for the slight ruffling of its brown, gray and amber feathers.

Ten million dollars, none of it found or recovered. The woman who’d stolen it had not been found, either. But she would be. Oh, yes, she would be, and very soon.

It was all he’d been able to think about today, after the call from the private detective he’d hired after the police and the FBI had proven useless. It was all he could think about now, as he waited for the man to arrive.

Five months. Twenty weeks. One hundred and forty-something days…and now, finally, he would get what he hungered for, an old concept his ancestors would surely have approved.

Vengeance.

Another swallow of brandy. It left a trail of smooth flame as it went down his throat but the truth was, nothing could warm him. Not anymore. Not until he finished what had begun last summer, when he’d taken Grace Hudson as his mistress.

Nothing unusual in that.

He was male, he was in his sexual prime, he was—why be foolishly modest?—he was a man who’d never had to go searching for women. They’d discovered him at sixteen, back home in Senahdar; if he’d been without a woman at any time since, it had been by choice, not necessity.

It was his selection of Grace as his mistress that had been unusual.

The women he took as lovers were invariably beautiful. He especially liked petite brunettes. They were also invariably charming. Why shouldn’t a woman go out of her way to please a man? He was modern; he had been educated in the States but tradition was tradition and a woman who knew that it was important to cater to a man’s wishes was a woman capable of holding a man’s interest.

Grace had been none of those things.

She was tall. Five-eight, five-nine—still only up to his shoulder, even in the stiletto heels she favored, but there was no way one would describe her as “petite.”

Her hair was not dark—it was tawny. The first time he’d seen her, his fingers had ached to take the pins from it and let it down and when, finally, he had, she had reminded him of a magnificent lioness.

As for going out of her way to please a man…She didn’t go out of her way to please anyone. She was polite, well-spoken, but she was as direct as any man Salim had ever known. She had opinions on everything and never hesitated to state them.

She was a beautiful, enigmatic challenge. Not once had she sent out the signals women did when they were interested in a man.

Now, of course, he knew the reason. She’d been plotting from the start, cleverly baiting the trap. He hadn’t seen it. He’d only seen that she was different.

Salim’s jaw tightened.

Damned right, she was different.

She’d worked for him.

He never mixed business with pleasure. You didn’t work and play in the same place. If you did, it was a surefire prescription for trouble. He’d always known that.

An unexpected event had brought her into his life. His chief financial officer—a staid, almost dour bachelor with a comb-over, thick glasses and no sense of humor—had stumbled into a midlife crisis that involved a bottle blonde and a Porsche. One day, the man was at his desk. The next, he was living with Blondie in a Miami condo.

Everyone had laughed.

“Lost his marbles over a babe,” Salim had heard someone say. He’d chuckled right along with everyone else but the situation was serious. They needed a replacement, and quickly. Salim did what was logical, promoted the assistant CFO, Thomas Shipley, to the top job.

That left another hole in the organizational chart. Now his new CFO needed an assistant.

“Dominoes,” the new CFO said with an apologetic shrug, but Salim knew it was the truth. He told him to hire someone. Such a simple thing. Such a damned simple thing…

Hell. The brandy snifter was empty again. Salim went to the bar and refilled it. Where was the detective? Their appointment was for four-thirty. He looked at his watch. It was barely four. His impatience was getting to him.

Calm down, he told himself. He had waited this long; he could wait just a little longer.

Outside, the long darkness of the winter night was setting in; it was time to switch on the lights, but darkness better suited his mood.

Every detail of what had happened after he’d told his new CFO to hire an assistant remained vivid, including the moment two weeks later when Shipley stepped into his office.

“Good news,” he’d said. “I’ve found three candidates. Any of them would be an excellent choice.”

Salim was in the midst of a deal that involved a billion dollar takeover. He had no time for anything else.

“Why tell me?” he’d said brusquely. “Select one.”

Shipley had demurred. “I’m new,” he’d said, “and this assistant will be new, too. I’d rather not take complete responsibility, sir. I think you should make the final decision.”

Salim had grumbled, but he knew Shipley was right. Alhandra Investments was, to use American parlance, his baby. He had founded it; he ran it. He granted his people full authority but he always made it clear he was to be kept in the loop and the loop he was dangling now would require working closely with his new assistant CFO.

He met with the three candidates the next day. They all had excellent CVs but the résumé of one was outstanding.

There was only one drawback.

She was a woman.

A woman, as assistant CFO? He was not biased against women—of course, he wasn’t—but, really, how capable could a woman be when it came to the intricacies of corporate finance?

Extremely capable, as it turned out.

Grace Hudson had degrees from Cornell and Stanford. She had worked for two of the best firms on Wall Street. She was articulate, knowledgeable, and if she was also the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, what did that matter?

Her manner was polite but reserved. So was his. There was that thing about never mixing business with pleasure and, besides, she wasn’t his type.

The fact that the huskiness of her voice haunted his dreams that night, that he found himself wondering what she’d look like with that mass of tawny curls loose about her heart-shaped face, that during the interview he’d had one incredible instant wondering what she had on beneath her black Armani suit…

Not important, any of it. He told himself that, and he hired her.

Three months later, he bedded her.

It had been a Friday evening. They’d been working late, he offered her a ride home. She lived in Soho; he mentioned he’d been invited to a gallery showing in her neighborhood on Sunday. Would she like to go with him? He had not meant to make the suggestion but once he did, he told himself it was too late to rescind it. When she hesitated, he made a joke about how awful these things usually were and how she could save him from dying of boredom if she said “yes.”

She laughed, said well, okay, why not? They exchanged a polite good-night.

They were polite on Sunday, too, right up until the second he took her home. Then their eyes met and he knew he’d been kidding himself, that though he’d never touched her save for shaking her hand the day he’d hired her, he’d been dreaming of her, hungering for her for weeks.

Without warning, he’d caught her by the shoulders and gathered her into his arms.

“No,” she said, and then his mouth captured hers.

Her mouth was hot and sweet, her kisses as wild as his. It was as if he had never kissed a woman until that moment. The taste of her had been like a drug; the way her pupils widened until her eyes were pools of deepest black had made him want to drown in their depths.

“Salim,” she’d whispered as he framed her face with his hands, “Salim, we shouldn’t…”

His hands had slipped under her jacket, his fingertips grazing her nipples, and she’d made a little sound he’d never forget and a minute later he’d had her against the wall, her demure skirt pushed up to her hips, her lace panties torn aside and he was inside her, deep inside her, swallowing her cries with his mouth, moving, moving, claiming her as he had longed to do from the first and to hell with the fact that they were still in the hall outside her apartment and anyone could have come along to see them, to hell with right or wrong, to hell with propriety.

To hell with everything except the passion that had consumed them both.

She’d come in his arms and when they’d finally been able to breathe again, she’d stabbed her key into the lock and he’d carried her to her bedroom and made love to her again and again and again.

He’d made love to her for the next three months. Wherever he could. In his bed. In hers. In the back of his limo with the privacy partition drawn. In a little New England inn and once in his office—in his office, that was how she’d bewitched him because she had bewitched him, drawn him down and down into a sea of desire that blinded him to everything.

Three months into their affair, she’d disappeared.

So had the ten million dollars and whatever illusions he’d been fool enough to harbor.

The crystal glass shattered in Salim’s hand. Amber liquid splattered over the hardwood floor; shards of glass rained down. A trickle of blood welled in his palm and he yanked a pristine white linen handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, wrapped it around his hand and staunched the crimson flow.

“Damn it,” he snarled, his voice sharp in the silence of the penthouse.

At first, he’d turned his fury on Shipley. Hadn’t the man vetted her CV properly? But Shipley had and Salim finally knew where his rage should be directed.

At himself.

He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the world. For a woman’s wiles. Fallen for the lies, the scheming duplicity of a beautiful woman who knew how to use sex to blind a man to the truth…and why in hell was he going through the details again?

He knew them all too well, had gone over them more times than seemed possible, told them to the police, the FBI, the private investigator, endured the humiliation of seeing their sly looks when he had to say, yes, he had been involved with her, yes, they’d had an affair, yes, she’d had access to his home study, his desk, his papers, his computer…

No one could find her or the money.

Then, this morning, the P.I. had phoned.

“Your highness,” he’d said, “we have located Miss Hudson.”

Salim had taken a deep breath and arranged to meet the man. Here. At home. No one at the office talked about what had happened—none of his employees were fools—but he’d be damned if he’d discuss any of this at work.

Sudden movement caught his attention. The hawk sprang into the air; one beat of its powerful wings and it was above Fifth Avenue. Another, and it was silhouetted against the darkening sky over the park.

If the bird was going to make a successful takedown, it would have to do it now.

The intercom gave a polite buzz. Salim looked at his watch. The detective was early. That was fine. The sooner he had the information he needed, the better.

“Yes?” he said, lifting the intercom’s handset.

“A Mr. John Taggart to see you, sir.”

“Send him up.”

Salim stepped into the marble entryway, folded his arms and waited. Moments later, the doors of the private elevator slid open and Taggart stepped out. He held a slim black leather portfolio under his arm.

“Your highness.”

“Mr. Taggart.”

The men shook hands; Salim motioned Taggart to precede him into the living room where Taggart looked at the spilled drink, the shards of glass, then at Salim’s handkerchief-wrapped hand.

“An accident,” Salim said. “Nothing to be concerned about. Do you want to take off your coat?”

Taggart answered by unzipping the portfolio, taking out a sheaf of papers and giving them to Salim. On top of the papers was a photograph.

Salim felt the floor give a quick tilt beneath his feet.

“Grace Hudson,” Taggart said.

Salim nodded. As if he needed to be told. Of course it was Grace. She was standing on a street that might have been located in any city, wearing a suit and high heels and she looked guileless and innocent and, damn her to hell, she was neither.

“She’s living in San Francisco under the name Grace Hunter.”

Salim looked up. “She’s in California?”

“Yes, sir. Lives there. Works for a private bank. She’s their chief auditor.”

A step down from the assistant CFO of Alhandra Investments but then, Grace would have been unable to produce a letter of reference. Salim frowned. Not that she needed any. Ten million dollars, and his former mistress was working as an auditor?

“Hunter was her mother’s maiden name, and the job gives her a low profile. It’s a common enough pattern among smart thieves. Give it a year or two, she’ll head to Brazil or the Caribbean and start spending the money.”

Salim nodded. Grace was smart, all right. But not smart enough.

“How come the authorities couldn’t locate her?”

The P.I. shrugged. “They have a lot of urgent stuff on their plates.”

Salim looked at the photo again. Somehow, he’d expected her to look different. She didn’t. She was still tall, still slender, with eyes that were neither brown nor green but something in between. All that spectacular hair was, as always, pulled to the crown of her head and carefully knotted.

He could remember the feel of that hair. Silky. Soft. How it curled lightly around his fingers. How it tumbled down her back when he undid the pins, the way it kissed her shoulders and the sweet, rosy nipples of her uptilted breasts.

“Does she have a lover?”

His voice was rough; the question surprised him. He hadn’t known he was going to ask it. The answer didn’t matter but he was curious. He knew her sexual appetite. She was not a woman who would go long between men.

“I didn’t check for that.” Taggart gave a small smile. “Her boss seems pretty interested, though.”

A fist seemed to slam into Salim’s belly. “Meaning what?”

The investigator shrugged. “Sees her home some nights. And he’s taking her with him to a conference in Bali. They’ll be there a week.” Another little smile. “You know how it is, your highness. Good-looking woman, man notices—”

Yes. He knew. Damned right, he knew. And now he knew, too, why she was working at the bank in San Francisco.

“Can’t say I blame him, if you want my op—”

“I don’t pay you for your opinion, Taggart.”

The investigator swallowed hard. “No, sir. I didn’t mean—” He cleared his throat. “Everything you need is in that file. The lady’s address, the place where she works, even the name of the hotel in Bali where she and her boss…where that conference is being held.”

Salim nodded stiffly. Why blame the messenger for the message? That Taggart was perceptive enough to see the truth about Grace when he hadn’t was no one’s fault but his own.

He put his hand lightly on the detective’s shoulder and walked him toward the elevator.

“You’ve been most helpful.”

“Do you want me to alert the authorities, Sheikh Salim?”

“I’ll deal with this from now on.”

Taggart nodded. “If you’re going after her yourself, I can find out what kind of extradition arrangements we have with Bali.”

A perceptive man, indeed.

“Just send me your final bill—and thank you for all you’ve done.”

Taggart stepped into the elevator. Salim waited until the doors slid shut. Then he walked slowly through the living room to the window.

But why would he go after Grace himself? He had contacts at the State Department. They could bring her back; he would confront her once they did.

A blur of motion.

It was the hawk, plunging through the sky, talons extended toward a gray shape on the sidewalk. Its prey fluttered in the hawk’s grip as the bird soared upward. By the time the hawk landed on the parapet, the gray shape was still.

The hawk looked around with fierce intensity, then bent to its well-earned reward. It had done what it was bred to do.

Salim’s jaw tightened. And so would he.

He took his cell phone from his pocket, hit a speed-dial button. His pilot answered on the first ring.

“Sir?”

“How quickly can you ready the plane for a flight to Bali?”

“Bali,” the pilot said, as if Salim had asked about a flight to Vermont. “No problem, your highness. All I have to do is figure out the refueling stops and then file a flight plan.”

“Do it,” Salim commanded.

Then he snapped the phone shut, cast one last glance at the hawk and hurried from the room.


CHAPTER TWO

GRACE HUDSON prided herself on being well-traveled.

She had studied at universities that offered overseas academic programs and she’d participated in them. On scholarship, of course, because it had been tough enough working at places like Hamburger Heaven and The Sweater Stop to earn money to pay her regular tuition. But she was a good student—why be unnecessarily modest?—and so she’d spent six months studying in London and another six months studying in Paris by the time she was twenty-two.

Then she’d interviewed for a brokerage firm in New York, spent a couple of years there before moving on to another. Both companies had sent her abroad on business. London again, and Paris, and Brussels and Dublin and Moscow.

She was not new to foreign destinations.

But Bali? Bali, halfway around the globe? A place of beautiful beaches, brilliant seas, lush sunshine? When she’d first heard that was where she was going, she was amazed. She was new to her job. Was James Lipton the Fourth—her boss preferred using his full name—really going to give her such an incredible opportunity?

She’d looked at the brochure he’d dropped on her desk again.

Seventh Annual SOPAC-PBA Conference, it said. Inside was a heady list of speakers and workshops.

“Surely you know what SOPAC-PBA is, Miss Hunter,” Lipton had said in his usual cool tones.

Miss Hunter. The name still took her by surprise. She’d taken her mother’s maiden name after—after New York. The name was close enough to her real name to feel comfortable and she figured she’d be using it for a while.

Not that she was really worried about being found…

“Miss Hunter? Must I explain it to you?”

Grace had shaken her head. “No, Mr. Lipton. SOPAC-PBA is the acronym for the South Pacific Private Banking Association.”

“You can learn a great deal by attending this conference, Miss Hunter. Do you think you’re up to it?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Lipton nodded. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve decided to send you.”

What could she say to that? Nothing, as it turned out. Lipton answered the question himself.

“I am pleased with your work, Miss Hunter, and I’ve reason to believe our CFO might be leaving us soon. There’s the possibility you might be moving up. The conference is an excellent place to learn and network.”

Moving up. To a position she’d lost because she’d found out, all too late, she’d never really had it, that everything Salim had done had been for himself, for his own selfish needs…

“Miss Hunter?”

Grace had blinked. “Yes, Mr. Lipton?”

“Have your secretary make the arrangements for us both.”

“Both?”

“Of course. I’m attending as well. It’s an important event.”

Grace had her secretary arrange the details but Lipton had frowned over the results. Why a commercial flight when the company had an arrangement with a jet charter service? And the hotel rooms…Why had a regular room been reserved for him when he would need the amenities a suite would afford for private meetings and working dinners?

Grace apologized and said she would inform her secretary to make the necessary changes. Lipton said he would instruct his P.A. to handle matters herself.

Grace knew she’d lost points and promised herself she’d make up for it by making full use of the learning and networking opportunities in Bali. After all, a job she liked might be about to become one she knew she would love. And Bali… she’d always wanted to see it. Not alone. She’d wanted to see it with someone she cared for. With a lover. With…

She told herself she had to stop letting the past intrude on the present. She had a good job, there was the hint of a better one in the offing and she was lucky to get the chance to attend such a high-powered conference.

The sole drawback was that she’d have to spend the best part of a week with James Lipton the Fourth. He was occasionally brusque but she could handle that. There was something about him she just didn’t like. Not his patrician air, not his attitude of removal. It was something else, something darker, something evil.

Which was ridiculous.

Lipton was a pillar of the community. There was an arts center named after him and a stadium. His wife was on the boards of half a dozen charities.

By the time she buckled her seat belt on the chartered jet, Grace had mentally called herself every kind of fool. She didn’t have to like the man, she had only to respect his position as her employer.

That was it… At least, that was it until the plane was in the air.

It turned out that James Lipton the Fourth, that pillar of the community, wasn’t a pillar at all. He belonged at the bottom of its most rancid garbage dump. To call him a sleazebag was being generous.

Twenty minutes after leaving San Francisco, the pilot announced they’d reached cruising altitude and her dipped-in-starch employer morphed into a monster.

They were seated side by side. He had suggested the arrangement. “So we can go over some notes,” he’d said.

Logical enough.

What was not logical was the moment he leaned into her, his shoulder against hers, and said that if she grew weary during the flight, she could use the private bedroom in the rear of the plane.

“Thank you, sir, but—”

“With me in it, of course,” he added.

Or had he?

At first, it seemed impossible. Grace decided she’d misunderstood him. Maybe the whine of the engines had distorted his words. So, she didn’t reply.

But there was no way to misunderstand the fingers that drifted across her breast when he reached for a book, the hand that dropped on her thigh when he asked about a report, the lascivious flick of his disgustingly wet tongue across his disgustingly wet lips when she caught him watching her.

Still, Grace tried to convince herself her imagination was playing tricks. That might easily happen to a woman who had a decidedly jaundiced opinion of men.

She played it safe.

She retreated into work. Or pseudo-work. She stared at her laptop’s screen until she was afraid her eyes would cross. When Lipton finally left her side to use the toilet, she slammed down the cover of her computer, scurried across the aisle to a single leather seat, put her head back, closed her eyes and pretended to sleep until the pilot announced they were ten minutes from landing, which they did at four in the afternoon.

By four-fifteen, Grace knew she hadn’t misunderstood anything. The pillar of the community had feet of clay. A bad metaphor but it worked.

She had been duped.

Lipton had not brought her here to learn and network. He’d brought her here so he could seduce her, and that was as likely to happen as snow falling from the perfect Balinese sky.

A bright pink golf cart collected them at the airstrip. Lipton insisted on helping her into the cart; one of his hands brushed lightly over her buttocks as he did.

“Oops,” he said, with his I-Am-A-Trustworthy-Banker smile.

Bull, she thought coldly…and then she thought, maybe it really had been an accident. Maybe her imagination was working overtime. How could Lipton be doing any of what she thought he was doing? The driver of the cart was right there, smiling politely. She had worked for Lipton all these months, spent late evenings poring over files and accounts with him and he’d behaved like a gentleman.

Was she letting the actions of the Don Juan of Senahdar color her thoughts? No. She hated Salim now; she always would, but until that Sunday evening they’d gone into each other’s arms, he’d never done so much as touch her. No matter what else he was—unfeeling, arrogant, heartless—he would never have pawed a woman like this.

The golf cart deposited them at the hotel.

The first thing she saw when they entered the atrium lobby was a big sign that said Welcome SOPAC-PBA.

The second was a huge glass aviary filled with small, vividly colored birds.

And then she looked down and saw Lipton’s arm as it snaked around her waist, his hand coming to rest just beneath her breast. She jerked away; his hand settled more firmly on her.

“Reception desk’s right over there,” he said briskly.

Grace looked at her boss. His eyes were on the desk, not her. It was as if he and the hand were not connected. What now? Struggle? Pull away? No time to do either. They reached the desk and Grace deftly sidestepped. Lipton’s hand fell to his side.

The clerk flashed a toothy smile. Not at her. At her escort.

“Sir?”

“James Lipton the Fourth,” Lipton said briskly.

“Of course. Mr. Lipton. Delighted to have you with us, sir. Welcome to Bali.”

Still no acknowledgment of Grace, but why would there be? Lipton was the big attraction. She was invisible until he’d been dealt with. That was the way it went. Hadn’t she seen it happen enough when she was with—with her prior employer?

Lipton didn’t bother with niceties. “I take it my suite is ready?”

“Certainly, sir. If you’d be good enough to sign here… Excellent. Thank you.” The clerk snapped his fingers. A boy dressed in a brightly flowered shirt and khaki shorts came running. “Wayan. Escort our guests to the Presidential Suite.”

The boy reached for their luggage. Lipton reached for Grace. Grace did another quick sidestep.

“My name is Hud— My name is Hunter,” she said pleasantly. “Grace Hunter. I have a reservation of my own.”

“Nonsense,” Lipton said, as if Grace weren’t there. “Miss Hunter is my assistant. She will share my suite.”

“I’m not your assistant,” Grace said. “I’m the chief auditor of your bank.”

What a stupid thing to say. The expression on the clerk’s face said as much.

“I mean,” she said carefully, “there’s been an error. I arranged for—”

“Grace.” Lipton spoke softly, but there was no mistaking the steel in his voice. “We are here on business. I have reserved a two bedroom, two bath suite. It has a dining room, a sitting room—all we’ll require so we can confer whenever necessary and meet with other attendees in complete privacy. Do you have a problem with that?”

He made it sound so reasonable but yes, she had a problem…

“Grace?”

Lipton’s eyes were as cold as his tone. What now? Make a scene in front of the bright-eyed desk clerk? Find a way to get back to San Francisco on her own? Lose the job it had taken her two months to land without a letter of reference?

No one knew better than she what it was like to be at the mercy of a ruthless, powerful man.

“Grace? I asked if you had a problem assisting me on this trip.”

She looked at him. His expression was disdainful, his eyes icy. Grace took a deep breath.

“Not at all,” she said politely. “Not when you explain it so well.”

Lipton smiled. She was certain there were sharks with fewer teeth.

They followed the bellman to a suite that took up half the top floor. The boy pointed out the white sand beach, the view of the sea, the sixty-inch plasma TV, the Waterford chandeliers, the Gauguin prints on the walls.

The only things that mattered to Grace were that her bathroom was accessible only through her bedroom and that there was a lock on the bedroom door.

She secured it the second the boy left and, for two days, un-did it only when she was ready to leave the suite. She ignored Lipton’s suggestions she join him for drinks. For dinner. For breakfast. For anything and everything unless it involved other people. He made no comment, but the tension between them had grown palpable and she suspected he wasn’t going to let things go on this way much longer.

But then, she wasn’t going to give him a choice. He’d behave. He’d admit defeat.

That was possible, wasn’t it? Maybe she was overreacting.

Grace gave an unladylike snort.

Powerful men, men who believed they owned the world, never admitted defeat. How could she have let herself be sucked into a situation like this? She’d been through this dance before.

The great career opportunity. The boss who seemed cold and reserved but began to unbend after a few after-hours meetings that certainly appeared to be strictly business, followed by a pleasant afternoon you couldn’t even call a date. And then—and then—

A soft moan of despair rose in her throat.

“Liar,” she whispered as she sank down on the edge of the bed. “Liar, liar, liar.”

Grace took a deep, shuddering breath.

This wasn’t the same at all.

She had never wanted Lipton’s mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts, his body hard against hers. Never dreamed the kind of dreams she hadn’t even known women had until she’d met one man, one gorgeous, exciting man. Until she’d gone to work for Salim al Taj and broken every rule she believed in by falling into his arms, his bed, by becoming his lover, becoming the kind of woman she knew he would never want.

Why think about that now? Months had gone by. Their affair had ended just as it had started, with a suddenness that still shocked her. Not that she gave a damn. At least she’d salvaged her pride. He had tried to take it from her, but she’d put a stop to that, leaving him before he could leave her.

“Grace?” The rap at the door was sharp and imperious. So was Lipton’s voice. “Grace. We have an appointment at eight.” The doorknob rattled. “And I’m tired of this nonsense! There is no reason for this door to be locked.”

There was every reason, just as there was every reason to quit this job as soon as they were back in the States. She’d find something else, even if it meant waiting on tables or clerking in a store. Both were honest ways to make a living and the people you dealt with weren’t scum like her boss had turned out to be.

“Damn it, Grace, come out of that room at once!”

Grace smoothed the skirt of her pale green silk dress, picked up her purse, went to the door and opened it.

Her boss’s expression was grim but his eyes, as they swept over her, glittered with heat. A tremor of fear went through her.

Something was going to happen tonight. She could feel it.

But it would not be what Lipton was planning.

No matter what it took, it would not be that.

The appointment was legitimate enough.

Drinks with a few conference attendees in the hotel’s lush gardens. Pleasant small talk, laughter, interspersed with discussions about the meetings they’d all attended during the day.

But Lipton made it more than that.

He stood as close to her as possible, his body brushing hers. His hand lay in the small of her back. His fingers drifted across hers when he handed her a drink she hadn’t asked for and didn’t want. He said “us” and “we” and used her name in a way that somehow lent it intimacy.

And, inevitably, people noticed. She saw the coolly assessing glances of the men, the way the women’s eyes narrowed.

She sought a moment’s solace in the ladies’ room but when she was at the sink, washing her hands, one of the women in the little group came in and stood at the mirror beside her. Their eyes met in the glass.

“So,” the woman said, with a little smile, “did you know he’s married?”

“Did I know who is married?” Grace said, foolishly resorting to ignorance.

“Your, um, your boss,” the woman purred, and gave a little laugh. “Perhaps you have hopes but, sweetie, trust me, it’s not going anywhere. Stop playing coy and enjoy your stay here, if you know what I mean.”

Grace turned off the water. The attendant pressed a soft linen towel into her hands.

“I know precisely what you mean,” Grace said, willing herself to sound cool and calm when her heart was galloping. “And there’s nothing about my stay here to enjoy, most especially not the company.”

It was, she knew, a pathetic rejoinder but she wasn’t one of those people who could turn clever when she was upset. She’d proven that in New York, running instead of facing her lover when she realized he was weary of her, that he was about to dump her from her job and his life with as little warning as you’d give a fly before you swatted it.

Her throat constricted.

“There you are.” Lipton’s hand closed around her arm. He smiled. His touch, his smile, spoke volumes. She could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Grace, you naughty girl, you forgot to remind me about the presentation I’m making in the morning.”

“I did remind you,” she said quietly. “Twice.”

“Twice.” Lipton grinned at the little group gathered around them. “She reminded me twice.” His hand moved from her arm to her nape, his fingers curling around it. “Who would think a girl who looks like this would be concerned about her employer’s calendar?”

Silence, embarrassed laughter and a couple of leering smiles greeted his slurred words. Grace spoke quietly.

“Let go of me.”

“Now, darling, don’t be silly. We’re all friends here.”

“Mr. Lipton. I said—”

“I heard you, darling. Now you hear me. I’m afraid we’re going to have to pass on dinner with these charming people, go back to our suite and work on that speech.” He chuckled. “Among other things.”

Grace tried to move away from him. His hand clasped her nape more tightly.

One of the men cleared his throat. “I say, Lipton…”

“You say what?” Lipton challenged.

The man gave Grace a quick glance, then looked away. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

The people in the group began slipping away until, finally, Grace and her employer were alone.

“Let’s go,” he said, all his pretend charm gone.

“Damn you,” Grace said, “get away from me. If you don’t—”

“If I don’t, what?” Lipton gave that shark’s grin. “What will you do, Grace? Call for help? Make a fool of yourself in front of everyone? Lose not just your job with me but the chance of any job in finance?” Another grin. “Come on, darling, tell me exactly what it is you’ll do if I don’t get away from you.”

“She won’t have to do a thing,” a male voice said. “I’ll do it for her, Lipton, and when I’m finished, you’ll be lucky if the doctors can put you back together again.”

Lipton’s hand dropped like a stone. Grace didn’t move. Her heart was racing again. She knew that voice. Low. Masculine. Taut with command and, just now, icy with rage. God, yes. She knew that voice. Knew the man it belonged to.

She turned slowly and saw him. Tall. Dark-haired. Broad-shouldered. Eyes the palest shade of blue she had ever seen, nose straight as a blade, mouth firm, jaw clenched…

She knew him, all right.

This was the man who had broken her heart.

This was the crown prince of Senahdar.

This was the man she hated.


CHAPTER THREE

GRACE was looking at him as if he were an apparition.

Salim could hardly blame her.

She’d stolen a fortune, fled, taken a new name to cover her tracks. The last thing she’d expect would be a ghost from her past turning up in Bali. Her shock was a glorious thing to see, even though he’d intended their meeting to be more private.

He’d wanted to come upon her when she was alone. Vulnerable. At night, in her room. He’d planned to bribe a maid to let him enter it while Grace was at dinner.

He’d amused himself during the long flight, imagining how the scene would play.

Darkness outside the windows. Darkness in her room. He, waiting motionless. The snick of her key card in the lock, the door swinging open, then closing behind her. Before she could touch the light switch, he’d speak her name.

“Grace.”

She would cry out and he would turn on a lamp so he could see the shock in her eyes. And then he would…

What?

What would he do, when they were alone in her room, she terrified, he triumphant? He’d spent hours thinking about it.

Imagined himself going toward her, telling her that he was taking her back to the States to face charges of embezzlement.

Imagined her panic at that news…and her reaction when he said that first, she was going to pay a very private penance.

He would tell her she had to strip for him, take off the businesslike suit or dress, the surprisingly delicate bits of silk she always wore beneath. Take those off, too, until she was naked. Until he could see the roundness of her breasts, the soft pink blush of her nipples, her flat belly and the delicate dark gold curls between her thighs.

“Now undress me,” he’d say, and she would, undoing his tie, his shirt, his trousers, her hands moving over him with the delicacy of butterfly wings. And when they were both naked, he would make her do all those things with her hands and mouth and body she had once claimed she did out of desire when the truth was, her desire had been not for his kisses, his arms, his possession but for ten million dollars of his money.

“Who do you think you are?”

Lipton’s voice was sharp with aristocratic demand. For a minute, Salim had forgotten him. He knew the man by reputation. James Lipton the third or fourth or some such inane thing, a principled banker, an unprincipled seducer of young women. Interesting, that Lipton and Grace should have found each other.

Who would seduce whom?

“I asked you a question,” Lipton said with presumptive authority. “Who are you? And how dare you intrude on a private conversation?”

“No,” Grace said in a tremulous voice. She put her hand on Lipton’s arm. “Mr. Lipton…”

“Mr. Lipton.” Salim’s lip curled. “Is that how you’re playing it? Are you the terrified innocent this time, Grace? Did I interrupt the big seduction scene as opposed to saving you from the unwanted attention of a predator?”

“What did you call me?” Lipton sputtered.

“Salim. Please…”

Grace’s boss swung toward her. “You know this man?”

“So many questions,” Salim said coldly, his eyes locked on his adversary’s. “Suppose we take them one at a time. What am I doing here? That’s easy. I am here on business. Does your charming companion know me?” An icy smile. “She knows me very well. Intimately, one might say.”

Grace felt her face heat.

“As for what I called you… I said you were a predator, Lipton, which might prove quite interesting, considering that the lady you’ve targeted bears the same distinction.” He smiled tightly. “Which makes me wonder if her reaction to your pathetic attempts at seduction were real, or was she acting?”

It was an insult, but Grace knew it was also a question. All she had to do was tell Salim he had misinterpreted what he’d seen. She’d get rid of him, all right—and then she’d be trapped, alone, with her boss.

“As for who I am…” Another tight smile lifted the corners of Salim’s lips. “My name is Salim al Taj.”

No title. No “sheikh” or “prince.” It wasn’t necessary and her former lover knew it. Grace watched the color drain from Lipton’s haughty face. A moment ago, he’d been puffed up with self-importance. Now, he looked terrified.

There was a time knowing her lover had such power would have thrilled her most basic female instincts. Now, it made her shudder.

“You mean—you mean you’re the head of Alhandra Investments? You’re the sheikh? The crown prince of Senahdar?”

“I see you’ve heard of me,” Salim said with icy sarcasm.

Lipton swallowed hard. “Your majesty. Your highness. Sir. I—I beg your pardon. I had no idea the lady and you were—that the lady was— If I had known…”

“We are not,” Grace said desperately, looking from one man to the other. “I mean, I am not—the sheikh and I are not—” What was that old saying? she thought frantically. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

“Grace?”

She looked up at Salim. His pale blue eyes were cold; his smile made her feel cold but what choice did she really have?

“Salim and I,” she told Lipton. “Salim and I are—are—”

Salim’s arm curved around her waist.

“A lover’s quarrel,” he said dismissively. His sharp gaze met Grace’s. “Isn’t that right, habiba, or did I get it wrong? Perhaps you prefer to see me walk away.”

Once, she’d have melted at the soft term of endearment. Now his tone gave it a twist that all but turned it into an obscenity.

“Crunch time, sweetheart,” Salim said softly. “Make a decision and do it quickly.”

A decision, she thought, and bit back a hysterical laugh. Send Salim away and be trapped with Lipton? She had no illusions about what he wanted.

She had no illusions about what Salim wanted, either.

Revenge.

A man like him wouldn’t deal well with a dented ego. He was furious that she had left him without a word of explanation and, even worse, that she’d left him before he could leave her.

His arm tightened around her. “Well? Are you coming with me or shall I leave you here?”

He sounded like a man who knew a woman would never reject him, his question asked with almost lazy ease, but the pressure of his hand warned his patience was wearing thin. Logic told her she could only come to one decision. If she let Lipton see her go off with Salim, she wouldn’t have to fear what he might try to do later, when they were alone again.

Grace took a deep breath. “Buy me a drink,” she said brightly, as if Salim’s description of things between them were true, “and we’ll talk about old times.”

Salim’s eyes glittered. Old times, indeed.

He led her away from the lights of the hotel to a shell-strewn path that led to the beach. He had not expected her to make a decision that quickly. Perhaps the scene he’d stumbled across had actually been what it seemed: a pig of a man hitting on a woman who wanted no part of him. That had certainly been his initial reaction; it was why he’d stopped Lipton, why he wished to hell the man had come at him. He’d have taught him that a man should not treat a woman that way, any woman, even a liar and a cheat like Grace.

His desire to pound a fist into Lipton’s gut had come from something far less sophisticated.

Mine, he had thought when he had seen Grace with another man’s hands on her. He had reacted as any man would, seeing a woman he’d once called his with someone else touching her. That shot of masculine testosterone was not something one could control. It was built into male DNA; it wasn’t about Grace in particular or who could or could not have her.

He didn’t gave a damn who she seduced or who she slept with. All he cared about was getting her off this island and back to the States.

The sole question was how best to do it. He was prepared to use force, if he had to, but only as a last resort. He knew nothing of extradition arrangements between Bali and the U.S.A.; it had probably been foolish not to let Taggart check but he’d been blind to everything but getting here, finding this woman…

“Salim.”

Finding her and making her pay for what she had done.

“Salim!”

Did she think she could stop him? That he’d lead her away from Lipton and release her? There wasn’t a way in hell he’d do that. She was a thief. As for the rest, the fact that she’d left him…Yes, that bothered him. Why wouldn’t it? Women came and went in a man’s life but the time of leaving was up to the man. That was just how it was. How Nature intended it. Ending an affair was a man’s prerogative, but that was not what this was all about.

“Are you deaf?” Grace demanded, trying to twist free of his encircling arm. “Let go of me!”

“Stop complaining,” he growled, “and be grateful I didn’t tell your would-be lover the truth about you.”

“He’s not my would-be lover, and what you know of truth could fit into a thimble!”

He spun her toward him so suddenly that she teetered on her spiked heels. His hands bit into her shoulders. To steady her? To let out some of his rage? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way the moonlight cast an ivory glow over her skin, the way her eyes glittered, her lips trembled.

He’d expected to find her… What? Looking like the criminal she was? Pale? Desperate? Driven? Instead she looked no different than when she had been his. Beautiful. Elegant. Innocent, and wasn’t that a fine choice of words to use for such a woman?

What she had done to him had truly meant nothing to her. If anything, she was lovelier than ever, or was it only that his dreams of her were no match for the reality?

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He barked a laugh. “Like what, habiba? How, exactly, is one supposed to look at a fugitive?”

Oh, the expression on her face was priceless! Stunned. Horrified. And then—and then, by Ishtar, was that a smile? Was she laughing? At him? Did she dare laugh at him?

Salim’s grip on her tightened as he lifted her to her toes. “What are you laughing at?”

“You’re hurting me!”

“Answer the question. What do you find so amusing?”

“You,” Grace snapped. “You and that—that supersized ego.”

“You want to discuss egos, habiba? How about yours? Did you really think you’d cover your trail so well that I wouldn’t find you?”

“I didn’t cover anything!”

“Really? Since when is your name Grace Hunter?”

“Since I figured out that I didn’t want you finding me. Not that I really thought you’d even try. I mean, why would you give a damn that I’d decided our relationship had run its course?” She tossed her head, a gesture of defiance he remembered all too well. “You just didn’t like me being the one who made the first move.”

He hadn’t liked it, not one bit. But that wasn’t why he’d looked for her. He’d had ten million reasons to find her, and what she’d called a relationship was definitely not one of them.

“Leaving something out, aren’t you, darling?” he said, his tone silken.

“Not a thing.” She raised her chin. “Our affair ended. I knew it and so did you. What did I leave out?”

Salim’s mouth thinned. He should have expected she’d react like this. Grace was not stupid. There was no way she would admit to the embezzlement and he wasn’t a fool. This was not a bad TV movie; she would not blurt out the truth if he insisted on it.

“You left out the part where I find you and take you back to New York.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that why you came here?”

“Did you think I came to be bored out of my mind at a conference?”

“But—but why would you want to take me to New York?”

“That’s fine, Grace. Keep playing games.” Salim tugged her toward him. She struggled but he was too tall, too big, too powerful. Her struggles got her nowhere except exactly where he’d wanted her, pressed tightly against him. “But they won’t work. How many times do you think you can make a fool of the same man?”

“What are you talking about? Why would you think I’d agree to go back with you?”

“Who said anything about agreement?” His voice was low and dangerous. “You will go with me and face the consequences of your actions because it is what I demand, habiba.”

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Maybe he had.

Holding her like this, so close against him, brought back far too many memories.

The feel of her in his arms. The softness of her breasts against his chest. The delicate flare of her hips. Even the remembered floral scent that was woman and Grace, a scent that brought back images of her moving beneath him, her skin heated by passion as he cupped her breasts, drew the pale pink nipples into his mouth…

“Don’t,” she whispered, and he realized he’d turned hard as stone, that his erection was pressed against her belly…

That she was looking up at him in a way that told him all he needed to know.

“Don’t,” she said again, and he cupped her face in one hand.

“Don’t what, habiba?” he said thickly, and he stopped thinking, bent his head and sought her mouth.

In a second, in a heartbeat, she was his again.

Her lips parted under his. Her breath whispered against his mouth. Her hands rose, caught his dinner jacket, curled into the lapels as she rose to him.

Salim groaned. Grasped her skirt. Shoved it high on her thighs. Grace whispered something, pressed herself closer, whimpered as he slid his hand up her legs, between her thighs, cupped her, felt the sweet moisture of her arousal.

She was his. His, his, his…

What in hell was he doing?

Salim cursed, caught Grace by the shoulders and thrust her from him. She swayed unsteadily. Her dark lashes lifted. Her eyes had the blurred look of a woman swept away by desire, but he knew better. He had been the one in the raw clutches of desire; she had been the one who’d planned the scene.

“Damn you,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Do you really think that’s going to work again?”

She stared at him, shook her head as if to clear it. Oh, she was good!

“What did you say?”

“You heard me. It won’t work, habiba. I’m on to the game.”

Her mouth trembled. She looked devastated. He fought back the stupid desire to take her in his arms again. Just as well. A second later, she was all cool composure. The vulnerable waif had been replaced by the real woman. He had to give her points for quick recovery.

“And so am I, Sheikh Salim. You’ve come all this distance for nothing. I am not going back to New York.”

He smiled. “Really.”

“I am not going to New York, and I have no intention of prolonging this discussion.”

She turned on her heel and strode away. He waited, then called her name.

“Grace.”

She didn’t pause. Salim raised his voice.

“You have no choice, habiba. You’re finished here.”

That did the trick. She stopped walking and swung toward him.

“Ah,” he said softly, “just look at your face, darling. Such an expression of shock. Really, though, what would you expect? Did you play Lipton along? Did you promise more than you intended to deliver? Is that what that little scene was all about?”

“How dare you say such a thing to me?”

“Maybe not. Maybe he really was hitting on you.” Salim walked to where she stood, put his hand under her chin and jerked her head up. “But why should I care? The point is, I won’t have to lift a finger to get you onto my plane and off this island now. You’re in trouble, Grace. He’s going to get even, either by using his influence against you…” His face lowered to hers. “Or by waiting for you at the hotel. He’ll be all over you the minute he gets you alone.”

Grace went very still. “No. He won’t do anything. He’s afraid of you.”

“I humiliated him. There’s a difference. He’ll want to get even and if you walk away from me and go back to him, he’ll figure I’m done with you. That will put him back in the game.”

“You’re despicable,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“I’m honest, habiba. I know how men are. Use your head,” Salim said, his tone sharpening. “Do you really think he’s going to pretend this didn’t happen? His behavior with you, your reaction, my interference. He can’t take it out on me, but he won’t have to. He’ll have you.”

Tears shone in her eyes; one traced a path down her cheek. Salim fought the desire to gather her to him and comfort her. Only a fool would do that. Grace was an actress. A siren. Who knew that better than he?

“He won’t have me,” she said quickly. “I’m going back to the hotel, not to him.”

“It’s the same thing. You’re sharing his room.”

“His suite,” she said, even more quickly. “A company suite. I didn’t know anything about it until…” Grace clamped her lips together. Why was she explaining anything to Salim? Why was she letting him see her fear? See it? He was building on it. He didn’t give a damn about her. He only wanted her acquiescence but then, there was nothing new in that. He was a man who always wanted things done his way.

And, right now, he was doing whatever it took to make that happen. Her boss was a vile human being but Salim was trying to convince her the man was a monster. Well, it wasn’t going to work, she thought, and took a steadying breath.

“Let go of me,” she said coolly.

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand fell to his side.

“Nicely done,” she said with a little smile. “You almost had me in a panic. Sorry, but it won’t work. Lipton’s a pig, but there’s not a woman alive who can’t handle a pig on her own.”

“You’re always so sure of yourself, habiba. This time, though, you may be making a mistake. Just in case you are…” Salim took his key card from his pocket and tossed it to her. Grace caught it out of reflex. “I have one of the villas on the beach. Number 916.”

“I wouldn’t come to you if hell froze over.”

Such a pathetic rejoinder, but it was the best she could manage. Head high, she turned and made her way up the path toward the gardens. Was Salim watching her? She wanted to look over her shoulder to find out, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

What a cold-hearted bastard!

She’d always known that about him; she’d just refused to admit it. She’d told herself his arrogance was actually self-confidence. It wasn’t. Only an arrogant man with an overblown ego would come around the world just to prove that a woman couldn’t leave him until he was good and ready for it to happen.

That he actually believed she would fly to New York with him, that he saw her as a fugitive for leaving him…

Laughable, all of it.

Grace’s steps slowed as she entered the garden.

If it was laughable, why had she let him kiss her? Why had she kissed him back? Why had her foolish heart wished, even for a moment, that he had come for her because he needed her?

Stupid to even think such a thing. Salim didn’t need anyone. What he understood was passion. How to touch a woman so the most intimate part of her wept for his possession. How to make her beg for release.

And he knew how to respond. She didn’t want to remember, but she did.

His hard-muscled body, taut and powerful against hers. His shudder of delight when she caressed him, his soft groan when she used her tongue, her lips to pleasure him. The incredible moment when he’d part her thighs, sink deep, deep inside her.

And yet, there were times she’d had the feeling he was there physically but not emotionally, that he’d kept a part of himself locked away…

“There you are.”

She jumped as Lipton stepped out of the shadows. He caught her wrist, his fingers digging deep into the soft inner flesh.

“What happened, Grace? Didn’t the reconciliation go well?”

Grace’s heart was racing. It was difficult to pretend she wasn’t frightened but she knew it was what she had to do.

“Let go of me,” she said quietly.

“Or is it that the mighty sheikh only wanted a quickie on the beach? You’ll find I’m not like that. I believe in hours of pleasure, Grace. Some women find it excessive, but I’m sure you won’t be one of them.”

“Get this through your head,” she hissed. “I am not going to sleep with you.”

“I hope not. Sleeping isn’t what I have in mind.”

Grace used the only ace in the deck. She didn’t want to; falling back on Salim’s name made her feel helpless but she couldn’t see another way out.

“The sheikh will kill you if you touch me.”

Lipton smiled. “He’s finished with you, Grace. I don’t see a problem.”

His fingers moved to her upper arm; she felt their bite and she stifled a moan. What he was doing was incredibly painful, but she knew she’d sooner pass out from it than ask for mercy.

“You see, Grace, if he was a real threat to you and me—to our relationship…”

“We don’t have a relationship!”

“Of course we do, and wait until you see how exciting it’s going to be.” Lipton leaned toward her; his breath, whiskey-laden before, was soaked with it now. “As I was saying, if your ex was a real threat, he’d have kept you for the night instead of taking you outside and then sending you packing.”

“Let go of me or—”

“He did,” Lipton said with glee. “Send you packing. Poor Grace. Things just didn’t work out for you.”

“Listen to me,” Grace said. “If you think I’m afraid to make a scene—”

“That’s exactly what I think, and I’m right. You don’t want everyone to know what you’ve done, Grace. How you led me on. How you said you wanted to sleep with me.” His fingers dug deeper into the tender muscle of her biceps; the pain sent nausea roiling in her belly. “Because if I told people that, the only job you’d be able to get in finance would be one that involved standing behind a cash register and saying ‘Do you want fries with that?’”

Grace blinked. Then she laughed. She couldn’t help it. Hadn’t Hollywood once made movies like this? Cruel villains, helpless heroines…

Her laugh became a soft cry of pain as Lipton’s fingers clamped harder on her arm.

“I’m going to have another drink with my friends while you go to my bedroom and make yourself ready for me. I’ll be half an hour, not more, and when I open the door, you’d damned well better make this trip I paid for as well as tonight’s humiliation worth my while.”

“No. No! You’ll never touch me. You’ll never—”

Lipton backhanded her. Grace staggered. He came at her again and she summoned up the long-ago advice of her high school judo instructor.

A woman’s knee makes an excellent weapon.

She moved quickly. Lipton grunted, gagged and fell back.

And Grace turned and ran.


CHAPTER FOUR

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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