Sheikh Without a Heart. Sandra Marton

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.

      “Is it really that difficult to tell me who you are?”

      He could almost hear her considering his request. Then she tossed her head.

      “Rachel. Rachel Donnelly.”

      “Well, Rachel Donnelly, I am Karim.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Perhaps Rami mentioned me.”

      Rachel struggled to hide her distress.

      Her unwanted visitor had confirmed her worst fear.

      Rami had, indeed, mentioned Karim. Not to her. He’d never said more than “hello” and “goodbye” to her—unless you counted the times he’d brushed past her and whispered how much he wanted to take her to bed.

      Suki had told her all about Rami’s brother.

      Her sister had hated him, sight unseen.

      Karim, Suki said, was the reason Rami had no money, the reason he would never be treated properly by their father, the King.

      It was all because of him.

      Karim.

      Karim the Greedy. Karim the Arrogant. Karim the Prince, who had deliberately driven a wedge between Rami and his father. Karim the Prince, with no concern for anyone but himself, no greater wish than to stop anyone else from possibly inheriting even a piece of their father’s fortune.

      Karim, the Sheikh with no heart.

      Rachel had not paid much attention to any of it until Rami and then Suki had taken off.

      Rami had left first. No warning, no goodbye. One day he was here and the next he and his things were gone.

      Suki, no surprise, had hung in as long as she had to. And when it had been okay for her to take off, she had.

      All she’d left behind was a stack of unwashed clothes, a wisp of cheap perfume—

      And the one thing that had never mattered to Rami or even Suki but only to Rachel.

      After that, Rachel had begun to think about the man she’d never laid eyes on.

      About what he knew. Or didn’t know. About how he’d react if he ever learned of what Suki had left behind.

      Still, she’d never expected him to turn up on her doorstep without warning.

      From all Rami had told Suki, his brother traveled with a staff of sycophants and bodyguards … but here he was.

      Alone.

      And treating her with barely concealed contempt when he wasn’t looking at her with lust in his wintry eyes.

      Rachel