Desert Hearts. Sandra Marton

from another seat and draped it over her lap.

      She was cold. And, yes, she was hungry. But she didn’t want the Sheikh’s food.

      What she wanted was to know his next move.

      A stop at a law office or a laboratory, at this hour of the night?

      She didn’t think so.

      She thought about what she’d heard him say. “Suite.” “Accommodations for an infant.”

      He was making hotel arrangements.

      A suite for Ethan and her. A gilded cage where he could keep them prisoner while he arranged for that damned DNA test.

      Until this minute she hadn’t had time to think about the test. Or tests. What would testing involve?

      Some of Rami’s DNA, obviously. Easy enough to come by a strand of hair, she supposed, for a brother.

      What if he wanted a DNA sample from her? She couldn’t imagine why he would. He’d never questioned whether or not she was Ethan’s mother, but what if he did? She knew little about DNA tests, only what she’d picked up from television and movies. Was her DNA the same as Suki’s? Was it at least similar enough to establish the baby as hers?

      What if it wasn’t?

      Bad enough that the test would confirm Rami as his father, but if it didn’t confirm her as his mother—

      She couldn’t wait to find out.

      She had to run. She’d failed the first time. But she wouldn’t fail again.

      She’d be as devious as her enemy.

      He was putting her in a hotel. He wouldn’t leave her on her own; he’d leave her with watchers. Flunkies to make sure she stayed put like an obedient dog.

      Oh, she could read him like a book. But she had the one thing he didn’t.

      Street-smarts.

      If he left a guy in her suite, she’d put on an act of desperation.

      I need diapers right away, she’d say. The baby’s made an awful mess!

      That would get her watcher out the door.

      And she’d take Ethan and run. Not to the lobby, because the Sheikh might have somebody there, too.

      No problem. She’d worked in enough hotels to know there were other ways out. Fire exits. Delivery entrances. Basements.

      When the Sheikh came for Ethan and her in the morning, all he’d find was an empty suite. And a note.

      For the first time in hours Rachel almost smiled.

      Goodbye notes were a Donnelly family tradition.

      Several rows back, Karim watched Rachel through narrowed eyes.

      He was good at reading body language. Years in the stuffy formality of the palace, followed by years of negotiating multi-million-dollar deals with some of the world’s toughest opponents, had given him that ability.

      For the past hour he’d been reading hers.

      For a long time she’d sat stiffly in her seat, her body almost quivering with anger.

      She hated him for that kiss.

      At first he’d been a heartbeat away from marching up the aisle, hauling her into his arms and carrying her to the small private bedroom in the rear of the cabin.

      Two minutes alone and he’d damned well show her that he had not forced that kiss on her, that whatever dark and dangerous thing was happening between them involved her as much as him.

      Thank God, sanity had prevailed.

      He’d calmed down. So had she. Her shoulders had relaxed, if only a little, and then she’d gone to collect the child.

      He’d watched her come down the aisle again, head up, eyes cold as they raked over his face.

      Do not even think of touching me, that look had said, but he wouldn’t have anyway.

      The sight of the baby had reminded him of what this was about—that taking her to New York had nothing to do with her or him; it had to do with Rami.

      If the child was his brother’s, then it was also his.

      He owed it to the boy.

      Maybe he owed it to Rami, too.

      What he’d thought about earlier, that maybe, just maybe, he’d missed the opportunity to help his brother turn his life around, had set him thinking.

      Doing right by Rami’s son would go a long way toward doing right by Rami. It would leave a far better legacy than all those bills and chits.

      That it would also strip the Donnelly woman of her son was secondary. The boy would obviously be better off in a new life. He could explain that to her.

      If she truly loved the child …

      He was a second away from heading up the aisle to try and explain that to her when he noticed that she no longer looked tense.

      That was when he knew she was planning something.

      So much for explaining anything.

      He’d kept her from making a break for freedom. And she was going to try again. Not that her trying to get away made any more sense now than before.

      What did she have to gain by running?

      And yet, had he not been waiting outside that miserable building in which she lived, she’d have disappeared by now.

      Did she figure she could get more money out of him if he had to waste time searching for her?

      The truth was, he didn’t give a damn what it would cost to gain custody of the boy. He’d threatened her with legal proceedings but going to court would be a last resort. Most of his clients abhorred publicity.

      As for the effect back home …

      The eyes of the world would fix on the scandal. His father would be devastated.

      Karim shut his eyes.

      He didn’t want to think about it. Not yet. Not until he absolutely had the test results in hand.

      Which he would, tomorrow.

      He’d made the necessary calls. First he’d phoned the Vegas hotels where Rami had owed money and arranged for payment to them all. With that out of the way, he’d contacted his attorney. His physician. His chief of staff. They were the only people he could trust right now. He’d given instructions to each of them and now all he had to do was make sure the woman didn’t slip away with the child.

      He still couldn’t imagine why she would want to. That was a puzzle, but then, so was she.

      She seemed to really care about the boy. That, alone, was hard to comprehend. She was clearly broke, and having a baby to worry about surely only made her financial situation more difficult.

      And then there were her other traits.

      She was stubborn. Defiant. Outspoken. The worst qualities of modern women, all in one package.

      Women, modern or not, should not be like that.

      Women were supposed to be … perhaps compliant was too strong a word.

      He had never dealt with a woman like this before.

      “Of course you’re right, sir,” they’d say in business, because he was, after all, not only a sheikh but head of a multibillion-dollar investment fund.

      If the relationship was intimate, a woman would leave off the “sir”, but both he and she knew who was in charge.

      His last mistress had been spectacularly beautiful and, supposedly, incredibly intelligent—but she’d never argued with him over anything.

      He