Desert Hearts. Sandra Marton

      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 knew that look.

      A woman who wore an outfit like this, who served drinks in a casino, was fair game.

      She hated everything about her job. The customers. The atmosphere. The clink of the chips.

      This awful costume.

      She’d balked at wearing it until her boss said, “You want the job? Do what you’re told and stop bitching.”

      The girls she worked with were even more direct.

      “You wanna be Miss High and Mighty,” one of them told her, “go pick up dirty dishes at the all-the-pigs-can-eat buffet.”

      Rachel had already done a turn like that. You couldn’t pay the rent and support Suki—because Suki certainly hadn’t supported herself—you couldn’t pay the rent or anything else with what she’d earned clearing tables.

      So each day she gritted her teeth, hid herself inside this sleazy costume and went to work where men pretty much figured she was available for lots more than taking their drink orders.

      She hated it, but then, that was how men were. No big surprise there.

      Then Rami had moved