Sheikh Without a Heart Page 2

  The elevator doors whisked open. Karim stepped out.

  The sooner he finished his business here, the better.

  His suite, at least, was big and surprisingly attractive.

  Within minutes he’d stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He let the hot water beat down on his neck and shoulders, hoping that would drive away some of the weariness.

  It didn’t.

  Okay. What he needed was sleep.

  But sleep didn’t come. No surprise. After two weeks of coming into cities he knew would hold yet additional ugly truths about his brother, sleep had become more and more elusive.

  After a while, he gave up.

  He had to do something. Take a walk. A drive. Check out the hotels where Rami had run up enormous bills—this place, he had made certain, was not one of them. Maybe he’d drive by the flat his brother had leased. He could even stop, go inside, take a quick look around.

  Not that he expected to find anything worth keeping, but if there was something personal, a memento that said something good about Rami’s wasted life, their father might want it.

  Karim put on jeans, a black T-shirt, sneakers and a soft black leather bomber jacket. Deserts were cold at night, even ones that arrowed into the heart of a city whose glow could be seen for miles.

  He opened his attaché case, grabbed the key and noted the scribbled address. A tag that read “4B” hung from the key itself. An apartment number, obviously.

  The valet brought him his car. Karim handed him another twenty. Then he entered the address into the GPS and followed its directions.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached his destination.

  It was a nondescript building in a part of the city that was as different from the Las Vegas he’d so far seen as night from day.

  The area was bleak and shabby, as was the building itself …

  Karim frowned. He’d connected to global positioning satellites often enough to know that when they worked they were great and when they didn’t you could end up in the middle of nowhere.

  Yes, but this was the correct address.

  Had Rami run out of the ability to talk himself into the best hotels at some point during his time here?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Karim got out of the car, locked it, and headed toward the building.

  The outside door was unlocked. The vestibule stank. The stairs creaked; he stepped in something sticky and tried not to think about what it might be.

  One flight. Two. Three, and there it was, straight ahead. Apartment 4B, even though the “4” hung drunkenly to the side and the “B” was upside down.

  Karim hesitated.

  Did he really want to do this tonight? Was he up to what was surely going to be a dirty hovel? He remembered the time he’d flown out to the coast to visit Rami when he was in school. Dirty dishes in the sink and all over the counters. Spoiled food in the refrigerator. Clothes spilling out of the hamper.

  “Goddammit,” he said, under his breath.

  The truth was, he didn’t give a crap about the apartment being dirty. What mattered was that it would be filled with Rami’s things. The hotel rooms had not been; the hotels had all removed his brother’s clothes, his toiletries, and put them in storage.

  This would be different.

  And he was a coward.

  “A damned coward,” he said, and he stepped purposefully forward, stabbed the key into the lock, turned it—

  The door swung open.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell—not of dirt but of something pleasant. Sugar? Cookies?

  Milk?

  The second thing was that he wasn’t alone. There was someone standing maybe ten feet away …

  Not someone.

  A woman. She stood with her back to him, tall and slender and—

  And naked.

  His eyes swept over her. Her hair was a spill of pale gold down her shoulders; her spine was long and graceful. She had a narrow waist that emphasized the curve of her hips and incredibly long legs.

  Legs as long as sin.

  Hell. Wrong building. Wrong apartment. Wrong—

  The woman spun around. She wasn’t naked. She wore a thing that was barely a bra, covered in spangles. And a thong—a tiny triangle of glittery silver.

  It was a cheap outfit that made the most of a beautiful body, though her face was even more beautiful …

  And what did that matter at moment like this, when he had obviously wandered into the wrong place … and, dammit, her eyes were wide with terror?

  Karim held up his hands.

  “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “I made a mistake. I thought—”

  “I know precisely what you thought, you—you pervert,” the woman said, and before he could react she flew at him, a blur of motion with something in her hand.

  It was a shoe. A shoe with a heel as long and sharp as a stiletto.

  “Hey!” Karim danced back. “Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you some—”

  She slammed the shoe against him, aiming for his face, but he moved fast; the blow caught him in the shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her hand to her side.

  “Will you wait a minute? Just one damned minute—”

  “Wait?” Rachel Donnelly said. “Wait?” The perv from the lounge wanted her to wait? Wait so he could rape her? “The hell I will,” she snarled, and she wrenched her hand free of his, swung hard …

  This time, the heel of the shoe flashed by his face.

  That was the good news.

  The bad was that he muttered something and now he wasn’t defending himself; he was coming straight for her.

  Panting, she reacted with all her strength, but he was too big, too strong, too determined. A second later he had both her wrists in his hands and she was pinned against the wall.

  “Dammit, woman! Will you listen to me?”

  “There’s nothing to listen to. I know what you want. You were in the lounge tonight. I brought you drink after drink and I knew you were going to be trouble and I was right, here you are, and—and—”

  Her breath caught.

  Wrong.

  This wasn’t the guy who’d undressed her with his eyes.

  That perv had been bald with squinty eyes behind Coke-bottle lenses.

  This guy had a full head of dark hair and eyes the cool gray of winter ice.

  Not that it mattered. He’d broken into her apartment. He was male. She was female. After three years in Vegas she knew what that—

  “You’re wrong.”

  She blinked. Either she’d spoken aloud or he was a mind-reader.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Then turn around and go away. Right now. I won’t scream, I won’t call the cops—”

  “Will you listen? One of us is in the wrong apartment.”

  Despite everything, she choked out a laugh. The man scowled and tightened his hold on her wrists.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that I didn’t expect anyone to be here. I thought this was my brother’s apartment.”

  “Well, it isn’t. This apartment is—is—” She stared at him. “What brother?”

  “My brother. Rami.”

  The floor seemed to shift under Rachel’s feet. She felt the blood drain from her face. The man saw it; those cold gray eyes narrowed.

  “You know of him?”

  She knew. Of course she knew. And if this was Rami’s brother—if this was Karim of Alcantar, the all-powerful, stone-hearted, ruthless prince …

  “I’m going to let go of you,” he said. “If you scream, you will regret it. Is that clear?”

  Rachel swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  Slowly, carefully, his eyes locked to hers, he took his hands from her.

  “Obviously,” he said, “I was correct. This place is my brother’s.”

  “I—I—”

  “You—you, what?” he growled with imperial impatience. “What are you doing here? This apartment
belongs to Rami.”

  It didn’t. It never had. It was hers and always had been—though that hadn’t stopped first Suki and then Suki’s lover from moving in.

  Now, thank goodness, they were both gone. She lived alone …

  Oh, God!

  Her heart, already racing, went into overdrive.

  She didn’t. She didn’t live here alone—

  “Who are you?” the man growled.

  Who, indeed? Her head was spinning. She should have known this would happen, that, sooner or later someone would come.

  His hand shot out and manacled her wrist.

  “Answer the question! Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I—I’m a friend,” Rachel said. And then, because she had no idea what this man knew or didn’t know or, most of all, what he wanted, she said, “I’m Rami’s friend. His very good friend.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  KARIM’S mouth thinned.

  Friend, hell.

  She’d been Rami’s woman.

  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.

  “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 in. After a few months, when she couldn’t stand living with either him or Suki anymore, Rachel had confronted her sister and demanded she and her boyfriend find a place of their own.

  Suki had burst into tears and said she couldn’t do that. She was in trouble …

  That “trouble” had changed everything.

  Rachel could no more have tossed Suki out than she could have flown to the moon, and—and—