Читать книгу Desert Hearts: Sheikh Without a Heart / Heart of the Desert / The Sheikh's Destiny - Carol Marinelli, Carol Marinelli - Страница 9

THE world stood still.

Such a trite phrase, Karim knew, but it took a conscious effort to draw air into his lungs.

What he was thinking was impossible.

This child had nothing to do with his brother.

Eye color. The shape of a nose. So what? There were only so many shades of blue in the world and only so many kinds of noses.

He took a deep breath.

Okay.

He’d been at this too long. That was the problem. He had certain routines. Rami had teased him unmercifully about how boring his life must be, but a routine was what kept a man grounded.

Up at six, half an hour in his private gym, shower, dress, coffee and toast at seven, at his desk by eight.

He’d been away from that schedule for too long, flying almost non-stop from city to city, seeing all the unpleasant details of his brother’s life unfold.

It was having an effect.

If Rami had fathered a child, he’d have known.

They were brothers. Out of touch, but surely a man would not keep something like that to himself …

“Blaa,” the baby said, “blaa-blaa-blaa.”

Karim stared down at the child.

Blah, indeed.

Of course Rami would have kept it to himself—the same as he’d never mentioned his gambling debts.

You didn’t talk about your mistakes—and the birth of a child out of wedlock was a mistake.

Rami had scoffed at convention, but under it all he’d known he was the son of a king and, after Karim, next in line to the throne.

There were certain rules of behavior that applied, even to him.

News of an illegitimate child would have resulted in a scandal back home. Their father might have completely cut off his younger son, even banished him from the kingdom.

So, yes. The child was Rami’s, and it was illegitimate. There had not been a marriage certificate among his brother’s papers. There’d been lots of other stuff. Expired drivers’ licenses. Outdated checkbooks. Scribbled notes and, of course, endless bills and IOUs.

Nothing that even hinted at a wife.

Rachel Donnelly stood before him, as frozen as a marble statue, her eyes locked on the child in his arms.

No. Rami had not married her. Drunk or not, he surely would have known better than to tie himself permanently to a woman like this.

She was a woman a man bedded, not wedded, Karim thought, without even a hint of humor.

Beautiful.

Fiery.

Tough as nails.

His brother might have found all that spirit and defiance sexy.

He did not and would not. But this wasn’t about him.

“Give me the baby.”

Her voice was low, a little thready, but the color had come back into her face. She was regaining her composure.

Why had she reacted with such distress?

If this was Rami’s child, this could be a golden opportunity. Her lover’s child and her lover’s brother, coming face to face …

“Give me the baby!”

He wondered why she hadn’t tried to contact him before this. Well, that was obvious. She’d thought Rami would come back to her.

Was this the reason he’d left her? Because she’d become pregnant?

It was an ugly thought, that his brother would have abandoned his own child, but nothing about Rami surprised him anymore.

Assuming, of course, the child was his.

How had his brother let this happen? Drunk or sober, how could he have forgotten to use a condom?

Had the woman seduced him into forgetting? That was always a possibility.

Karim wasn’t naïve. A man who was born to a title and a fortune learned early how things went.

Women set snares; his own mother had been pregnant with him before his father had married her.

He wasn’t supposed to know that, but any fool could count. And once he’d figured it out he’d had a better idea of why his parents’ marriage had failed.

You chose a wife—especially if you had the responsibilities of a prince—because she met certain criteria. Common interests and backgrounds. Common goals and expectations.

You chose her; you didn’t put yourself in a position where fate or expediency or, even worse, a foolish night of passion became the deciding factor—

A small fist hit his shoulder. Karim blinked in surprise. The woman had moved right up to him. Her eyes flashed with anger.

“Are you deaf? Give—me—the—baby!”

The child made an unhappy sound. Its mouth, that mouth that was the image of hers, began to tremble.

Karim narrowed his eyes.

“Whose child is this?”

“What is this? An interrogation? Give Ethan to me and then get the hell out!”

“Ethan?”

Dammit, Rachel thought, she hadn’t intended to give him anything—not even the baby’s name.

“Yes. And he’s wary of strangers.”

Karim’s mouth twisted. “Was he wary of my brother?”

“I’d tell you that you’ve overstayed your welcome, Your Sheikhiness, but you were not welcome here in the first place.”

“Do not,” Karim said grimly, “call me that.”

He regretted the words even as he said them. It was a mistake to let her know she was annoying him because that was damned well what she wanted to do.

“I’ll ask you again,” he said, struggling to control his temper. “Who does this child belong to?”

“He belongs to himself. Unlike you and your countrymen, Americans don’t believe people can be owned like property.”

“A charming speech. I’m sure it will win applause on your Fourth of July holiday. But it hasn’t got a damned thing to do with my question. Once again, then. Whose child is this?”

Rachel chewed on her lip.

Whose, indeed?

Suki and Rami had created Ethan.

But from the very beginning he’d been hers.

For Suki, the bump in her belly had been a nine-month annoyance, especially once she’d realized she couldn’t use her pregnancy to convince Rami to marry her.

He’d packed his things and taken off well before Ethan’s birth.

It had been Rachel who’d held Suki’s hand during labor, Rachel who’d cut the baby’s umbilical cord.

When Suki and her son had come home from the hospital, the baby had cried endlessly. He’d been hungry; Suki had refused to nurse him.

“What,” she’d said in horror, “and ruin my boobs?”

The formula hadn’t agreed with him. He’d kept spitting up; his tiny diaper had always been full and foul-smelling. Suki had shuddered, and left his care to Rachel.

Rachel had been fine with that.

She’d changed his formula. Changed his diapers. The baby thrived.

And Rachel adored him.

She’d loved him even before he was born. It was she who’d come up with a name, who’d bought a crib and baby clothes. He was hers, not Suki’s. And when Suki had finally left, Rachel was almost ashamed to admit she’d been happy to see her go.

Now everything was falling apart.

She had never worried that Rami might return and claim his son—even if he had, she’d sensed that he was a coward underneath the charm and good looks.

She could have faced him down.

But if this arrogant bully wanted Ethan …

“Ms. Donnelly. I asked a simple question.”

The baby began to whimper.

“That’s it,” Rachel said. “Raise your voice. Terrify the baby. Is that your specialty? Walking into places you aren’t welcome? Scaring small children?”

“I asked you a simple question, and you will answer it! Whose child is he?”

“You,” Rachel said, stalling for time, “you are an awful man!”

His teeth showed in a wolfish grin.

“I’m heartbroken to hear it.”

“What will it take to get you out of here?”

“The truth,” he snapped. “Whose baby is this?”

Rachel looked straight into his cold eyes.

“Mine,” she said, without hesitation, forcing the lie through a suddenly constricted throat, because Ethan was hers.

It was just that she hadn’t given birth to him.

“Don’t play games with me, madam. You know what I’m asking. Who is the father?”

There.

They’d reached the impasse she’d been dreading. Now what? She should have known he wouldn’t be satisfied with her answer.

The Sheikh, the Prince, whatever you were supposed to call him, was not a fool.

Ethan looked like his parents. He had Rami’s coloring and eyes, Suki’s chin and mouth. Well, hers, too, because she and Suki resembled each other, but the Sheikh wouldn’t know that.

He didn’t even know Suki existed.

And she had to keep it that way.

“Answer me!”

“Lower your voice. You keep yelling—”

“You think I’m yelling?” the Sheikh yelled.

Predictably, Ethan began to cry.

The mighty Prince looked stunned. Evidently not even infants were permitted to interrupt a royal tirade.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Rachel snapped, and scooped Ethan into her arms.

His cries became wails; his little body shook with outrage. The look on the Sheikh’s face was priceless.

Under other circumstances she’d have laughed, but there was nothing to laugh at in this situation.

Instead, she walked slowly around the small living room, cooing to the baby, stroking his back, pressing kisses to his forehead.

His cries lessened, became soft sobs.

“Good baby,” she whispered.

She felt Karim’s eyes following her.

No way was he going to stop peppering her with questions. With one question.

Was Rami her baby’s father?

And, yes, Ethan was hers. He always would be. She’d made the baby that promise the day Suki left.

Now that could change in a heartbeat.

Once she acknowledged what the Sheikh surely already suspected, her life, and Ethan’s, would be in his hands.

He would surely decide to claim his brother’s son. He was cold, yes. Heartless, absolutely. Rami had said so, and the last hour had proved it, and she could not imagine he’d feel anything for anyone, not even a baby.

Nevertheless, he’d never leave Ethan with her.

There was that whole royal bloodlines thing. Rachel had heard Rami whine about it to Suki. The fact that you were a royal was what set the path of your existence.

The Sheikh would demand custody and he’d get it.

He had money. Power. Access to lawyers and politicians and judges—people she couldn’t even envision.

She had nothing.

This dark little apartment. Maybe four hundred dollars in the bank. A job she despised and, yes, she could just see how “Occupation: half-dressed cocktail waitress” would stack up against “Occupation: powerful prince who spends the days counting his money.”

The answer was inevitable.

He’d take Ethan from her.

Raise him as Rami had told Suki he’d been raised.

No love. No affection. Nothing but discipline and criticism and the harsh words and impossible demands of an imperious father and now, for Ethan, the demands of a heartless uncle.

A lump rose in Rachel’s throat.

She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

She’d do whatever was necessary to keep her baby—and there was only one way to accomplish that.

Show the Sheikh that he couldn’t intimidate her, get him out the door—then pack a suitcase and run.

The baby’s cries had faded to wet snuffles. Rachel took a breath and turned toward the Sheikh.

“He needs a new diaper.”

“And I need answers.”

“Fine. You’ll get them when I have time. I’ll meet you later. Say, four o’clock in front of the Dancing Waters at the … What’s so amusing?”

“Did you really think I’d fall for such a stupidly transparent lie?” His smile vanished. “Change the child’s diaper. I’ll wait.”

“Don’t try to give me orders in my own home.”

“It was my brother’s home, not yours. You lived here with him. You were his mistress.”

“Wrong on both counts. This apartment is mine.”

“And my brother just happened to have the key.”

His tone was snide and self-confident, and if it weren’t for Ethan, she’d have slapped it off his all-too-handsome face.

“My mistake for giving him one. He moved in with me, not me with him. And, for the record, I’ve never been anybody’s mistress. I’ve always supported myself and I damned well always will.”

There it was again. Fire. Spirit. Absolute defiance. Her eyes were snapping with anger even as she kept her voice low for the baby’s sake, kept stroking her hand gently down his back.

Karim watched that slow-moving hand.

The feel of it would soothe anyone. A child. A beast.

A man.

Without thinking, he reached out and touched the baby. His fingers brushed accidentally against the curve of the Donnelly woman’s breast.

She caught her breath. Their eyes met. Color rushed into her face.

“The boy is asleep,” Karim said softly.

“Yes. He is.” She swallowed hard. He could see her throat arch. “I—I’m going to take him into the bedroom, change his diaper and put him down for a nap.”

“Fine,” he said briskly.

He watched her walk away with the dignity of a queen, back straight, only the slightest sway of her hips.

He wanted to laugh.

What an act! The personification of dignity in a cheap costume.

It was an act, wasn’t it? The way she held herself. The love she seemed to show the baby. Her adamant refusal to name Rami as the child’s father, as if she suspected what Karim’s next move would be.

She wasn’t stupid; far from it. Surely, she knew he would demand custody of the boy.

And he would get it. A DNA test, quickly performed, would settle things.

She was—whatever she was. A dancer. A stripper. She was broke or close to it, judging by where she lived.

And he was a prince.

There was no doubt which of them would win in a court of law—if this ever got that far.

But there was no need for that to happen.

Rachel Donnelly would not give up the child without a fuss. If he were generous, he’d say it was because she cared for the boy but he was not feeling generous. He was feeling deceived. By Rami. By fate. And now, for all he knew, by a woman who was an excellent actress, making a show of being a caring mother.

Whatever her motive, she could not be permitted to keep the boy.

That was out of the question.

He would not leave the child to be raised in squalid surroundings by a woman who, at best, might euphemistically be called a dancer.

With him, the boy—Ethan—would have everything Rami could have given him. A comfortable home. The best possible education. The knowledge of his ancient and honorable past.

He would not have a mother but Rami had not had one, either. For that matter, neither had he, and he was none the worse for it today.

Karim looked at the closed bedroom door and frowned. What was taking her so long? Changing a diaper could not be a complicated procedure.

Did she expect him to stand here, cooling his heels?

He had things to do. Settling Rami’s debts, of course. And now he’d have to make arrangements for taking the child to Alcantar. What would he need? Clothes? Formula? The boy’s birth certificate?

Not really.

He had diplomatic status. Only the State department had the authority to question him, and they would not do so.

What else would he require?

Of course.

A nanny.

That was the primary requirement. A woman who’d be capable of knowing a baby’s needs. She could care for the boy from now until Karim had him back home, where he could make more permanent arrangements.

Relatively simple, all of it.

Assuming Rachel Donnelly didn’t cause trouble—but why would she? He would write her a handsome check and if she balked he’d make her see how much better off her son would be in his new life as a prince in his father’s kingdom.

He might even agree to permitting her to visit a couple of times a year—

And, dammit, he was wasting time!

Karim strode to the closed door and rapped his knuckles against it.

“Miss Donnelly?”

Nothing.

“Miss Donnelly, I cannot spend the entire morning waiting for you. I have other business to conduct.”

Still nothing.

Hell.

Was it possible there was another exit from the apartment? A window that opened on an outside stairway?

Karim flung the door open.

The furnishings were spare.

A chest of drawers. A chair. A crib, Ethan sound asleep in it, his backside in the air.

And a bed.

Narrow. Covered in white. The only color came from the bra, the thong, the dark mesh stockings that lay in a tiny heap in its center.

His belly knotted.

His gaze flew to a half-open door, wisps of steam curling from it.

The sound of running water drummed in his ears, or was it the beat of his pulse?

Get out of this room, a voice within him whispered. She’s in the shower, naked. You don’t belong here.

Instead, he took a step forward. Then another.

Ah, God.

He could see into the bathroom. Into the small stall shower. Condensation clouded the glass but he could see her. See her as Matisse or Degas might have painted her—just the hint of that lovely face, that exquisite body.

The water stopped.

Get out, he thought again, but his feet seemed rooted to the floor.

She slid the shower door open.

And he saw her without the glass.

Her hair, wet and streaming over her shoulders, almost hiding the rounded perfection of her breasts.

Her waist, surely narrow enough for his hands to span.

Her hips, ripely curved.

Her legs, long enough so he could almost feel them wrapped around him.

And the golden curls at the juncture of her thighs, guarding the female heart of her.

She didn’t see him. Wet strands of her hair hung over her eyes.

He watched as she reached toward the towel rack, her hand fumbling for a white bath sheet.

That was when he moved.

Grabbed the terrycloth bath sheet before she found it.

His fingers brushed hers. She cried out, swiped the hair from her eyes.

“No,” she said, “don’t—”

Karim threaded his hands in the rich, wet gold of her hair. Lifted her face to his and took her mouth in a hard, hungry kiss.

It was what he’d wanted to do that first time.

Then, he’d been able to stop.

No way could he stop now.

She struggled.

He persisted.

And the kiss changed.

It took all his determination to gentle it into something soft and seductive.

His lips moved gently over hers; he whispered her name, whispered how much he wanted her, first in his own language and then in hers.

Everything within him slowed. He wanted the kiss to last forever …

She stopped struggling. She sighed. Her lips clung to his. Her hands rose, touched his chest.

He could feel her trembling, but not with fear.

He felt his blood roar. Felt the earth tilt.

Now, everything in him said, take her now …

Karim shuddered.

Then he lifted his head, wrapped the towel around her and got the hell out of the bathroom, out of the apartment, out of the honeyed trap that had surely been set by his brother’s clever, beautiful mistress.