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“You are Sheridan Sloane.”
He said it without even a hint of uncertainty, as if he knew her. But she did not know him—and she didn’t like the way he stood there sizing her up as if she was something he might step in on a sidewalk.
She was predisposed to like everyone she met. But this man already rubbed her the wrong way.
“I am.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts and tilted her chin up. “And you are?”
She imbued those words with every last ounce of Southern haughtiness she could manage. Sometimes having a family who descended from the Mayflower and who boasted a signer of the Declaration of Independence, as well as at least six Patriots who’d fought in the American War of Independence was a good thing. Even if her family had sunk into that sort of gentile poverty that had hit generations of Southerners after Reconstruction, she had her pride and her heritage—and her mother’s refined voice telling her that no one had the right to make her feel as if she wasn’t good enough for them.
He did something very odd then. He bent slightly at the waist before touching his forehead, lips and heart. Then he stood there so straight and tall and, well, stately, that she got a tingle in her belly. She imagined him in desert robes, doing that very same thing, and gooey warmth flooded her in places that hadn’t gotten warm in a very long time.
“I am Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan.”
The door opened again and this time another man entered. He was also in a suit, but he was wearing a headset and she realized with a start that he must be a bodyguard. A quick glance at the street in front of the shop revealed a long, black limousine and another man in a suit. And another stationed on the far side of the street, dark sunglasses covering his eyes as he looked up and down for any signs of trouble.
The one who’d just entered the shop stood by the door without moving. The man before her didn’t even seem to notice his presence. Or, more likely, he was so accustomed to it that he ignored it on purpose.
“What can I help you with Mr., er, Rashid.” It was the only name she could remember from that string of names he’d spoken.
The man at the door stiffened, but the man before her lifted an eyebrow as if he were somehow amused
.
“You have something of mine, Miss Sloane. And I want it back.”
A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her upper lip. She hoped like hell he couldn’t see it. First of all, it wasn’t ladylike. Second, she sensed that any nervousness on her part would be an advantage for him. This was the kind of man who pounced on weakness like a ravenous cat.
“I don’t believe we’ve ever done business with any Rashids, but if we accidentally packed up some of your wife’s good silver with our own, you may, of course, have it back.”
He no longer looked amused. In fact, he looked downright furious. “You do not have my silver, Miss Sloane.”
He took a step toward her then, his large form as graceful and silent as a cat. He was so close she could smell him. He wasn’t wearing heavy cologne, but he had a scent like hot summer breezes and crisp spices. Her fanciful imagination conjured up a desert oasis, waving palm trees, a cool spring, an Arabian stallion—and this man, dressed in desert robes like Omar Sharif or Peter O’Toole.
It was a delicious mirage. And disconcerting as hell.
Sheridan put her hand out and smoothed it over the edge of the counter as she tried to appear casual. “If you could just inform me what it is, I’ll take a l-look and see if I can find it.”
Damn her voice for quavering.
“I doubt you could.”
His gaze dropped to her middle, lingered. It took several moments, but then her stomach began a long, slow free fall into nothingness. He couldn’t possibly mean—
Oh, no. No, no, no...
But his head lifted and his eyes met hers and she knew he was not here for the family silver.
“How...?” she began. Sheridan swallowed hard. This was unbelievable. An incredible breach of confidentiality. She would sue that clinic into the next millennium. “They wouldn’t tell me a thing about you. How did you get them to reveal my information?”
For one wild moment, she hoped he didn’t know what she was talking about. That this was indeed some sort of misunderstanding with a tall, beautiful Arab male who meant something entirely different than she thought. He would blink, shake his head, inform her that she had accidentally packed a small family heirloom—though she’d never done such a thing before—when she’d catered his event. Then he would describe it and she would go searching for it as though her life depended on it. Anything to be rid of him and quiet this flame raging inside her as he moved even closer than before.
But she knew, deep down, that he did know what she meant. That there was no misunderstanding.
“I am a powerful man, Miss Sloane. I get what I want. Besides, imagine the scandal were it to become known that an American facility had made such a mistake.” His voice dripped of self-righteousness. “Impregnating some random woman with a potential heir to the throne of Kyr? And then refusing to inform the king of the child’s whereabouts?”
He shook his head while her insides turned to ice as she tried to process what he’d just said.
“It would not happen,” he continued. “It did not happen. As you see.”
