she stepped away from the door.
The bathroom held a marble sink and vanity, a glass-enclosed shower, a toilet and glass-fronted cabinets neatly stocked with folded towels, packaged soaps, toothbrushes and pretty much everything anyone could want.
Rachel gave the shower a look of longing but, no, she wasn’t going to use it. The thought of stripping naked with only the door between the Sheikh and her brought back the memory of what had happened this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or, dammit, whatever day this was and that had been …
What did the day matter?
It was what had happened that counted.
Karim, his eyes going dark as he looked at her naked body. His hands cupping her breasts, his fingers feathering over her suddenly erect nipples, the liquid heat gathering low in her belly …
A moan rose in her throat.
She bit it back and stared at herself in the mirror.
“He caught you by surprise,” she said.
Her reflection returned the stare. Really? it said in a sly voice. So what are you saying, hmm? That you’ve never been caught by surprise before?
Rachel blinked.
Why was she wasting time and energy over this? What happened next was all that mattered. She had to be prepared to deal with it.
But not looking like this.
Looks were important. Another Mama-ism, like the one about first impressions and, again, true enough. Look weak, people saw you as weak. Look tough, they figured that you were.
Right now, she looked pitiful.
Red-rimmed eyes. The pallor that came of exhaustion. Hair that was half in, half out of a ponytail.
“You,” she told her reflection, “look worn and defeated. Is that how you want his Imperial Sheikhiness to see you?”
The answer was obvious.
So she got busy. Used the toilet. Ran water into the sink. Washed her hands and face with a soapy liquid that smelled like lemons. Brushed her teeth. Yanked her hair free of the band that constrained it and then combed it again and again until it was tangle-free.
Then she stood tall and looked into the mirror again.
“Better,” she said.
Not much, but anything was an improvement.
A deep breath. A toss of her head. Then she unlocked the door, started up the aisle …
The plane hit an air pocket. Not much of an air pocket, just enough to make her stumble. The problem was that it happened just as she reached the seat where he was sitting.
Not again, she thought as his hand shot out and closed around her wrist.
The panther was wide awake.
His fingers were warm and hard against her skin. Rachel looked at him. He looked at her. Say something, she told herself, and she forced a polite smile.
“Thank you.”
“Amazing.”
“What?”
“That ‘thank you.’ Surely that’s a phrase I never thought to hear you say, habibi.”
He was smiling. It wasn’t much of a smile, only a tilt of his lips, but it was so private and sexy that, just for an instant, she wanted to smile back.
She didn’t, of course. All the sexy smiles in his no doubt considerable repertoire wouldn’t be enough to lull her into forgetting who he was and what he wanted.
“I am polite when politeness is appropriate,” she said coolly.
This time, he grinned.
“Nicely done. It takes talent to deliver a remark that sounds polite but is really an insult.” He tugged on her hand. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Two thank-yous—only one with real validity. Sit down, please. Is that better?”
What now? If she refused, would he let go of her, or would he force her to take the seat next to his? Finding out might not be worth what it would cost in terms of losing face over such a stupid game.
Rachel shrugged and slipped into the seat nearest to him.
“Good,” he said, and let go of her wrist. “Moira’s bringing us coffee. And something to eat.”
“She’s bringing me coffee at my seat. And I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be foolish, Rachel. Of course you’re hungry. Besides, in my country, refusing to break bread with someone is a discourtesy.”
“We’re not in your country.”
“But we are.” The flight attendant came down the aisle, pushing a small wheeled cart laden with trays of fruit, cheese and small sandwiches as well as a silver coffee service.
To her horror, Rachel’s belly growled. Karim grinned.
“So much for not being hungry.” He waved the attendant away, poured two cups of coffee, then picked up a plate and filled it with tiny sandwiches and fruit. “And so much for not being in my country.” He looked at her as he handed her the plate, silverware and an enormous linen napkin. “I am a prince.”
“So you’ve made clear.”
“I am my country’s diplomat.”
“How nice for you,” Rachel said sweetly.
“It means that wherever I live is a part of Alcantar.” Karim sipped his coffee. “My home in New York. My weekend place in Connecticut.” He paused. “This aircraft. When you are in those locations you are subject to the laws of my people. Do you understand?”
“I’m an American citizen. You can’t simply—”
“This is not subject to debate. It is fact. When you are on what you Americans would call my turf, the laws of Alcantar apply.”
Rachel’s hand shook. Carefully, she put down the coffee cup.
“Stop talking in circles,” she said flatly. “And stop telling me you can do whatever you wish about Ethan. I’m a citizen. So is he. End of story.”
“Perhaps you’d let me finish speaking before you start lecturing me.” Karim waited. Then he cleared his throat. “I have been thinking …”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?”
He wanted to laugh. So determined to show no weakness—but he’d noticed how her hand had trembled. She was, indeed, an interesting woman. Tough and tender at the same time.
