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
