in the arms of the only man she’d ever hated more than she’d hated Rami, more than she’d hated the endless chain of men who had tromped through her mother’s life.
The doorman stared at her. Then he held out his hand.
“Miss?”
She slid across the soft leather seat, ignored the extended hand and marched to the lobby door. The doorman rushed by her and managed to open it just as she reached it. She breezed past him, past a high desk with another uniformed flunky seated behind it.
“Miss,” he said, as politely as if this kind of circus took place here every day.
Karim was waiting for her, standing beside an elevator with Ethan in his arms.
A smiling, gurgling Ethan.
Traitor, Rachel thought, as she stepped inside the elevator car.
Unless she was willing to walk away from her baby—and that would never happen—she was now, to all intents and purposes, the Sheikh’s prisoner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOMEWHERE around three in the morning, even New York City finally slept.
Not Karim.
He stood at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows in his darkened bedroom, bare-chested, wearing only gray sweatpants that were a leftover from his days at Yale. Behind him, the rumpled bed offered mute testimony to the hours he’d spent tossing and turning.
Ridiculous.
He should have been exhausted.
He hadn’t slept at all last night, and his day had started with the discovery that his brother had a child. Add in his confrontations with Rachel, the five-hour flight from Nevada to New York, the hours spent in his study, trying to catch up with the messages and emails on his cell phone and his computer …
He’d fallen into bed somewhere after midnight. Sleep should have come quickly.
It hadn’t.
Instead, he’d envisioned Rachel in a guest suite down the corridor. What was she thinking? What was she doing? Had her anger at him eased or was she still breathing fire as she had hours earlier, when she’d found out he wasn’t taking her to a hotel but to his home?
The memory almost made him laugh.
He’d never seen a woman so furious. And she hadn’t been shy about letting him know it.
He couldn’t think of another woman in his life who’d have objected to spending the night with him—but, of course, she wasn’t really spending it with him.
If she were, he wouldn’t be asleep now, either. He’d be in his bed with her in his arms …
“Hell!”
Karim strode into his bathroom, turned on the sink faucet, bent his head under the flow of cold water and took a long drink while the water cooled his face. He toweled off with impatient strokes and then went back to the window again.
He was not a man given to erotic imaginings. Why would he be, when there was always a woman eager to offer the real thing?
He wasn’t given to insomnia, either, no matter how long or difficult his day had been.
And yet he was standing here, wide awake.
Eighteen stories below, Fifth Avenue was deserted save for an occasional taxi or some unlucky dog owner being pulled along at the end of a leash. Central Park was a hushed dark green jungle on the opposite side of the street. Beyond the park, even the glittering lights of the Manhattan skyline seemed dim.
Wonderful, Karim thought grimly. The entire world was asleep except for him.
He’d never needed much sleep, four or five hours was more than enough, but he wasn’t fool enough to think he could get through a day of decision-making without some kind of rest, and tomorrow was going to be a day filled with decision-making.
After speaking with his P.A. he’d set up two meetings: breakfast with a Tokyo banker at the Regency, then midmorning coffee downtown, at Balthazar, with an official from India. At noon, he’d have lunch in the boardroom with his own staff.
He’d been away from his office far too long. He had business to conduct and he also needed to touch base with his people.
And then there was the rest.
Karim’s mouth thinned.
At two o’clock he’d meet with his attorney.
He and Rachel.
He knew it would not be easy to negotiate a custodial arrangement with her. She was going to be difficult.
What would it take to get her to give up her rights to the boy? She’d said she never would but that was talk. People always had a price. Women, especially.
Yes, they liked his looks. They liked his virility. But he knew damned well they liked his title and his wealth even more.
That was surely how Rami had caught Rachel’s attention. Money, a title …
But Rami hadn’t had money. The proof was in that desolate little apartment where he’d lived with her. As for the title … Rachel found titles laughable.
He found that amusing, because he wasn’t impressed by them, either. He had, at least, earned his own fortune, but he’d been born to the silly string of honorifics. He hadn’t done a thing to earn them but he’d grown accustomed to others not seeing things that same way.
Most people, especially women, heard who he was and began to act as if this was pre-revolutionary France and he was the Sun King. They gushed. They fluttered their lashes. He’d been on the receiving end of more than one curtsy and it always embarrassed the hell out of him when it happened.
The thought of Rachel gushing or fluttering or curtsying was laughable.
She’d made it clear that she was disdainful of his being a prince, a sheikh, heir to the throne of Alcantar. That he was almost embarrassingly rich didn’t win any points from her, either.
She treated him the way he suspected she’d treat anybody else. Anybody else she didn’t like, he thought, and he smiled.
Rachel was a very interesting woman.
She was a woman making it on her own, with a child to raise. That couldn’t be easy. His mother—his and Rami’s—had been a woman with all possible means and resources at her fingertips, yet her sons had been amusing at best and at worst an inconvenience.
He could not imagine Rachel ever feeling inconvenienced by the child.
So what?
Good mother or not, the baby would be better off with him. Being a prince was the child’s destiny. Rachel would get over losing him …
Dammit, why was he thinking about her at all?
His
