Claimed by the Desert Sheikh: The Sheikh and the Pregnant Bride / Desert King, Pregnant Mistress / Desert Prince, Expectant Mother. Susan Stephens

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      “You’re a woman.”

      She glanced down at her chest, then back at him. “Really? I guess that explains the breasts. I’d wondered why they were there.”

      One corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were amused.

      She decided to push while he was in a good mood. “Look. My mother died right after I was born. I grew up in my dad’s garage. I learned to change oil before I learned to read. Yes, I’m female, but so what? Cars have always been my life. I’m a great mechanic. If what they say is true, that classic cars are female, who better to understand them than me? I can do this. I work hard, I don’t get drunk and knock up the local girls. Even more important, with my father gone, I have something to prove. You’re a man of the world. You know what a difference the right motivation can be.”

      Qadir stared at the woman before him and wondered if he should let himself be convinced. If Maggie Collins restored cars with the same energy that she was using on him, he had nothing to worry about. But a female in the garage?

      He reached for her hand and took it in his. Her fingers were long, her nails short. She was attractive, but not delicate. He turned her hand over and stared at her palm. There were several calluses and a couple of scars. These were the hands of someone who worked for a living.

      “Squeeze my hand,” he said, staring into her green eyes. “As hard as you can.”

      She wrinkled her nose, as if she couldn’t believe what he was asking, then she did as he requested.

      Her fingers crushed his in a powerful grip.

      Impressive, he thought. Perhaps she was who and what she claimed.

      “Should we arm wrestle next?” she asked. “Or have a spitting contest?”

      He laughed. “That will not be required.” He released her hand. “Would you like to see the car?”

      Her breath caught. “I would love to.”

      They walked through the palace to the garage. Along the way, Qadir pointed out some of the public rooms along with a few of the more notable antiquities. Maggie paused to look at a large tapestry.

      “That’s a lot of sewing,” she said.

      “Yes, it is. It took fifteen women over ten years to complete it.”

      “I don’t have the patience for that sort of thing. Seriously? I would have killed someone within the first six months. One night I would have snapped and run screaming through the palace with an ax.”

      The vivid image amused him. Maggie Collins was not a typical woman and he had met more than enough to know the difference. Although she was tall and slim, she moved with a purpose that was far from feminine. She had striking features, but wore no makeup to enhance them. Long dark hair hung down her back in a simple braid.

      He was used to women using flattery and sexuality to get what they wanted, yet she did not. The change was … interesting.

      “This is my first palace,” she said as they continued walking down the long corridor.

      “What do you think?”

      “That it’s beautiful, but a little big for my taste.”

      “No dreams of being a princess?”

      She laughed. “I’m not exactly princess material. I grew up dreaming of racing cars, not horses. I’d rather work on a fussy transmission than go shopping.”

      “Why aren’t you racing cars? Women do.”

      “I don’t have the killer competitive instinct. I like to go fast. I mean, who doesn’t? But I’m not into winning at any cost. It’s a flaw.” She pointed at an ancient Sumerian bowl and wrinkled her nose. “That’s a whole new level of ugly.”

      “It’s over four thousand years old.”

      “Really? That doesn’t make it any more attractive. Seriously, would you want that in your living room?”

      He’d never paid much attention to the ancient piece of pottery, but now he had to admit it wasn’t to his taste.

      “It’s better here, where all can enjoy it.”

      “Very diplomatic. Is that your prince training?”

      “You are comfortable speaking your mind.”

      Maggie sighed. “I know. It gets me into trouble. I’ll try to be quiet now.”

      And she was, until they reached the garage. He opened the door and led her inside. Lights came on automatically.

      There were only a dozen or so vehicles in this structure. Others were housed elsewhere. Maggie walked past the staff Volvo, his Lamborghini, two Porsches, the Land Rover and Hummer to the battered Rolls-Royce Phantom III at the far end.

      “Oh, man, I never thought I’d see one of these up close,” Maggie breathed.

      She ran her hands along the side of the car. “Poor girl, you’re not looking your best, are you? But I can fix that.” She turned to Qadir. “The first one of these was seen in October 1935 at the London Olympia Motor Show. They brought nine Phantoms, but only one of them had an engine in it.” She turned back to the car. “She’s a V-12, zero to sixty in sixteen-point-eight seconds. That’s pretty fast for this big a car. Especially considering how quiet the engine runs.”

      Maggie circled the vehicle, touching it, breathing in, as if trying to make it a part of her. Her eyes were wide, her expression one of wonder. He’d seen that look on a woman’s face before, but usually only when giving expensive jewels or shopping trips to Paris and Milan.

      “You have to let me do this,” she told him. “No one will love her more than I do.”

      George Collins had been one of the best restorers and mechanics in the business. Had he passed on his greatness to his daughter or was she simply trading on his name?

      Maggie opened the passenger door. “Rats,” she muttered, then looked at him. “They’ve chewed the hell out of the leather. But I know a guy who can work miracles.”

      “How long would it take to restore her?” he asked.

      She grinned. “How much money do you have?”

      “An endless supply.”

      “Must be nice.” She considered the question. “With express delivery and my contacts, six to eight weeks, assuming I can find what I need. I’ll want to fly in someone to do the upholstery and the painting. I’ll do everything else myself. I’m assuming I can get metal work done locally.”

      “You can.”

      She straightened and folded her arms over her chest. “Do we have a deal?”

      Qadir had no problem working with women. He liked women. They were soft and appealing and they smelled good. But the Phantom was special.

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