Sheikh Without a Heart. Sandra Marton

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      His suite, at least, was big and surprisingly attractive.

      Within minutes he’d stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He let the hot water beat down on his neck and shoulders, hoping that would drive away some of the weariness.

      It didn’t.

      Okay. What he needed was sleep.

      But sleep didn’t come. No surprise. After two weeks of coming into cities he knew would hold yet additional ugly truths about his brother, sleep had become more and more elusive.

      After a while, he gave up.

      He had to do something. Take a walk. A drive. Check out the hotels where Rami had run up enormous bills—this place, he had made certain, was not one of them. Maybe he’d drive by the flat his brother had leased. He could even stop, go inside, take a quick look around.

      Not that he expected to find anything worth keeping, but if there was something personal, a memento that said something good about Rami’s wasted life, their father might want it.

      Karim put on jeans, a black T-shirt, sneakers and a soft black leather bomber jacket. Deserts were cold at night, even ones that arrowed into the heart of a city whose glow could be seen for miles.

      He opened his attaché case, grabbed the key and noted the scribbled address. A tag that read “4B” hung from the key itself. An apartment number, obviously.

      The valet brought him his car. Karim handed him another twenty. Then he entered the address into the GPS and followed its directions.

      Fifteen minutes later, he reached his destination.

      It was a nondescript building in a part of the city that was as different from the Las Vegas he’d so far seen as night from day.

      The area was bleak and shabby, as was the building itself …

      Karim frowned. He’d connected to global positioning satellites often enough to know that when they worked they were great and when they didn’t you could end up in the middle of nowhere.

      Yes, but this was the correct address.

      Had Rami run out of the ability to talk himself into the best hotels at some point during his time here?

      There was only one way to find out.

      Karim got out of the car, locked it, and headed toward the building.

      The outside door was unlocked. The vestibule stank. The stairs creaked; he stepped in something sticky and tried not to think about what it might be.

      One flight. Two. Three, and there it was, straight ahead. Apartment 4B, even though the “4” hung drunkenly to the side and the “B” was upside down.

      Karim hesitated.

      Did he really want to do this tonight? Was he up to what was surely going to be a dirty hovel? He remembered the time he’d flown out to the coast to visit Rami when he was in school. Dirty dishes in the sink and all over the counters. Spoiled food in the refrigerator. Clothes spilling out of the hamper.

      “Goddammit,” he said, under his breath.

      The truth was, he didn’t give a crap about the apartment being dirty. What mattered was that it would be filled with Rami’s things. The hotel rooms had not been; the hotels had all removed his brother’s clothes, his toiletries, and put them in storage.

      This would be different.

      And he was a coward.

      “A damned coward,” he said, and he stepped purposefully forward, stabbed the key into the lock, turned it—

      The door swung open.

      The first thing he noticed was the smell—not of dirt but of something pleasant. Sugar? Cookies?

      Milk?

      The second thing was that he wasn’t alone. There was someone standing maybe ten feet away …

      Not someone.

      A woman. She stood with her back to him, tall and slender and—

      And naked.

      His eyes swept over her. Her hair was a spill of pale gold down her shoulders; her spine was long and graceful. She had a narrow waist that emphasized the curve of her hips and incredibly long legs.

      Legs as long as sin.

      Hell. Wrong building. Wrong apartment. Wrong—

      The woman spun around. She wasn’t naked. She wore a thing that was barely a bra, covered in spangles. And a thong—a tiny triangle of glittery silver.

      It was a cheap outfit that made the most of a beautiful body, though her face was even more beautiful …

      And what did that matter at moment like this, when he had obviously wandered into the wrong place … and, dammit, her eyes were wide with terror?

      Karim held up his hands.

      “It’s all right,” he said quickly. “I made a mistake. I thought—”

      “I know precisely what you thought, you—you pervert,” the woman said, and before he could react she flew at him, a blur of motion with something in her hand.

      It was a shoe. A shoe with a heel as long and sharp as a stiletto.

      “Hey!” Karim danced back. “Listen to me. I’m trying to tell you some—”

      She slammed the shoe against him, aiming for his face, but he moved fast; the blow caught him in the shoulder. He grabbed her wrist and dragged her hand to her side.

      “Will you wait a minute? Just one damned minute—”

      “Wait?” Rachel Donnelly said. “Wait?” The perv from the lounge wanted her to wait? Wait so he could rape her? “The hell I will,” she snarled, and she wrenched her hand free of his, swung hard …

      This time, the heel of the shoe flashed by his face.

      That was the good news.

      The bad was that he muttered something and now he wasn’t defending himself; he was coming straight for her.

      Panting, she reacted with all her strength, but he was too big, too strong, too determined. A second later he had both her wrists in his hands and she was pinned against the wall.

      “Dammit, woman! Will you listen to me?”

      “There’s nothing to listen to. I know what you want. You were in the lounge tonight. I brought you drink after drink and I knew you were going to be trouble and I was right, here you are, and—and—”

      Her breath caught.

      Wrong.

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