Saved by the Sheikh! / Million-Dollar Marriage Merger: Saved by the Sheikh! / Million-Dollar Marriage Merger
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Casting a somewhat mocking smile at her, Rafiq ordered Perrier for himself. And Tiffany wished she’d thought of that herself.
By some magic, the waiter was back in seconds with the drinks, and then Rafiq dismissed him.
She shivered as the sudden silence, the silken heat of the night and the sheer imposing presence of the man beside her all closed in on her senses. They were alone. How had this happened? He’d offered to buy her a drink … to lend a sympathetic ear. She’d imagined a busy bar and a little kindness.
Not this.
He turned his head. The trickle of awareness grew to a torrent as she fell into the enigmatic depths of his dark eyes.
Tiffany let out a deep breath that she’d been unaware of holding, and told herself that Rafiq was only a man. A man. Her father was a well-known film director. She’d met some of the most sought-after men in the world; men who graced covers of glitzy magazines and were featured on lists of women’s most secret fantasy lovers. So why on earth was this one intimidating her?
The only explanation that made any sense was that losing her passport, her money, had stripped away the comfort of her identity and put her at a disadvantage. No longer her parents’ pampered princess, she was struggling to survive … and the unexpected reversal had disoriented her.
Of course, it wasn’t him. It had nothing to do with him. Or with the tantalizing air of reserve that invited her to crash through it.
This was about her.
About her confusion. It was easy to see how he had become appealing, an unexpected pillar of strength in a world gone crazy.
The rationality of the conclusion comforted her and allowed her to smile up at him with hastily mustered composure, to say in a carefully modulated tone, “I’m sorry, I’ve been so tied up in talking about me. What brings you to Hong Kong?”
His reply was terse. “Business.”
“With Sir Julian?”
A slight nod was the only response she got. And a renewed blast of that do-not-intrude-any-further reserve that he was so good at displaying. He might as well have worn a great, big sign with ten-foot-high red letters that read Danger: Keep Out.
“Hotel business?”
“Why do you think that?”
Tiffany took a sip of her drink. It was deliciously sweet and cool. “Because he’s famous for his hotels—are you trying to develop a resort?”
“Do I look like a developer?”
She took in the angled cheekbones starkly highlighted by the lamplight; his white shirt with dark stripes that stood out in the darkness; his fingers clenching the glass that he held. Even though he should’ve appeared relaxed sitting there, he hummed with tension.
“I’m not sure what a developer is supposed to look like. People are individuals. Not one size fits all.”
He inspected her silently until she shifted. “What do you do, Tiffany? What are you doing in Hong Kong?”
“Uh …” She had no intention of confessing that she didn’t do very much at all. She’d completed a degree in English literature and French … and found she still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her life. Nor did she have any intention of telling him about her abortive trip with her school friend, Sally. About how Sally had hooked up with a guy and how Tiffany had felt like a third wheel in their developing romance. She’d already revealed far too much; she certainly didn’t want Rafiq to know how naive she’d been. So she smiled brightly at him, took a sip of her drink and said casually, “Just traveling here and there.”
“Your family approve of this carefree existence?”
She prickled. “My family knows that I can look after myself.”
That was debatable. Tiffany doubted her father would ever believe she was capable of taking care of herself. Yet she also knew she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want Rafiq to know quite how isolated she was right now.
“I’ve been keeping in close touch with them.”
“By cell phone.”
It was a statement. She didn’t deny it, didn’t tell him that her cell phone had been in the stolen purse. Or that she didn’t even know where her father was right now. Or about her mother’s emotional devastation. Far safer to let him believe that she was only a text away from communicating with her family.
“Why don’t they send you money for the fare that you need?”
“They can’t afford to.”
It was true. Sort of. Tiffany thought about her mother’s tears when she’d called her yesterday to arrange exactly that. Linda Smith née Canning had been a B-grade actress before her marriage to Taylor Smith; she hadn’t worked for nearly two decades. The terms of her prenuptial agreement settled a house in Auckland on her, a far from liquid asset. It would take time to sell, and Mom needed her father’s consent to borrow against it. In the meantime there were groceries to buy, staff to pay, bills for the hired house in L.A…. and, according to her mother, not much money in the joint account. Add a husband who’d made sure he couldn’t be found, and Linda’s panic and distress had been palpable.
So, no, her mom was not in a position to help right now. She needed a lawyer—and Tiffany intended to arrange the best lawyer she could find as soon as she got back home. The more expensive, the better, she vowed darkly. Her father would pay those bills in due course.
But Rafiq wouldn’t be interested in any of that.
“How did we get back to talking about me?” she asked. “I’m not terribly interesting.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” His voice was smoother than velvet.
Tiffany leaned a little closer and caught the glimmer of starlight in his dark eyes. A frisson of half fear, half anticipation feathered down her spine. She drew sharply back.
She must be mad ….
Sucking in a breath, she blurted out, “Sir Julian was born in New Zealand. He owns a historic home in Auckland that often appears in lifestyle magazines.” The change of subject seemed sudden, but at least it got them back onto neutral territory. “His father was English.”
Unexpectedly, Rafiq didn’t take the bait to find out more about his business acquaintance. “So you’re from New Zealand? I couldn’t place your accent.”
“Because of my father’s job, some of my schooling took place in the States, so that would make it even harder to identify.” Her parents had relocated her from an Auckland all-girl school while they’d tried to juggle family life with her father’s filming schedule. It had been awkward. Eventually, Tiffany and her mother had returned to live in Auckland. But her mother had frequently flown to Los Angeles to act as hostess for the lavish parties he threw at the opulent Malibu mansion he’d rented—and to keep an eye on her father. Tiffany had been seventeen the first time she’d read about her father’s affairs in a gossip magazine. Like the final piece in a puzzle, it had completed a picture she hadn’t even known was missing an essential part.
“Your father was in the military?”
She didn’t want to talk about Taylor Smith. “No—but he traveled a lot.”
“Ah, like a salesman or something?”
“Something like that.” She took another sip of her drink and set it down on a round glass-topped table. “What about you? Where do you live?”
He considered her. “I’m from Dhahara—it’s a desert kingdom, near Oman.”
“How fascinating!”
“Ah, you find me fascinating ….”
Tiffany stared at him.
Then she detected the wry mockery glinting in his eyes. “Not you!” She gave a gurgle of laughter and relaxed a little. “Where you live fascinates me.”
“Now you break my heart.”
“Are you flirting with me?” she asked suspiciously.
“If you must ask, then I must be losing my touch.” He stretched out his long legs and loosened his tie.
The gesture brought her attention to his hands. In the reflected glow of the lamplight his fingers were lean and square-tipped, and dark against the white of his shirt. The gold of a signet ring winked in the light. His hand had stilled. Under his fingertips his heart would be beating like—
“You might not think I’m fascinating but most women think I’m charming,” he murmured, his eyes half-closed, his mood indecipherable.
She reared back. Did he know what was happening to her? Why her pulse had gone crazy? “You? Charming?”
“Absolutely.”
Tiffany swallowed. “Most women must be mad.”
A glint entered his eyes. “You think so?”
Danger! Danger! She recklessly ignored the warning, too caught up in the surge of adrenalin that provoking him brought. “I know so.”
“You don’t believe I could be charming?” He smiled, his teeth startlingly white in the darkening night, and a bolt of metallic heat shot through Tiffany’s belly.
“Never!” she said fiercely.
“Well then, I’ll have to convince you otherwise.”
He bent his head. Slowly, oh, far too slowly. Her heart started to pound. There was plenty of time for her to duck away, to smack his face as she’d earlier in the cab told herself he richly deserved. But she didn’t. Instead she waited, holding her breath, watching his mouth—why hadn’t she noticed how beautiful it was?—come closer and closer, until it finally settled on hers.
And then she sighed.
A soft whisper of sound.
He kissed with mastery. His lips pressed against hers, moving along the seam, playing. tantalizing, never demanding more than she was prepared to give. No other part of him touched her. After an age Tiffany let her lips part. He didn’t take advantage. Instead he continued to taste her with playful kisses until she groaned in frustration.
He needed no further invitation. He plundered her mouth, hungrily seeking out secrets she hadn’t known existed. Passion seized her. Quickly followed by a rush of hunger. His hand came up and cupped the back of her neck. The heat of his touch sent quivers along undiscovered nerve endings.
Tiffany swayed, eyes closed beneath the sensory onslaught.
At last, an eternity later, he lifted his head and gazed down at her with hooded eyes.
“So,” he said with some satisfaction, his fingertips rubbing in soft circles against the sensitized nape of her neck, “you will agree that most women are right. You are charmed.”
Tiffany reeled under the deluge of what could only be cool calculation.
“I think that you are the most arrogant and conceited playboy—” she spat that out “—I have ever met.”
For an instant he stared at her, and she steeled herself for retaliation … of a sexual kind.
He threw his head back and laughed.
“Thank you,” Rafiq said when he was finally through laughing, bowing his head with mock grace, his eyes still gleaming with hilarity. “I am honored.”
And Tiffany wished with wild regret that she’d smacked his face until her hand stung while she’d had the chance. Through lips that still burned from his kiss, she said, “You don’t charm me.”
Three
His amusement instantly evaporated.
Rafiq suppressed the flare of annoyance and studied her dispassionately. Her hostility surprised him. He’d thought she’d leap at the opportunity to seduce him. Had she gauged he was not easily swayed? Intrigued by the idea, he assessed her. Was the taunt a ploy to capture his attention? Was it possible that she’d known exactly who he was? Researched him?
He shook off the sudden concern.
No, she might be street-smart. But she was a nobody—an insignificant foreign girl illegally working in a dubious club in the backstreets of Hong Kong. He dismissed his apprehension.
“Don’t look at me like that, you arrogant jerk.”
No one talked to him like that. Certainly not a woman like her. With a growl he grabbed her hand and yanked her toward him. She made a little squeaking sound as she landed in his lap. Rafiq softened his hold, stroking his fingers in long sweeps along her spine. Bending his head, he nuzzled the soft skin of her neck, murmuring sweet words. Her gasp quickly turned to a moan of delight. He marshaled every seductive trick he knew. She responded like a moonflower opening, overwhelming him with her sweet response.
Rafiq fought against the intoxicating pleasure her soft body unlocked. Told himself he was still in control. After all, he’d only teased her … flirted with her … kissed her to determine how far Tiffany was prepared to take this scam.
It was a test.
He told himself she’d failed. Dismally. Even as she’d kissed him like angel. He should’ve been thrilled he’d been proved right.
Instead he drowned in her unresisting softness.
When she shoved at his chest, he blinked rapidly in surprise and shook his head to clear it. “What?”
She scrambled to her feet, her breathing unsteady, her eyes blazing. “You misled me. I didn’t come here for this. I’m not so desperate for a place to sleep.”
Before she could spin away, he caught her arm.
“Tiffany, wait. You insult both of us. You might think I’m a jerk but I never assumed you came with me to find a bed for the night.” Although perhaps the possibility should’ve occurred to him.
There was something about her that made him want to believe she wasn’t like that. Maybe it was her wide brown eyes that gave her such an air of sincerity. Or the baby-soft skin beneath his fingertips …
He brushed the observation aside. She was a woman—of course her skin was soft. It made her no different from a million other women.
Time to get rid of her, before she had him believing the tales she’d spun. He dropped her arm and drew his wallet from the back of his pants, flipping it open to extract a five-hundred-dollar bill. To his surprise his fingers still shook from the aftershocks of the kiss. “Here, this is your tip for serving me drinks—that should help cover your accommodation for a couple of nights.” If indeed, that story was true.
Bowing her head, Tiffany mumbled, “I can’t take that.”
“Why not?” By Allah, she drove him mad. What did she want from him? “I always intended to give you something to tide you over.”
Rafiq tried to figure out her agenda. He still wasn’t sure what she was after. She was such a curious mix of sophistication and spontaneity. On the one hand she’d almost convinced him her purse and passport had been stolen and all she wanted was a few dollars for a couple of nights’ budget accommodation. Hah, he was even ready to give it to her. In the next breath she’d told him she couldn’t afford the airfare home, leaving him certain that he was being manipulated by an expert.
He couldn’t work out whether she was simply a victim or extremely smart.
But his conscience wouldn’t allow him to leave her homeless in case she really had been the victim of petty crime. He thought of his cousin Zara, of his brother’s wife, Megan. What if it had been one of the women of his family in such a predicament? He would hope that someone would come to their aid.
“Take it, please.”
She stared down at the note in his hand. “It’s too much. After that kiss it would feel … wrong,” she mumbled, her hair blocking him from seeing her face.
He couldn’t help noticing the catch in her voice.
“Okay.” Growing impatient with himself, for being so aware of the woman, he opened the billfold again and extracted a twenty and a ten before shoving the other note back. “Take this then—it’s not as good a tip as you deserve, but at least you won’t suspect my motives.”
She tilted her head back and stared at him for a long moment. “Thank you for understanding.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes.
“Oh, don’t cry,” he said roughly.
“I can’t help it.” She sniffed and wiped her fingers across her eyes. “I’m sorry for calling you a jerk.”
Rafiq found himself smiling. She enchanted him, this woman whom he couldn’t get a fix on. One minute he had her down as the cleverest schemer he’d ever met, the next she appeared as sweetly innocent as his cousin Zara.
She leaned forward. The scent of gardenias surrounded him. She rested her palm against his chest, her hand warm through the fine cotton of his shirt. Rafiq’s breath caught in his throat.
But the hunger he felt for Tiffany bore no resemblance to the sisterly love he showered on Zara.
By the time Tiffany rose on tiptoes and pressed soft lips against his cheek, he was rigid with reaction.
“Thank you, you’ve saved my life.”
She smelled so sweet, the body brushing against him so feminine, that Rafiq couldn’t stop his arms from encircling her. He drew her up against him. “Oh, Tiffany, what am I supposed to make of you?”
“I’m not very complicated at all—what you see is what you get,” she muttered against his shirt front.
He felt her smile against his thundering heart, heard her breath quicken as his arms tightened convulsively around her … and was lost.
A long time seemed to pass before Rafiq lifted his lips from hers.
As Tiffany’s fingers crept up his shirt and hooked into his loosened tie, Rafiq forgot that he’d started this driven by perverse curiosity and affronted male pride, to see if Tiffany would kiss him when she’d vowed that she wasn’t affected by his brand of charm.
It had all changed.
His tightly leashed control was in shreds.
All he could think about was tasting her again … and again.
Her fingers froze. “What are we doing?” She sounded as befuddled as he felt. “Anyone could walk in on us through those sliding doors.”
“No.” He shook his head. “That’s not true. This private pool and deck are part of my suite—my key card activated the entry doors onto the deck.”
Her breath caught—an audible sound. “Your suite? You said we’d have a drink…. I would never have entered your suite.”
She’d withdrawn. Her eyes had grown dark and distrustful. Rafiq gathered she was making unfavorable assumptions about his motives. He couldn’t blame her. “The bar downstairs is noisy—and full of inebriated men at this time of night. We wouldn’t have been able to hear ourselves think.” Much less talk.
“Oh …”
Unable to help himself he stroked a finger along the curve of her jaw. Soft curls trailed over the back of his hand. “You are very beautiful, do you know that?”
“Not beautiful.” She sounded distracted.
He stilled his fingers, and cupped the side of her face. Tilting it up, he looked down into her wide eyes. “Beautiful.”
She shook her head. “Not me. Pretty, maybe, at a stretch. But in this light you wouldn’t even be able to tell.”
No one could call her vain. “My eyes are not the only senses attuned to you. I don’t need bright intrusive light to remember that your eyes are the haunting tawny-brown shade of the desert sands streaked with the burnished gold of the setting sun. I don’t need light to feel.” Gently he rubbed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Your mouth is the crushed red of the satiny petals in the rose gardens of Qasr Al-Ward.” His fingers explored her cheeks. “Your skin is softer than an almond blossom. Your cheekbones are carefully sculpted by a masterful hand to ensure that as you grow older you will only grow more beautiful.”
Tiffany felt herself color.
A beat of time elapsed. Tiffany tried to summon the anger that had scorched her only a moment before when she’d discovered he’d brought her to his suite, but it had vanished. His touch, the heat of his lean body, the force of his soft words had overwhelmed her. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. She’d never met anyone remotely like him. He was way out her league.
Finally she gave up trying to understand the emotion that flooded her. Linking her fingers behind his neck, she pulled his mouth back to hers, his hair thick and silken under her fingers. His thigh moved against her hip, making her aware of the hard, muscled strength of him. When the kiss ended, Tiffany discovered that her heart was pounding.
Tilting her head back, she looked up into his face. His eyes glowed, he’d warmed, he was a long way from being the remote, distant stranger. A heady sense of being on a precipice of discovery overtook her.
Before she could speak, Rafiq grasped her hand. “Come.”
He led her through a pair of French doors into a darkened room. A flick of a switch and dim lighting washed the room, revealing a king-size bed in a sumptuously decorated room.
Tiffany hesitated for a microsecond as Rafiq shrugged off his shirt. Then he turned her in his arms and the moment of cool analysis was gone.
Her wide, elasticized belt gave…. She heard something fall, and dismissed it. The zip on the back of her borrowed dress rasped down. His hands closed over the shoulder straps and eased them down her arms along with the tiny, dainty bag looped around her wrist. She didn’t have any time to feel exposed … or naked. Only relief that the tight dress was gone. Rafiq drew her against his bare torso, his skin smooth and warm against hers.
His fingers tangled in her hair, before moving in small circles down her back, setting flame to each inch of flesh he massaged.
Tiffany flung her head back. A moan escaped. Desire flared uncontrollably within her and her nipples peaked beneath the modest black bra she wore. She didn’t even feel Rafiq loosen the back before the plain bra gave and he removed it, tossing it over the bed end. Then he was on his knees in front of her, easing her heels off, sliding the cotton briefs down her legs, his touch trailing fire down the insides of her thighs.
She started to shake.
The explosive hunger that consumed her was unfamiliar. Powerful. Incredible. A new experience. He buried his face in her belly. Goose bumps broke out over her skin as sensation shook her to her soul. Her hands clutched at his hair, the texture rough as she closed her fingers over the short strands.
“I’m going to pleasure you—but we’re not going to make love,” he murmured.
Relief, instantly followed by a crazy kind of disappointment spread through her. “Why won’t we make love?”
Did he think he was too good for her?
“I’m not … equipped.”
“Equipped?” Then it struck her what he meant. “Oh.”
The next thought was that if he didn’t carry condoms around with him, then he didn’t do casual sex, either. It made her almost start to like the man who had her in such a sweat.
Perversely, it made her want him to make love to her.
Tiffany reached for the puddle of her dress on the floor and found her bag. Opening it she extracted the condom that Renate had stuck in. “I only have one.”
“Better than nothing,” he growled.
Then he had her on the bed and everything started to move very fast. She closed her eyes as his mouth teased her nipple, arousing sensations she’d never experienced. A wild, keening sound broke from her throat as his teeth teased her burgeoning flesh. His hands were everywhere…. He knew exactly what to do to reduce her to a state of quivering arousal. Her body turned fluid. It seemed to know exactly what he wanted … how to respond to his every move.
When he finally moved over her, her legs parted. Opening her eyes, she glimpsed the tense line of his jaw, the fullness of a bottom lip softened by passion. He shifted into the space between her legs, his body so male, so unfamiliar against her own. He moved his hips, and Tiffany tensed, fighting the instinct to resist.
The pressure. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. He wasn’t going to fit. Staring at the mouth that had wreaked so much pleasure, she waited uncertainly. Suddenly her body gave, and the pressure eased. The shudders subsided. Her heart expanded as he sank forward. A glow of warmth swept her. Her hands fluttered along the indent of his spine as a powerful, primal emotion swept her.
Tiffany thought she was going to cry with joy, at the beauty of it all.
The warmth spiraled into a fierce, desperate heat as he moved within her. As the friction built, she could feel herself straining to reach a place she’d never been. Her body tightened, no longer hers, taken over by the passion that ripped through her.