Sheikh Without a Heart

A man like him, a sheikh, would surely have a suite, an enormous, glamorous set of rooms reserved for the rich and famous.

She’d demand they stay in the suite’s sitting room and that he leave the door open, though she suspected he would not repeat that kiss.

She was certain she’d figured right, that the kiss had been a mark of male dominance. Like an alpha wolf marking the boundaries of his turf by peeing on rocks and trees, she thought.

The image made her want to laugh.

But she didn’t.

There was nothing funny in being dragged off by a man who thought he owned the world and everyone in it.

The car flew past Circus Circus, past the Venetian, past the Flamingo.

Rachel swung toward her abductor. To hell with not asking him where they were going. He was using mental and emotional muscle to get what he wanted. It was what he excelled at.

The thing she had to do was fight it.

“I want to know where you’re taking me.”

“I told you,” he said calmly. “Somewhere quiet, where we can discuss our situation.”

“Our situation?” Rachel snorted. “We have no situation.”

Ahead, a traffic light glowed crimson. Karim slowed the car, brought it to a stop.

“You would be wise,” he said softly, “not to take me for a fool.”

“I asked you a simple question. Surely you can give me a simple answer. Where are we—?”

The light turned green. He made a turn. They were heading away from the Strip, away from the hotels.

A lump of fear lodged in her throat.

The only thing that could possibly draw a visitor to this part of town was the airport.

“Either you tell me where you’re going or—”

“We’re going to my plane.”

Full-blown panic flooded through her.

“I am not getting on a plane!”

“Yes,” he said in a quiet voice that resonated with command, “you are.”

“No!”

“We’re flying to New York.”