“Yes.” Amazingly, it was true. “What was in those tablets?”
Nick smiled. “You’ll have to let me take you to London to find out.”
The words were as teasing as his smile, but they made her breath catch.
“You’re not being a tyrant,” she said.
“It’s late, and I’m tired. It takes too much energy to be a tyrant twenty-four hours a day.” He folded his arms along the back of the chair, propped his chin on his wrists. “Abdul finished checking you out.”
“Ah. Am I Mata Hari?”
“He says you live alone.”
Amanda sighed, shut her eyes and laid her head back. “He’s a genius.”
“He says you’re divorced.”
She put her index finger to her mouth, licked it, then checked an imaginary scorecard in the air.
“Why?”
Amanda’s eyes popped open. “Why what?”
“Why are you divorced?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You made everything about you my business when you crept into my room and started taking photographs.”
“God, are we back to that? I told you—”
“You were getting data so you could redo my apartment.” He reached down, picked up her foot. Amanda tried to jerk it back.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking off your shoes.” His hands were gentle though the tips of his fingers felt callused. Why would a sheikh who never did anything except order people around have callused fingers? she wondered dreamily, and closed her eyes as he began massaging her arch.
“Mmm.”
“Mmm, indeed.” Nick cleared his throat. What in hell was he doing? Well, he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew what he was doing; he was sitting in the one room in the overblown, overfurnished, overeverythinged penthouse that really belonged to him with a woman’s foot in his lap. And he was thinking something insane. Something totally, completely crazy.
He let go of Amanda’s foot, shoved back his chair and stood up.
“You didn’t do the mayor’s mansion.”
Amanda opened her eyes. “No,” she said wearily. “I didn’t do that penthouse, either.”
“Then why did you lie?”
“Dawn lied, not me. I’m a designer, but not the way she said.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’ve never had a real client.”
Abdul had said as much. “Not one?”
“Not unless you count my mother. And my stepbrother. But I’m a good designer. Damned good.”
“Don’t curse,” Nick said mildly. “It isn’t feminine.”
“Is it feminine for a woman to curl around a man like a vine?”
“What?”
“Deanna Whosis. The woman in that magazine photo. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to strangle you or say hello.”
Nick grinned, hitched a hip onto the edge of the desk and folded his arms. “You’re still tipsy, Ms. Benning.”
“I’m cold sober.” But if she was, why would she have asked him such a question? “She did it again tonight, too. She seems to think two objects can be in the same space at the same time.”
“Jealous?” Nick said with a little smile.
“Why on earth would I be?”
“Maybe because it’s a feminine trait.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“You haven’t really asked one.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t. You asked me about vines and the laws of physics, but what you really want to know is if I’m involved with Deanna.”
“I didn’t ask you that.”
“You didn’t have to. And the answer is no, I’m not. Not anymore.”
The answer surprised her. “But I saw—”
“I know what you saw. And I’m telling you, Deanna Burgess is history.”
Amanda licked her lips. “As of when?” she said softly, and held her breath, waiting for the answer.
“As of the minute I kissed you tonight,” Nick said, and as he did, he knew it was the truth.
Amanda stared at him. Then she got to her feet. “It’s late,” she said, because it was all she could think of to say. Had he really gotten rid of Deanna Burgess because of her? No. The idea was preposterous. It was crazy.
Mostly, it was incredibly exciting.
Nick rose, too. “Deanna is gone, Amanda. From my home and from my life.”
“I don’t—I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”
“Yes, you do.” He put his hand under her chin and tilted her face up. “And I know why you asked.”
“I don’t know what you’re…” Her breath hitched. He was moving his thumb gently over her mouth, tracing its contours. “Nick?”
“I like the way you say my name.”
He bent his head, his eyes locked to hers and followed the path his thumb had taken with his lips.
“Kiss me,” he said in a rough whisper. “Kiss me the way you did before.”
“No,” she said, and thrust her hands into his hair, pulled his head down to hers and kissed him.
Moments later, centuries later, she shuddered and pulled back.
“I didn’t come here for this.”
“No.” Nick bent his head, pressed his open mouth to the pulse racing in the hollow of her throat. “Neither did I.”
“Nick.” She put her hands on his chest to push him away. Instead, her fingers curled into the lapels of his tux. “I’m not a woman who sleeps around.”
“That’s fine. Because I’m not a man who believes in sharing.”
“And I’m not looking for a relationship. My divorce wasn’t pleasant. Neither was my marriage. It will be a long, long time before I get involved with another—”
Nick kissed her again, his mouth open and hot. She moaned, swayed, and his arms went around her.
“My life is planned,” she whispered. “I was my father’s devoted daughter, my mother’s rock, my husband’s puppet.”
“I don’t want any of that from you.”
“What do you want, then?”
He took her face in his hands. “I want you to be my mistress.”
CHAPTER SIX
IT WAS, she realized, a joke.
A bad joke, but a joke all the same. What else could it be?
A man she hardly knew, a man she’d done nothing but argue with, had just told her that he wanted her to be his mistress. He’d said it—no, he’d announced it—with certainty, as if it were an arrangement they’d discussed and agreed to.
A joke, absolutely. Or a sign of insanity…but was what the sheikh had said any more insane than what she’d been doing? Kissing him. Hanging on to him. Aching for him, this rude, self-important stranger…
This gorgeous, sexy, incredible man who’d held her gently when she felt ill.
Amanda’s head whirled. She stepped back, tugged down her skirt, smoothed a shaking hand over her hair. Homey little gestures, all of them. Well, who knew?
Maybe they’d restore her equilibrium.
Or maybe she’d misunderstood him. That was possible. After all, just a little while ago, she’d felt as if a crazed tap dancer was loose inside her skull. Could a headache make you hear voices? Could it leave you suffering from delusions?
Was she crazy, or was he?
“Amanda?”