Amanda had never brought a boy home. She’d never brought a man home, either; surely that ex-husband of hers didn’t qualify. He’d been a self-serving, emotionless phony. Marta had only figured out why Amanda married him after the marriage ended, when she realized her daughter had been looking for the father she’d never really had.
Marta lifted her glass of iced tea and took a delicate sip.
One thing was certain. No one could ever mistake Sheikh Nicholas al Rashid for a father figure. He was, to use the indelicate parlance of the day, a hunk.
And she had to stop thinking of him as Sheikh.
“Please,” he’d said, lifting her hand to his lips, “call me Nick.”
She looked at him, seated beside Amanda. He was watching Jonas, listening to him, but his concentration was on the woman at his side. There was no mistaking the deliberate brush of that hard-looking shoulder against hers, the flex of his hand along her hip.
If Nick and Amanda weren’t yet lovers, they would be, and soon. This was a man who always got what he wanted, and he wanted Amanda. But would he know what to do with her once he had her?
No, Marta thought, he wouldn’t.
Nick was like a much younger version of her own husband. He was strong, powerful and determined. He was also, she was certain, often unyielding and immovable. A successful monarch needed those traits to run his empire—Jonas to rule Espada, Nick to rule Quidar.
Men like that were difficult to deal with. They could break a woman’s heart with terrifying ease. It didn’t help that they also attracted women as readily as nectar attracted hummingbirds. And because men were men, they’d always want the freshest little flower with the brightest petals.
Marta sighed.
She waged a constant battle against time’s cruel ravages, but, paradoxically enough, time was her ally in matters of the heart. She’d come along late enough in Jonas’s life so that she could be fairly certain she was the last woman he’d want to taste. It wasn’t an especially sentimental view but it was a realistic, even reassuring one, because she loved her husband and would never willingly have given him up.
Amanda was enough like her so that she’d love the same way, once she found the man she really wanted. Marta could only hope Nick wasn’t that man. He had the look about him of a man who would love one woman with heart-stopping intensity, but only on his terms.
For a woman like her daughter, that would not work.
Amanda, Marta thought, Amanda, sweetie, what are you doing?
“…have known it instantly, Mrs. Baron, even if we’d met accidentally.”
Marta blinked. Nick was smiling at her, but she had no idea what he’d said.
“Sorry, Your Highness—”
“Nick, please.”
“Nick.” Marta smiled, too. “I’m afraid I missed that.”
“I said, I’d have known you were Amanda’s mother even if no one told me. You look enough alike to pass as sisters.”
“And you must have a bit of Irish in your blood,” Marta said, her smile broadening, “to be able to spout such blarney without laughing.”
Nick grinned. “It’s the truth, Mrs. Baron, though, actually, my mother always claimed she had an Irish grandfather.”
“Please. Call me Marta. Yes, now that you mention it, I think I’ve read that your mother was American.”
“She was, and proud of it, as I am proud of my American half. I’ve always felt very fortunate to be the product of two such extraordinary cultures.”
“One foot in the past,” Marta said, still smiling, “and one in the future. Which suits you best, I wonder?”
“Mother,” Amanda said, but Nick only chuckled.
“Both have their advantages. So far, I’ve never found it necessary to choose one over the other.”
“No. Why would you, when you can have the best of both worlds? Here you are, blue jeans and all—”
“It’s difficult to handle horses in a suit,” Nick said, and smiled.
Marta smiled, too. “You know what I mean, Nick. Any time you wish, you’re free to turn into the ruler of your own kingdom, do as you will, come and go as you please, answering to no one.”
“Mother, for heaven’s sake—”
“No.” Nick took his arm from around Amanda, lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “No, your mother’s quite right. Perhaps it’s a simplification, but it’s pretty much an accurate description of my life.” He rose to his feet. “Marta? I noticed a garden behind the house. Would you be kind enough to walk me through it?”
“Of course.” Marta rose, too. “Do you like flowers, Nick?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “Especially those that are beautiful and have the strength to flourish in difficult climes.”
Marta smiled and took his arm as they strolled down the steps, along the path and into the garden.
“There aren’t many flowers that can manage that,” she said after a few minutes.
“No, there aren’t.” Nick paused and turned toward her. “Let’s not speak in metaphors, Marta. You don’t like me, do you?”
“It isn’t that I don’t like you. It’s…” Marta hesitated. “Look, I’m not old-fashioned. I’m not going to ask you what your intentions are with regard to my daughter.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He spoke politely, but his words were edged with steel. “Because it’s none of your business. Our relationship, Amanda’s and mine, doesn’t concern anyone but us.”
“I know. Like it or not, my little girl is all grown up. But her welfare does concern me. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
Nick jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “And you think I do?”
“No, of course not. It’s just…A man like you can hurt a woman unintentionally.”
“A man like me,” he said coldly. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I’m not trying to insult you…” Marta gave a little laugh. “But I’m doing a fine job of it, aren’t I?” She put her hand lightly on his arm. “Nick, you remind me of my husband in so many ways. All the things that make you successful can be difficult for a woman to deal with.”
“Are you saying being successful is a drawback in a relationship?”
“On the contrary. It’s a wonderful asset. But sometimes success can lead to a kind of selfishness.” Marta clicked her tongue. “Just listen to me! I sound like one of those horrible newspaper advice columnists.” She looped her arm through Nick’s and drew him forward. “Jonas would tell me I’m meddling.”
“Well, he’d be right.” Nick softened the words with a grin. “But I understand. You love your daughter. And I—I…” God, what was he saying? “I can promise you, Marta, I care about her, too.”
“Good. And now, let me show you the vegetables I grow, way in the back garden. Tomatoes, actually. Hundred-dollar tomatoes, Jonas calls them.” Marta smiled. “And, Nick? I’m very happy to have you here at Espada. Whatever happens, a woman should have at least one man in her life who looks at her the way you look at Amanda.”
“Every man who sees her must look at her that way,” Nick said, and cleared his throat.
“Well, let me put that another way, then. I’ve never seen a man look at her the way you do.”
Nick stopped in his tracks. “Not even her husband?”
Marta shook her head. “Especially not her husband.”
“He must have been an idiot.”
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Marta laughed. “What a perceptive man you are, Nicholas al Rashid!”
* * *
Nick spent most of the remaining afternoon at the stables with Jonas, the ranch foreman and the vet. By evening, he was satisfied that the Arabian stallion was suffering from nothing more serious than a minor sprain and a major case of nerves.
“Who could possibly blame him?” Nick had said when he’d come back up to the house. “He’s gone from Quidar to Texas. That’s a one-hundred-eighty-degree change in any life.”
A one-hundred-eighty-degree change indeed, Amanda thought as she slipped into the emerald-green dress Marta had loaned her to wear for dinner.
Before last night, the only thing she’d known about Nick was that she didn’t like him. She liked him now, though. More than was reasonable or logical…or safe.
Her mother had tried to tell her that when she’d brought her the dress and a matching pair of shoes.
“Good thing we’re about the same size,” Marta had said with a smile. “Not that you don’t look charming in denim, but Jonas likes to dress for dinner. He’d never admit it, of course. He lays the blame on me.”
Amanda sighed. “I just wish I hadn’t listened to Nick when he told me to pack nothing but jeans.”
“A good thing his valet didn’t.” Marta grinned. “That was a delightful story the sheikh told, about unpacking his bag and finding a dark suit tucked in with his riding boots.”
“Mmm. That was probably the work of his secretary. That’s what Nick calls him anyway, this funny little man who bows himself in and out of rooms.”
Marta plucked a loose thread from the dress’s hem. “Well, after all, sweetie, Nick is heir to the throne of Quidar.”
Amanda held the dress up against herself and looked in the mirror. “It’s perfect. Thanks, Mom.”
“I gather you didn’t even know you were coming to Espada.”
“No. Nick didn’t mention it. He just said we were flying somewhere.”
“And you said you’d go with him.”
Was that a gentle note of censure in her mother’s voice? Color rose in Amanda’s cheeks as the women’s eyes met in the mirror.