A robe hung on the back of the door and Bree quickly removed her well-traveled clothing and stacked it on a wide marble vanity before slipping off her watch and submerging herself in her own private spa. The warmth eased the ache in her muscles and as she scrubbed away a day’s worth of grit and grime, the tension that had knotted deep in her stomach since her father’s death seemed to unfurl a tad. After washing and rinsing her long, dark hair, she rested back against the side of the tub and closed her eyes, enjoying a brief moment of solitude before the water cooled.

  Chilled now, as much from the dropping water temperature as from lack of sleep, she drained the tub and dried off, then slipped on the thick terry robe and walked back into the bedroom. She had no idea how much time had passed and there didn’t seem to be a clock around that she could find. Apparently jeans on a woman weren’t the only thing unacceptable in Amare’s world. She’d left her watch back in the bathroom and she could walk back in there and get it, but her legs felt like lead and all she wanted to do at that moment was sit.

  She sank down onto the bed then fell back. A few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt anything and what if there was another crying baby on the flight home? She wouldn’t get any sleep at all. No. She’d just close her eyes for a minute and then she’d get dressed and meet Amare, just like he’d asked. She had an hour after all. An hour was plenty of time…

  Bree curled into a ball and drifted off to sleep on dreams of a handsome, young Sheik with a wicked sexy smile and a voice like melted chocolate who smelled like sandalwood and exotic spice and looked so very, very nice riding her off into a beautiful sunset.

  ***

  The next time Bree opened her eyes, the room was bathed in shadows with only a sliver of moonlight peeking from between the thick velvet curtains drawn over the windows. She glanced down to find herself still wearing the bath robe and somehow she’d gotten beneath the bed covers. She turned her head and squinted at a lamp glowing from the sitting room area. After a long stretch, she sat up and scratched her head, then threw her legs over the side of the bed and walked to the door, her head still fuzzy from sleep. Waking up had never been her forte.

  Outside, a maid sat on the small couch across from the suite. At the sight of Bree, she pushed to her feet and scurried down the hall. Weird. She closed the door again and used the bathroom before re-emerging into the bedroom. It seemed like she was forgetting something, but for the life of her she couldn’t seem to remember what it was. Coffee. She definitely needed some caffeine to get her sleepy brain working again.

  She plopped back down on the bed and reached for the hotel phone that was always on the nightstand, but her hand hit nothing but wood. She wrinkled her nose and glanced over, blinking several times before her memory began to kick in.

  Al-Sarid. She’d come here to bring her father’s paintings back home. She’d come to the Sharqi palace and had a run in with its stubborn and devastating gorgeous owner. She’d been invited by him to tour his lands before catching her flight home.

  Home.

  The painting.

  Bree sprang to her feet, flustered. Maybe it wasn’t too late to catch her flight. Maybe they had a later one she could switch to if it were. Maybe Amare hadn’t noticed that she’d completely flaked out on him and left him waiting by the stairs. She located her precious artwork still leaning against the wall where she’d left it earlier, thank God, then she went in search of her other things.

  After hustling to the bathroom and finding her old clothes gone and only her watch remaining, she stalked back into the bedroom and tugged on the clothes Amare had left earlier. No wonder that maid had hightailed it out of there at first sight of her. Bree cursed as she slipped her feet into the delicate gold slippers, noticing absently that everything fit her body perfectly, like it had been custom made just for her. Being pushy with your hospitality was one thing. Stealing a woman’s clothes and holding her hostage was something else entirely.

  A quick check in the mirror showed all her important parts were covered and she ran her fingers through her tousled hair before stalking out the door to find her less-than-gracious host and give him a piece of her mind. She made it four steps before barreling into a broad muscled chest.

  She glanced up into Amare’s dark eyes and became aware of him in stages—his strong fingers gripping her arms, the heat of his body radiating through her thin, silk outfit, the warm scent of clean male and expensive cologne, just as delicious as before. She stepped quickly back from him as if burnt. “Excuse me.”

  “Why?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his deep voice. “Have you done something wrong?”

  “I ran into you.”

  “Perhaps I was in the way.”

  Dammit. He had no right to be all nice and sweet after what he pulled. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze direct. “You took my clothes. And you didn’t wake me. I missed our tour and now I’ve probably missed my flight.”

  He stepped closer to her once more, his dark brown eyes far too perceptive for her liking. “Is that why you’re upset? You were very tired. I thought you could use the rest. There will be time for a tour later.”

  “No, there won’t.” She crossed her arms and held her ground. “I need to call the airport and see if there is another flight back to the States.”

  “Nonsense. You will take my private jet.”

  “No. I will take Air Emirates like I did on the way over, thank you very much.”

  “Are all American women as stubborn as you?”

  “Are all Al-Sarid men as arrogant as you?”

  They stared at each other across the expanse of a few feet and Bree refused to be the first to look away. Unfortunately, he seemed to be as familiar with the concept of a standoff as she was.

  After a few tense seconds, he smiled and she did her best not to gape. The gesture transformed his already handsome face into a thing of chiseled beauty. Frazzled, she dropped her gaze to the floor, away from his tanned, smooth skin and his even, white teeth and the hint of dark stubble visible just beneath his firm jawline.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked and it took her a moment to realize that he was inquiring about food.

  “No.” Yes. Her stomach growled and she clasped her arms tighter around herself to muffle the noise. No luck, apparently, if his raised brow was any indication. “Fine. Maybe a little.’

  “I’ll wake the kitchen staff and have them bring you something.”

  “No.” She didn’t want him drag those poor people out of bed. “It’s fine, really. Just show me where the kitchen is and I can make myself a quick bite.”

  “Guests do not cook their own food.” Amare pulled his phone from his pocket, but before he could dial, she snatched it from him.

  “I said I can get it. Let me get it.”

  “Give me the phone,” he told her, his tone imperious.

  “No.” Bree backed up a step, hiding the device behind her back. “Not until you promise not to call anyone.”

  Amare shook his head and stepped aside. “Down the stairs, through the hallway to the left, then take a right at the end.”

  “Thank you.” She walked past him and headed in the direction he’d indicated. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  She’d made it all the way to the ground level when she heard him call from the second floor landing, “I believe you are forgetting something, Bree.”

  The way he said her name, quite and smooth and with a touch of exotic burr, made her inside flutter. She stopped halfway across the large marble foyer and looked up at him. “And what might that be?”

  “My phone?” He descended the stairs toward her, his long legs and lean form eating up the distance in a few short paces. “May I have it please?”

  A deal was a deal and far be it from her not to keep her end of the bargain. Her father might’ve been miserly when it came to affection and special occasions, but he’d raised her right. She set it on the large granite topped table beside her and continued on toward her destination. “There’s your stupid phone.”

  Behind her his footsteps echoed off the marble floor, but she didn’t dare turn around to see if he was following her. That could be interpreted as a sign of weakness and right now she needed all the strength she could get.

  At the end of the hall she turned right and found herself entering the fanciest, most enormous kitchen she’d ever seen. Every corner of the space seemed to sparkle with stainless steel, chef’s grade appliances—multiple ovens, extended gas stove tops, built in double refrigerators and freezers, and ample work stations. It was a cook’s paradise. Yanking open the fridge, she located eggs, ham, cheese, and a crisper basket full of vegetables then dug in the large oak cabinets and drawers until she found a mixing bowl and a whisk, a knife, and a spatula.

  She’d just started whipping together omelets when a prickle of awareness danced over her skin. Bree didn’t even have to look up to know Amare had entered the room. She’d thought that sleep would help with her little problem where he was concerned. Too bad she’d thought wrong.

  After a brief glance in his direction she kept her gaze focused on chopping the ham into chunks and dicing her green peppers, definitely not at the way his body draped against the doorway in pure male sexiness or the hint of tanned male throat exposed by his loosened tie and the undone button at his collar. No. Definitely not at those.

  “What are you making?” He strolled closer to her and leaned his hands on the opposite side of the metal table from her.

  She added some chopped scallions to the mix, tossed it all in her bowl then poured it all into a buttered pan she’d set on the burner to warm. “Omelets. Why?”

  “I like omelets.”

  She gave him a side glance. Of course he did. “There’s enough for two, if you want one.”

  He smiled again and her stomach clenched. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “My mom died when I was young so it was just me, my dad and my brothers for a long time. When I got old enough, he had the neighbor lady show me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at improvising.”

  “I bet you have.” He watched her closely and she had the distinct feeling they weren’t discussing cooking anymore. “I can’t imagine life with a temperamental artist would have been easy.”

  Bree flipped the omelets then pulled two plates from a nearby shelf and divided the food into two portions. She turned to him with a plate and a fork, her expression deliberately bland. “I didn’t grow up in a palace, if that’s what you mean, but I survived just fine.”

  Chapter 4

  Amare took a seat on a stool at the large granite island at the center of the room then watched while she gathered her own plate and silverware before joining him. Good manners dictated he not eat without her. They did not, however, preclude him from noticing how exquisitely the pink of her outfit complimented her coloring or the fascinating sway of her hips beneath the billowy silk pants.

  Instead of taking a seat though, she paused beside him. “C’mon.”

  “Where are we going?” He frowned.

  They left the kitchen and walked back to her rooms where she closed the door behind him then settled into one of the large arm chairs in her small sitting room. He lingered near the door, not quite sure what to do. Growing up, meals were served in his father’s grand hall and served by the wait staff. One simply did not snack in one’s private suite, unless one wanted to get a serious dose of punishment—as he’d unfortunately learned first hand on his tenth birthday.

  She balanced her plate on the arm of her chair while she placed a napkin on her lap and glanced over at him. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

  He walked over to the chair opposite hers and sat on the edge, careful not to drop a crumb on the expensive thick carpets. Perhaps this eating in one’s bedroom was some strange American custom he wasn’t familiar with. He held his plate on his knees and hiked his chin toward her. “You should eat while your food is warm.”

  “And maybe you should tell me where the hell my clothes are. Someone stole them from my bathroom.”

  “No one stole anything.” He cut a small bite of his omelet and ate it. The buttery goodness of the eggs blended with the creamy cheese and the salty ham perfectly offset the spicy crunch of the peppers. His eyes widened and his tone emerged more astonished than he’d intended. “This is excellent.”

  “Thanks.” She gave him a small smile. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. I am good at a few things.”

  He took another, larger bite of food and watched her from beneath his lashes. He had no doubt she was good at a great many things. Too bad they wouldn’t have time to explore them all. “Not surprise. Just intrigue. And your clothes are in my laundry. The maid will return them to you promptly when they are done.”

  “Good. I’ll call the airline when we’re done and book a flight for tomorrow morning.” She devoured half her omelet in a few bites then glanced at him again. “Bet you’ll be glad to have me out of your hair, huh?”

  “You are not ‘in my hair’ as you put it.” He looked over to her bedroom and spotted the portrait against the wall. He’d been so tempted to take it earlier, when he’d walked in and found her asleep. Of course, then he’d been distracted by a much more tempting sight.

  If he closed his eyes, he could still picture her on the bed, her robe parted enough to reveal two long, shapely legs and an expanse of creamy skin that made his blood heat and his pulse pound. Her hair had still been wet and had curled around her in thick, dark waves. One of her small elegant hands had curved beside her face.

  Drawn closer, he’d seen slight calluses on her palm, an indication of hard labor. Without thinking, he’d reached out and traced his fingers down her soft cheek, noting the dark shadows beneath her eyes. The poor girl was exhausted, that much had been obvious, and for one crazy moment he’d wanted to take her away from all that, to offer her a life of leisure and privilege within the walls of his palace. Except, considering how she’d reacted to his previous offers, that did not seem at all feasible.

  Not to mention the fact his older brothers—Karim, Mahil, and Taleb—would have a field day if they found out their by-the-book, responsible youngest brother had taken a woman for his own. No. He’d had enough to deal with trying to keep his family’s activities under wraps and out of the tabloids without adding this young woman to the mix.

  Reluctantly, he’d picked up her sleeping form and held her slight weight easily in one arm while he’d turned down the covers then slid her beneath the comforter. She’d stirred in her sleep and murmured something he hadn’t quite caught and he’d leaned closer only to find himself intoxicated once more by her fragrance—sweet roses and spicy cinnamon and warm, clean woman. He’d allowed himself to place one small kiss on her forehead before he’d hightailed it out of there like his ass was on fire.

  In the relative safety of the hallway, he’d taken a long, steadying breath to calm his racing heart and clear his head. He was no callow youth. He was an experienced man who’d had his fair share of lovers. He was used to beautiful women falling over themselves to be with him at all times. So what was it about this one woman who wanted nothing to do with him that made him crave her like an illicit drug?

  A maid had approached him from the end of the hall and he’d given her explicit instructions to summon him the moment she’d awakened. Then he’d instructed her to take the woman’s clothes from the bathroom to the laundry and have them cleaned. As he headed back to his office, he’d pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the number for his private investigator in the U.S.

  “Calloway.”

  “Jack? It’s Amare.” Jack and Amare had been at university together. After graduation, Amare had returned to Al-Sarid to take his rightful place in the family oil empire and Jack had gone into the security business with his brothers.

  “Hey, what’s up man?”

  “I need some information.”

  “Go on.”

  “I need information on the artist, Patrick Van Ludhis.”

  “Other than the fact he’s dead?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. More specifically, I need to know why such a famous artist died so deeply in debt.”

  “Well that’s a no brainer.”

  “Explain.” Amare stopped halfway down the hall.

  “Well, from what I understand his last wife is one greedy woman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of my brothers married an art curator - Amanda. When news of Van Ludhis’s death broke, she tried to buy several of his paintings. You know, the whole ‘they’re worth more dead than alive’ deal? Anyway, Van Ludhis’s widow agreed to sell Amanda the artwork, no questions asked, but the daughter refused. Turns out old Patrick wasn’t as blind to his wife’s avarice as the rest of us were and he tried to put some safeguards in place. He left all of his paintings to his daughter, but put a stipulation in his will that if any of them were sold within twelve months of his death, she had to split the proceeds with the wife. Meaning the step-mother got the dead husband’s bills, and the daughter walks away with the only thing of value in his estate. Word has it she’s been selling off whatever she can get her hands on to keep herself in high style. Now, I’ve never met the woman, but her husband’s barely cold in the ground. Sounds rather cold-hearted to me.”

  Amare slumped against the wall and exhaled long and slow. No wonder Bree didn’t want to sell to him. She didn’t want to fund her step-mother’s buying habits. “Could you run a check on his daughter as well?”

  “Sure. Anything in particular I should look out for?” Jack asked. They’d been close during their college days and he knew Amare better than anyone. He never did anything without an end goal in mind.