“Nothing specific. I’m trying to get her to sell me a specific painting.”

  “Good luck with that, buddy. Amanda says they’re called ‘the unbuyables’,” Jack chuckled. “I’ll get back to you in a few hours.”

  “Perfect. The future of Sharqi Oil lies with me procuring this painting.”

  “Overdramatic much?”

  “I’m serious. I must get Brianna Van Ludhis to sell me one of her father’s paintings.”

  He’d hung up shortly thereafter, no closer to a solution then when he’d started.

  “Well?” a feminine voice asked, bringing him back to the meal.

  Amare blinked and glanced back at Bree. From her expectant expression she’d obviously asked him something but he’d been so lost in his memories that he had no idea what her question might be. He straightened and set his now empty plate aside. “I’m sorry?”

  Bree shook her head “What is it with you and that painting?”

  “I admire it.”

  “It’s not even my father’s best work!”

  “I disagree. This portrait perfectly captures the technique that artists worldwide try to emulate, with the eyes and facial expression.”

  She looked from him to the painting then back again, her nose wrinkled. “Whatever. It’s still not for sale.”

  “Because of your step-mother?” The question slipped out before he could stop it. He’d not meant to play his hand. Not yet. Not until he spoke with Jack again. But something about this mysterious woman seemed to rattle his battle-hardened defenses.

  She swallowed her last bite of food then set her plate aside. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  “Why?” He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees clasped his hands in between them in his best negotiation stance. In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed. “Is it because you have to split the proceeds with her for every painting you sell within twelve months of your father’s death. Is that why you won’t sell to me?”

  The pretty pink color drained from Bree’s cheeks and Amare instantly regretted his blunt statement but it was too late now. She glared at him. “That is private information. Sealed records. No one is supposed to know. How did you find out?”

  He stared down at the tips of his handmade Italian leather shoes. “I have very reliable sources in the United States. A good friend of mine named Jack Calloway.”

  “Never heard of him. Besides, it doesn’t matter. Good friend or not, where I come from that’s invasion of privacy and it’s highly illegal.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, effectively rolling her body into a tight little ball. “I could have you prosecuted for that.”

  “I assure you it would be a long and fruitless battle, Bree. Besides, I never touched your private records. This was all hearsay. Until you just confirmed it for me, anyway.” He met her stormy blue-green eyes again and considered spinning some elaborate lie, but opted for the truth in the end. “My family’s oil business is in danger of major production problems due to recent border wars with the neighboring property. We have a contract with them on the table, but he won’t sign until I obtain that painting for him.”

  Bree stared at him for several moments, her expression unyielding, until she finally asked, “What’s this neighbor’s name?”

  “Nassir Adjalane. Why?”

  Before she could answer, his phone vibrated and he pulled it from his pocket to check the screen. Jack. “Excuse me for a moment, please?”

  He stood without waiting for her response and headed back out into the hallway before answering. “What did you find out?”

  “Not much about the daughter, unfortunately. I’ll dig some more after we get off the phone. I did, however, find out some more interesting details about this widow of his.”

  “Such as?” Amare glanced at the slight opening in Bree’s bedroom door and moved a bit further down the hall. She’d already gotten him to reveal more to her than he’d wanted.

  “Are you familiar with a man named Nassir Adjalane?”

  If he heard his despicable neighbor’s name once more, he feared he would kill something with his bare hands. But he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm. “Yes. Why?”

  “Seems he’s been hounding Van Ludhis for one particular painting since it’s arrival in your country several months ago. This wouldn’t happen to be the same painting you want, would it?”

  Amare clenched his teeth. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, your friend Nassir has now had several conversations with the wife about that artwork.”

  “He is not my friend.” The words emerged hard as diamond. “And need I remind you that Bree’s step-mother doesn’t have the right to sell the paintings.”

  “Bree, huh?” Jack laughed. “Just how well do you know this daughter of his?”

  “That is not your concern.” He swallowed past the sudden constriction in his throat. How well did he know Bree? Not nearly as well as he’d like, but that would have to come later. “What is this step-mother up to?”

  “According to my sources, she’s trying to get a lawyer and contest the will.”

  “On what grounds? The man made his wishes clear before he died.”

  “Yes, but the wife is suggesting he was coerced into changing the will by his darling daughter..”

  “When did he make these changes?” He was no expert on the American justice system, but he’d taken his fair share of law classes during his time at school. “As long as he was of sound mind, they will be hard to contest.”

  “They were made two weeks before he got sick.”

  “And what was his cause of death?”

  “Kidney failure, mostly. The daughter argued for months that the guy was being poisoned, but no one took her seriously.”

  “And what about the autopsy?” Amare asked. Jack had majored in forensics. If anyone could interpret the results, it would be him.

  “There wasn’t one. The wife had the body cremated almost immediately.”

  Amare cursed and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Not yet. Like I said, I’ll keep digging but from what I can tell so far, the daughter’s just a regular young woman who’s had some rough things to deal with lately.” Jack snorted. “And from what you’ve told me about not selling you that painting, she must be pretty stubborn too.”

  “Yes, she is.” Amare straightened and smoothed a hand down the front of his tailor-made designer suit. “Thank you my friend. You are welcome here anytime.”

  “Thanks,” Jack said. “And I’ll keep digging. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.” Amare ended the call and stared at Bree’s bedroom door. If Nassir truly wanted the painting, the man would go to any lengths possible to obtain it. He’d already cost the Sharqi’s money and time. If word got back to Nassir that Bree was staying at the Sharqi palace, he could use more brutal tactics to take what she refused to sell. The thought of anyone stealing from his home made Amare furious. But the thought of anyone harming Bree in anyway made him damned near homicidal.

  After rolling his stiff shoulders to relieve some tension, Amare headed back toward Bree’s rooms with resolute steps. As of this moment, he vowed to do whatever was necessary to protect that painting, and the woman who owned it.

  Chapter 5

  Two days. Two days she’d been stuck in this luxurious prison with no way to get home. Bree paced the length of her room once more before flopping down on the side of her bed. She was sure Amare was behind this somehow, though she had absolutely no proof.

  She’d called the airlines right away after their impromptu snack that first night and been told politely but firmly that all of the outgoing flights on Air Emerates were completely booked until further notice.

  So here she sat, on her luxurious bed in her luxurious rooms wishing she could punch her host right in the face. Bree glanced over at the stupid painting still leaned up against her wall. That dumb thing was the whole reason she was stuck here. She loved every one of her father’s artworks but at that moment she’d be happy if she never saw that dumb thing again.

  Time to get creative.

  Bree pushed off the bed and unplugged the tablet one of the housekeeping staff had brought her to use from its charger. She settled into one of the chairs in the sitting room and opened up her Internet browser. Maybe she could rent a car and drive to a neighboring country to catch a flight. Maybe there was some kind of desert bus service like Greyhound that she could buy a ticket for. Maybe she could hijack a camel and make a wild run for the border of Al-Sarid…

  An hour later, when none of those ideas had panned out, she shut off the stupid tablet and flopped back in her chair to stare at the ornate ceiling above. Was nothing in this palace just plain old beige? What she wouldn’t give for a sight of her beloved mountains back home in Montana, a nice deep breath of crisp, cool air, the brilliant red-orange sunsets.

  Homesick and frustrated, she blinked back a sheen of tears and stood. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t some kidnapped victim and she sure as hell wasn’t Amare’s hostage. If she was truly his guest, as he’d claimed, then she should have free run of his grand estate.

  Determined not to sit around and mope any longer, she ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed her palms down yet another silken outfit his maid had dropped off then set out to find Amare and figure out what the hell was going on.

  As she wandered the many halls and stairways, however, she grew more hopelessly lost. All the rooms looked the same after a while and she couldn’t quite remember which suite of rooms was his. To make things worse, there wasn’t a maid or other staff member to be seen. When she wanted to be alone, they swarmed around her, but when she really needed assistance, they were nowhere to be found. Wasn’t that always the way?

  Never one to give up, Bree continued on her search through the palace. She poked her head in room after empty room, until she stumbled on one that wasn’t. Unfortunately, the man who looked as startled as she to find someone on the other side of the door wasn’t Amare, though he appeared to be a close relative.

  The guy looked older than Amare, though he had the same dark coloring and build, and the same gorgeous dark eyes. And—since he was only wearing a towel and his tanned skin glistened with water from a recent shower and she hadn’t exactly seen Amare without his clothes on yet—the same fantastically muscled body. What? Bree shook her muddled head to clear it. Of course she hadn’t seen Amare without his clothes on, nor would she.

  The guy continued to stare at her, his gaze wary. “May I help you?”

  Heat prickled her cheeks and she inched backward out the door. “Sorry. I was looking for someone else. She shut the door fast and whirled away, intent on getting out of the there before the mystery man came after her. Head down she practically ran down the hall, praying she wouldn’t hear the sound of a door opening behind her.

  She was so intent on escape that she didn’t pay any attention to what was in front of her, until she barreled head first into a solid wall of male muscle.

  “Bree?” Amare.

  She stepped back and looked up at him, doing her best not appear at all suspicious. “Hi.”

  “What are you doing down here?” He gave her a concerned look. “Are you lost?”

  “No.” She clasped her hands in front of her to keep him from seeing them shake. “I was just restless and decided to explore.”

  "Exploration can be dangerous in this house.”

  With him near her concerns for the other man she’d walked in on lessened and some of her former fire returned. “I was actually looking for you.”

  Amare grinned. “And you have found me.”

  “I want to go home. Now.”

  “And I will be happy to have my private jet fly you. Just as soon as it returns.” He took her arm and began guiding her back the way she’d come. “It shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

  She dug the heels of her golden slippers into the thick carpeting. “A few days? I don’t have a few days. I’ve already stayed here too long as it is.”

  “I have an appraiser coming this afternoon to look at your painting for you.” He tugged her ahead once more. “His name is Raphael Collosimo and he will let us know exactly how much it’s worth.”

  “I don’t care how much it’s worth. It’s not for sale, remember?”

  “Perhaps you should.” He led her out onto the landing and back up the stairs to the third floor where her rooms were located. “Considering the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  He gave her an incredulous look over his shoulder as they neared the top of the stairs. “You mean my step-monster? I told you I didn’t want to discuss her with you.”

  “Even if I have an idea of how to save your precious artwork?”

  They pushed into her suite of rooms again and she yanked free of him. “Yeah, and what might your brilliant plan be?”

  “This Raphael Collosimo is not only an appraiser. He is also quite an accomplished painter himself.”

  “Well, good for him. I still don’t see how this helps me at all.”

  Amare crossed his arms and watched her, looking entirely too calm and unruffled and gorgeous for her own good. “He is accomplished at copying the work of others.”

  It took a moment for his words to penetrate her whirling thoughts. “You mean he’s a forger?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “And that’s your plan? To make a copy of my father’s painting?”

  “It seems like a reasonable solution.” Amare raised his chin. “If this man is as good as his reputation implies, then it will be a very good copy. No one with an untrained eye would be able to tell the difference.”

  “And what would you do with this copy? Pass it off to your neighbor to get him to sign your stupid contract?”

  “Perhaps.” He stepped closer to her. “It could have other uses as well.”

  The sheer heat and animal magnetism of him beckoned her closer, but she refused to give in. “Like what?”

  He walked over and closed the door then moved near to her again, his voice low and seductive. “Like fooling a certain greedy step-mother of your acquaintance.”

  His warm, minty breath ghosted over her cheeks and her heart tripped. Molten heat gathered low in her core and she did her best to concentrate on the conversation at hand and not the way his arm brushed against her when he moved or how close he was to her—close enough to see the smooth, tanned skin of his neck, the smell the heady scent of his cologne. If she tipped her face up just a smidge, she’d be able to kiss his jaw, trace her tongue along the tiny scar near his chin, see if his soft, full lips tasted as good as they looked.

  As if he felt the same torment she was, he reached up and gently ran the backs of his fingers over her heated cheek, down the line of her neck, to tangle in the curls at her shoulder. Her name on his lips sounded like little more than a groan. “Bree.”

  He bent to her and she raised her head and their lips brushed together, so light, so soft, so right.

  A knock sounded on her door and they flew apart fast.

  Sahir, Amare’s business assistant poked his head into the room. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a Mr. Collosimo here to see you.”

  Amare blinked at her, his expression as full of want and confusion as she felt. He took a deep breath and straightened his already immaculate suit jacket. “Tell him I will be right there.”

  “Very good, sir.” Sahir backed out of the room as quickly as he’d appeared.

  “Ready?” Amare stopped at the door and held out his hand to her.

  “You want me to come?”

  “Of course. As I said, you’re the reason he’s here.”

  She stepped toward the door at the same moment he did and their bodies collided. His shoulder hit the open door and it slammed shut with a resounding thwack. He gripped her arms to hold her steady and she laid her hands on his chest to keep her balance. Beneath her fingers, his heart pounded hard and his heat radiated through the thin silk of his dress shirt and the desire knotted tight in her belly since their first meeting unfurled to sizzle through her bloodstream. Bree looked up at him as he lowered his head, her name no more than a whisper on his lips.

  “Bree,” he moaned, low and full of the same need that burned in her core. His soft lips brushed against hers gently before capturing her mouth in a deep, drugging kiss. She gasped at the long-awaited contact and he took advantage, sweeping his tongue into her mouth as his fingers drifted up her arms to tangle in her curls and hold her in place.

  He tasted like rich, exotic spices and sweet passion and she was completely intoxicated. It had been so long, too long since she’d shared this kind of intimacy with anyone, since she’d wanted a man bad enough to try. She clenched her fists into the soft fabric of his shirt and groaned as his lips left hers to kiss across her cheek then down her throat. She slid one leg up the outside of his to wrap around his waist and ground her hips against his. If the hard length of his erection was any indication, he wanted this as much as she did. And God, did she want this.

  The same discreet knock from before sounded on the door and Amare moaned, this time the sound full of frustration. He rested his forehead against her neck, his breath labored and his hand still holding her close as if he didn’t want to let her go. She knew the feeling.

  “Sir,” Sahir called through the closed door. “Your guest is waiting.”

  After one more brief kiss to the pulse point at the base of her throat, he set her away from him and straightened his clothes, his expression hovering between reluctance and shame. “Forgive me. This was a mistake.”

  His statement struck her harder than any blow. She stared down at her feet. Of course, he wouldn’t want someone like her. He was a frigging prince and she was nothing but some gal off the ranch. “I understand.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  She glanced up at him and found him staring at her, his sculpted cheekbones dotted with crimson and his lips still swollen from her kisses. He looked like her every wicked fantasy come to life.