each night, pause outside Rachel’s always-closed door, feel his pulse quicken as he imagined himself opening that door, going to her, waking her by taking her in his arms …?
Dammit.
He’d been over this ground before. Hadn’t he just thought the same thing again? The complications if he did such a crazy thing? Even the nasty possibility that her responses to him had been deliberate because she figured she could divert him from his plan?
His body tightened.
Or maybe, like him, she needed to get this impossible hunger out of her system.
Maybe this was the night to do it. Maybe—
What was that?
A sound. A whimper.
It was the baby.
Karim hesitated. He thought of the last time he’d heard the child crying, how he’d found him awake and Rachel asleep …
He stepped forward and opened the door.
It was the same. The dark sitting room. The soft light glowing through the partly open door of the nursery. And Rachel, asleep in the big wing chair, her hair loose and shining against the ivory fabric of one of those old-fashioned nightgowns he’d never known any other woman to wear.
His mistresses wore silk. Or lace. Sexy stuff, meant to turn up the heat …
And never getting it half as high as Rachel did in throat-to-toe cotton.
He wanted to kneel beside her, take her in his arms, draw her down to the floor with him. Kiss her, taste her, make her moan with hunger.
The baby. Concentrate on the baby.
Ethan was in the crib, wide awake, kicking those little arms and legs like a marathon runner and smiling from ear to ear.
Karim smiled back.
“Hey, pal,” he whispered.
He moved forward. Stepped on something. A pen and, under it, a notebook. He picked it up, glanced at the page. Rachel had scrawled a “To Do” list. None of his business what it was …
Except he could see it was about keeping Ethan.
He felt a quick tug of guilt. Which was ridiculous.
He had no reason to feel guilty. The baby was a prince’s son. He owed it to his brother’s memory, his king and his people, to see to it he was raised as a prince.
“Gaa gaa?”
Karim put the pad and pen on a table, scooped the baby into his arms and tiptoed from the room.
It was close to dawn when something drew Rachel from sleep.
A noise. A stir of sound somewhere in the vast apartment.
“Mmm,” she murmured, stretching her arms high over her head.
Falling asleep in this big chair had become something of a habit. It was surprisingly comfortable; she awoke feeling rested and—
“Ethan?”
The crib was empty.
Rachel shot to her feet.
Had he awakened and started to cry and she’d slept through it?
She told herself to calm down.
Ethan was fine. He was somewhere in the apartment and he was fine. But when she found the person who’d taken him instead of waking her—
Barefoot, she made her way down the silent corridor, down the stairs, through the dark rooms …
And ended her search by following the pale flow of light into the big living room, where she found her little boy and her captor.
They were fast asleep.
Rachel’s throat constricted.
The room reflected the life and wealth of its owner. White walls. White furniture highlighted by touches of deepest black. It was a sophisticated setting for a sophisticated man …
A man who lay sprawled on one of the long white sofas, shoes, suit coat and tie tossed aside, with Ethan lying spread-eagled against his chest—Ethan so small and sweet in the powerful arms of the powerful man who, except for that first night, behaved as if he didn’t exist.
The baby sighed into the tiny damp spot his sore gums had left on what was surely a hand-made white shirt.
Karim drew him closer and, in his sleep, stroked a big hand down Ethan’s back.
The baby snuggled in.
Something hot and dangerous flooded Rachel’s heart.
No. No, she was not going to let this scene affect her. She knew better, knew what men were, knew what this man was …
Knew that he could be hard as well as tender, not just when he held a baby but when he held her.
She must have made a sound, perhaps a sigh like the baby’s, because Karim’s dark, thick lashes fluttered, then rose.
His eyes, still blurry with sleep, met hers.
“Ethan was crying.” His voice was late-night hoarse. “You were sleeping. I didn’t want him to wake you.” He paused. Why was she looking at him as if she’d never seen him before? Karim cleared his throat. “So I brought him down here with me.”
He fell silent. His heart was racing.
How could she be so beautiful? Such an insignificant word to describe her but it was the only one he had.
She was beautiful.
Her soft, rosy mouth. Her sleep-tousled hair.
And all the rest.
Her breasts, pressing against the thin cotton of her gown. Her long legs, outlined by the soft fabric.
Only the weight of the child against his chest kept him sane, enabled him to raise his eyes to Rachel’s without embarrassing them both.
“I’ll …” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take him upstairs.”
“Thank you. For taking care of him.”
Karim smiled. “He’s a nice little boy.”
“Yes. Yes, he is.” She swallowed dryly. “I’ll take him up.”
“That’s liable to wake him. Let me.”
She nodded. Karim got to his feet and she fell in behind him, followed him up the stairs to the nursery.
She watched him bend over the crib, carefully place the sleeping baby in it. There was a light blanket at the foot; he drew it up, tucked it around the child, touched his pale curls lightly with his hand as he had done that first time.
“Sleep well,” he whispered.
Rachel felt a tightness in her chest.
How many times had she held the baby and thought, If only you were truly mine …?
Impossible, of course.
Karim’s brother and her sister had created this little boy.
But what if fate had written a different story? What if Ethan were not Rami’s and Suki’s but hers and—and—
She spun away, went into the sitting room and out to the hall.
Karim came after her. “Rachel?”
She was trembling. God, she was—
“Rachel,” he said again, “what is it?”
Walk away, she told herself. Don’t be a fool … don’t, don’t, don’t—
His hand fell on her shoulder. She could feel his hard body behind hers, could feel the heat emanating from him.
He