Carrying the Sheikh's Heir(22)

                The door behind him sealed shut. Rashid stalked toward the small woman on the cushions. Her golden-blond hair was down today. It hit him with a jolt that it was long and silky and perfectly straight. She was wearing flat white sandals with little jewels set on the bands and a light blue dress with tiny flowers on it. She did not look like a woman who might be carrying a royal baby. She looked like a misbehaving girl, fresh and pretty and filled with mischief.

                And sporting small cuts to her flesh. Cuts she’d caused, he reminded himself. She picked up the cloth and dabbed at her hand. The white fabric came away pink.

                “What did you do, Miss Sloane?”

                As if he couldn’t tell. The window was open to the heat and a silver tray lay discarded to one side. Such violence in such a small package. It astonished him.

                She wouldn’t look at him. “I admit it was childish of me, but I was angry.” Then her violet eyes lifted to his. “I don’t ordinarily act this way, I assure you. But you put me here with nothing to do and no one to talk to.”

                “And this is how you behave when you don’t get your way?”

                Her gaze didn’t waver. In fact, he thought it flickered with anger. Or maybe it was fear. That gave him pause. She had no reason to fear him. Daria would be ashamed of him for scaring this woman.

                He tried to look unperturbed. He didn’t think it was working based on the way her throat moved as he stared back at her.

                “In fact, I realize that we can’t always have our way,” she said primly. “But this is my first time as a prisoner, and I thought perhaps the rules were different. So I decided to do something about it.”

                Rashid blinked. “Prisoner?” He spread his hands to encompass the room. It was plush and comfortable and feminine. He remembered it from when he was a child, but he’d not entered these quarters in many years. They hadn’t changed much, he decided. “I’ve been in exclusive hotels that lacked accommodations this fine. You think this is a prison?”

                A small shard of guilt pricked him even as he spoke. His rooms with Kadir had been opulent, too, and he’d always thought of them as a cage from which he couldn’t wait to escape. Beautiful surroundings did not make a person happy. He knew that better than most.

                And she looked decidedly unhappy. “Even the cheapest hotels tend to have televisions. And computers, radios, telephones. There are plenty of books here, I’ll grant you that—but I can’t read them because they aren’t in English.”

                Rashid’s brows drew down. He turned and looked around the room. And realized that she was correct. There was no television, no computer, nothing but furniture and fabric and walls. When the women left, they’d taken their belongings with them. Clearly, they’d considered the electronics to be theirs, too.

                “I will have that corrected.”

                “Which part, Rashid?”

                He nearly startled at the sound of his name on her lips. He hadn’t forgotten that he’d told her she could call him by name, but he somehow hadn’t expected it here and now. Her voice was soft, her accent buttery and sweet.

                He suddenly wanted her to speak again, to say his name so he could marvel at how it sounded when she did. Deliciously foreign. Soft.

                He shoved away such ridiculous thoughts. “I will have a television installed. And a computer. Whatever you need for your comfort.”

                “But I am still a prisoner.”