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It shouldn’t have mattered that she was a beautiful little schemer.
But it did.
Rafiq told himself it was because he wasn’t often wrong about people, that he’d considered himself too wily to be taken in by a pretty face. That was why he was angry ….
Because of his own foolishness.
Not because he’d hoped against all odds—
She turned her head toward him, and her gaze connected with his in the murky darkness of the backseat. He almost convinced himself that he sensed real desperation in her glistening eyes.
Anger overpowered him. Damn her. She was good. So good, she belonged in Hollywood.
How nearly had she hooked him with her air of innocence and lonely despair?
And so much smarter than Renate. He would never have fallen for the platinum blonde’s sexual promise of a one-night stand … but this woman … By Allah, he’d nearly bought everything she’d sold him. With her wide waif’s eyes, her hesitant smile … she’d suckered him. Like Scheherazade, she was a consummate teller of tales.
Rage licked at his gut like hot flames. He was wise to her now.
He would not be deceived again.
No one made a fool of him. No one. And he hadn’t fallen into her trap—he’d been fortunate enough to realize the truth before it was too late. No, not fortunate, he admitted, shamed. He’d almost been duped. A slip of a female had drawn him so close to the claws of her honeyed trap, and proven that he was not as wise as he liked to believe. He could still be taken in by a pair of heavily lashed eyes.
Tiffany had been a little too confident. The mistake she’d made had lain in her eagerness to reel him in too quickly.
“Where are we?”
The cab had slowed. Rafiq glanced away from her profile to the imposing marble facade lit up by pale gold light. “At my hotel.”
“I never agreed to come here.” Her voice was breathy, suddenly hesitant. Earlier he might have considered it uncertainty—even apprehension; now he knew it was nothing more than pretence.
“You never gave me any address when I asked.” He opened his door and hid his anger behind a slow smile as he consciously summoned every reserve of charm he possessed. “Come, you will tell me your problems and I will buy you a drink, and perhaps I can find a way to help you.”
This was the final test.
If she’d been telling him the truth, she would refuse. But if she was only after the money, she would interpret that smile as weakness, and she would accept.
Rafiq couldn’t figure why it was so important to give her a last chance when she’d already revealed her true colors.
She hesitated for a fleeting moment and gave him a tremulous smile designed to melt the hardest heart. Just as he was about to surrender his cynicism, she followed him out of the cab.
The taste inside his mouth was decidedly bitter as she joined him on the sidewalk. Rafiq hadn’t realized that he’d still had any illusions left to lose.
Inside the hotel, he headed for the bank of elevators. “There’s an open pool deck upstairs that offers views over the city,” he said over his shoulder as she hesitated.
Once in the elevator, Rafiq activated it with the key card to his presidential suite.
He brooded while he watched the floors light up as the car shot upward. A sweetly seductive fragrance surrounded him—a mix of fresh green notes and heady gardenia—and to his disgust his body stirred.
Rafiq told himself he wasn’t going to take her up on what she was so clearly here for—he only wanted to see how far she was prepared to go.
Yet the urge to teach Tiffany a lesson she would never forget pressed down on him even as the sweet, intoxicating scent of her filled his nostrils. When the elevator finally came to rest, he placed his hand on the small of her back and gently ushered her out.
Balmy night air embraced Tiffany as she stepped through frosted-glass sliding doors into the intimate darkness of the hotel’s deserted pool deck.
Overhead the moon hung in the sky, a perfectly shaped crescent, while far below the harbor gleamed like black satin beyond lights that sparkled like sprinklings of fairy dust.
Tiffany made for a group of chairs beside a surprisingly small pool, a row of lamps reflecting off the smooth surface like half a dozen full moons. She sank into a luxuriously padded armchair, nerve-rackingly conscious of the man who stood with his back to her, hands on hips, staring over the city … thinking God knew what. Because he was back in that remote space that he allowed no one else to inhabit.
When he wheeled about and shrugged off his suit jacket, her pulse leaped uncontrollably. He dropped into the chair beside her, and suddenly the air became thick and cloying.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked as a waiter appeared, as if that slice of time when he’d become so inaccessible had never been.
Tiffany rather fancied she needed a clear head. But she also had no intention of showing him how much he intimidated her. Her chin inched higher. “Vodka with lots of ice and orange.” She’d sip it. Make it last.
Casting a somewhat mocking smile at her, Rafiq ordered Perrier for himself. And Tiffany wished she’d thought of that herself.
By some magic, the waiter was back in seconds with the drinks, and then Rafiq dismissed him.
She shivered as the sudden silence, the silken heat of the night and the sheer imposing presence of the man beside her all closed in on her senses. They were alone. How had this happened? He’d offered to buy her a drink … to lend a sympathetic ear. She’d imagined a busy bar and a little kindness.
Not this.
He turned his head. The trickle of awareness grew to a torrent as she fell into the enigmatic depths of his dark eyes.
Tiffany let out a deep breath that she’d been unaware of holding, and told herself that Rafiq was only a man. A man. Her father was a well-known film director. She’d met some of the most sought-after men in the world; men who graced covers of glitzy magazines and were featured on lists of women’s most secret fantasy lovers. So why on earth was this one intimidating her?
The only explanation that made any sense was that losing her passport, her money, had stripped away the comfort of her identity and put her at a disadvantage. No longer her parents’ pampered princess, she was struggling to survive … and the unexpected reversal had disoriented her.
Of course, it wasn’t him. It had nothing to do with him. Or with the tantalizing air of reserve that invited her to crash through it.
This was about her.
About her confusion. It was easy to see how he had become appealing, an unexpected pillar of strength in a world gone crazy.
The rationality of the conclusion comforted her and allowed her to smile up at him with hastily mustered composure, to say in a carefully modulated tone, “I’m sorry, I’ve been so tied up in talking about me. What brings you to Hong Kong?”
His reply was terse. “Business.”
“With Sir Julian?”
A slight nod was the only response she got. And a renewed blast of that do-not-intrude-any-further reserve that he was so good at displaying. He might as well have worn a great, big sign with ten-foot-high red letters that read Danger: Keep Out.
“Hotel business?”
“Why do you think that?”
Tiffany took a sip of her drink. It was deliciously sweet and cool. “Because he’s famous for his hotels—are you trying to develop a resort?”
“Do I look like a developer?”
She took in the angled cheekbones starkly highlighted by the lamplight; his white shirt with dark stripes that stood out in the darkness; his fingers clenching the glass that he held. Even though he should’ve appeared relaxed sitting there, he hummed with tension.
“I’m not sure what a developer is supposed to look like. People are individuals. Not one size fits all.”
He inspected her silently until she shifted. “What do you do, Tiffany? What are you doing in Hong Kong?”
“Uh …” She had no intention of confessing that she didn’t do very much at all. She’d completed a degree in English literature and French … and found she still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with her life. Nor did she have any intention of telling him about her abortive trip with her school friend, Sally. About how Sally had hooked up with a guy and how Tiffany had felt like a third wheel in their developing romance. She’d already revealed far too much; she certainly didn’t want Rafiq to know how naive she’d been. So she smiled brightly at him, took a sip of her drink and said casually, “Just traveling here and there.”
“Your family approve of this carefree existence?”
She prickled. “My family knows that I can look after myself.”
That was debatable. Tiffany doubted her father would ever believe she was capable of taking care of herself. Yet she also knew she had to tread carefully. She didn’t want Rafiq to know quite how isolated she was right now.
“I’ve been keeping in close touch with them.”
“By cell phone.”
It was a statement. She didn’t deny it, didn’t tell him that her cell phone had been in the stolen purse. Or that she didn’t even know where her father was right now. Or about her mother’s emotional devastation. Far safer to let him believe that she was only a text away from communicating with her family.
“Why don’t they send you money for the fare that you need?”
“They can’t afford to.”
It was true. Sort of. Tiffany thought about her mother’s tears when she’d called her yesterday to arrange exactly that. Linda Smith née Canning had been a B-grade actress before her marriage to Taylor Smith; she hadn’t worked for nearly two decades. The terms of her prenuptial agreement settled a house in Auckland on her, a far from liquid asset. It would take time to sell, and Mom needed her father’s consent to borrow against it. In the meantime there were groceries to buy, staff to pay, bills for the hired house in L.A…. and, according to her mother, not much money in the joint account. Add a husband who’d made sure he couldn’t be found, and Linda’s panic and distress had been palpable.
So, no, her mom was not in a position to help right now. She needed a lawyer—and Tiffany intended to arrange the best lawyer she could find as soon as she got back home. The more expensive, the better, she vowed darkly. Her father would pay those bills in due course.
But Rafiq wouldn’t be interested in any of that.
“How did we get back to talking about me?” she asked. “I’m not terribly interesting.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” His voice was smoother than velvet.
Tiffany leaned a little closer and caught the glimmer of starlight in his dark eyes. A frisson of half fear, half anticipation feathered down her spine. She drew sharply back.
She must be mad ….
Sucking in a breath, she blurted out, “Sir Julian was born in New Zealand. He owns a historic home in Auckland that often appears in lifestyle magazines.” The change of subject seemed sudden, but at least it got them back onto neutral territory. “His father was English.”
Unexpectedly, Rafiq didn’t take the bait to find out more about his business acquaintance. “So you’re from New Zealand? I couldn’t place your accent.”
“Because of my father’s job, some of my schooling took place in the States, so that would make it even harder to identify.” Her parents had relocated her from an Auckland all-girl school while they’d tried to juggle family life with her father’s filming schedule. It had been awkward. Eventually, Tiffany and her mother had returned to live in Auckland. But her mother had frequently flown to Los Angeles to act as hostess for the lavish parties he threw at the opulent Malibu mansion he’d rented—and to keep an eye on her father. Tiffany had been seventeen the first time she’d read about her father’s affairs in a gossip magazine. Like the final piece in a puzzle, it had completed a picture she hadn’t even known was missing an essential part.
“Your father was in the military?”
She didn’t want to talk about Taylor Smith. “No—but he traveled a lot.”
“Ah, like a salesman or something?”
“Something like that.” She took another sip of her drink and set it down on a round glass-topped table. “What about you? Where do you live?”
He considered her. “I’m from Dhahara—it’s a desert kingdom, near Oman.”
“How fascinating!”
“Ah, you find me fascinating ….”
Tiffany stared at him.
Then she detected the wry mockery glinting in his eyes. “Not you!” She gave a gurgle of laughter and relaxed a little. “Where you live fascinates me.”
“Now you break my heart.”
“Are you flirting with me?” she asked suspiciously.
“If you must ask, then I must be losing my touch.” He stretched out his long legs and loosened his tie.
The gesture brought her attention to his hands. In the reflected glow of the lamplight his fingers were lean and square-tipped, and dark against the white of his shirt. The gold of a signet ring winked in the light. His hand had stilled. Under his fingertips his heart would be beating like—
“You might not think I’m fascinating but most women think I’m charming,” he murmured, his eyes half-closed, his mood indecipherable.
She reared back. Did he know what was happening to her? Why her pulse had gone crazy? “You? Charming?”
“Absolutely.”
Tiffany swallowed. “Most women must be mad.”
A glint entered his eyes. “You think so?”
Danger! Danger! She recklessly ignored the warning, too caught up in the surge of adrenalin that provoking him brought. “I know so.”
“You don’t believe I could be charming?” He smiled, his teeth startlingly white in the darkening night, and a bolt of metallic heat shot through Tiffany’s belly.
“Never!” she said fiercely.
“Well then, I’ll have to convince you otherwise.”
He bent his head. Slowly, oh, far too slowly. Her heart started to pound. There was plenty of time for her to duck away, to smack his face as she’d earlier in the cab told herself he richly deserved. But she didn’t. Instead she waited, holding her breath, watching his mouth—why hadn’t she noticed how beautiful it was?—come closer and closer, until it finally settled on hers.
And then she sighed.
A soft whisper of sound.
He kissed with mastery. His lips pressed against hers, moving along the seam, playing. tantalizing, never demanding more than she was prepared to give. No other part of him touched her. After an age Tiffany let her lips part. He didn’t take advantage. Instead he continued to taste her with playful kisses until she groaned in frustration.
He needed no further invitation. He plundered her mouth, hungrily seeking out secrets she hadn’t known existed. Passion seized her. Quickly followed by a rush of hunger. His hand came up and cupped the back of her neck. The heat of his touch sent quivers along undiscovered nerve endings.
