Free The Sheik's Safety by Dana Marton Page B

more time, but she needed rest. He had found her in the desert near death, only two days before. Food and water had done wonders, but her body had not yet fully recovered. He worried that her new injury might set her back, although the doctor had assured him the wound was superficial.
    She walked out of the bedroom, her gaze settling on the black leather couch in his office. “I’ll be sleeping here.”
    â€œNo,” he replied on reflex.
    She plopped down and gave him a dazzling smile. He didn’t suppose any man could resist her when she looked like that.
    She bounced on the seat cushions, and her smile widened. “You know, this is not half-bad. Pretty luxurious actually, compared to a couple of places I had to bunk at the last few years.” She ran her slim fingers over the fine-grade leather.
    And in his head he could see the two of them on that couch. Naked. He swallowed. “Fine. Suit yourself.”
    Her smile widened. “Once you get used to me, you’ll barely even notice I’m here.”
    He doubted that could ever happen.
    He stood there looking at her, hesitated, and considered for a moment asking her to share his bedroom. Pure insanity. He tossed the thought aside. She was injured. He was a civilized man, not an animal.
    â€œGood night.” He turned on his heels and retreated, for the first time in his life.
    He could hear her “good night” through the closed door as he walked to the middle of the room and stopped, wanting very much to go back to her.
    Nothing but madness. He stripped out of his clothes and went into the bathroom, took a long shower, as cold as he could stand it. When he was done, he slipped on silk pajama bottoms and lay on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. No chance of an assassin surprising him in his sleep while she was in the house. Not because she was guarding him, but because he was unlikely to sleep as long as she was near.
    He didn’t even try not to think about her.
    The first hour passed without sleep touching him,then the second. Then the sound of screaming and clatter in his office ripped open the silence of the night. He was on his feet and through the door in a split second.
    Saeed flipped on the light and stopped in his tracks at the sight before him.
    Dara was sitting on the chest of one of the maids, Leila, his pistol in her hands, aimed at the whimpering woman’s head.
    â€œLet her go,” he said, slowly, distinctly.
    She stood up, keeping the gun aimed. “She sneaked in here in the dark.”
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked the near hysterical woman in Arabic as he stepped to Dara and held his hand out for the pistol.
    She wasn’t giving it up. Fine, he’d deal with her later. He was going to have to remember to lock up anything she might use for a weapon. He had a fine staff; he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was attached to them. Some of them had been in service since his father’s time. He had considered them more as family members than hired help.
    Leila sat up and apologized, on the brink of crying. Her cat had run out when she’d got up to go to the bathroom; she was just looking for the animal.
    He translated for Dara, relieved when she finally lowered the gun.
    The maid apologized again and when he assuredher he was not angry about the disturbance, she retreated from the room.
    â€œI will not have anyone in my house mistreated,” he said, holding Dara’s gaze, knowing that the clamoring in his chest wasn’t from concern for his staff, although he didn’t like anyone in his employ being tackled.
    He was having a near heart attack because for a moment he had thought an assassin had gotten in and harmed the woman who had so captivated him, whose safekeeping was his responsibility.
    â€œDid you pull out any of your stitches?” He reached for her arm.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œI would like to see.”
    She shrugged and unbuttoned her