Valentine Vegas Gigolo Sheikh (14 page)
The elevator pinged and the doors slid open on the twelfth floor—the honeymoon suite, naturally. Nothing but the best for this particular sheikh.
As she wheeled the cart closer to his suite, her heart started doing a drum solo against her ribcage. He clearly had seduction on his mind, and every time he came close to her, her body responded in wicked little ways.
Stopping in front of the penthouse, Libby squared her shoulders and rapped on the door, then waited.
A few breaths passed. Libby bit her lip. Maybe she hadn't knocked loudly enough. She raised her hand to knock again.
At the last possible moment, when her hand was less than an inch from hitting wood, the door opened. Too late to stop herself, all Libby could do was open her palm to avoid punching the sheikh in his chest.
Her hand landed on solid muscle, covered by an oh-so-thin layer of silk. The connection sent an instantaneous jolt up her arm. His body heat seeped through her fingers, deep into her blood. All thought fled from her brain and she stared at her own hand petrified against his body in an intimate gesture.
Only his breath rising in his chest broke the spell, and to her horror, his liquid black eyes stared down at her. An arrogant smile tilted the curve of his lips.
She wrenched her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks. "Your room service, sir."
"Please." He opened the door and motioned her inside as if she was an honored guest. That mocking smile didn't go away.
She rolled the cart into the opulent suite, flinching a bit when she heard the door clack shut behind her. Heat traveled up her spine. She had to get out of there before she gave in to the crazy urges making her wonder if it would really be all that bad to kiss the sheikh.
Libby moved the cart to the dining table and began to arrange the dishes in two orderly place settings.
"You came to me." The low thrum of his voice, coming from behind her, sent her temperature rising.
Finished with the task, Libby took the folded-over stack of bills from her pocket and placed them on the table. "I don't want to offend you," she began her prepared speech, "but you have to know this tip—this
baksheesh
—is far more than I can accept. I am sure an honorable man would not want a woman to think that he was trying to buy something that isn’t for sale."
Libby braced for his anger. She had no clue how things were done in his country. If she offended him, he could report her to Ms. St. Martin, the hotel owner, and she would be out on her butt. Bye, bye perfect job. Hello, poverty.
He nodded. "Of course."
"Of course?" Confusion flickered through her.
The sheikh came toward her, his cursed smile never leaving his face. Gentle fingers touched her chin. With him standing so close, she suddenly became aware that her black uniform probably still smelled of fried onions from the kitchen.
"You must believe me that I was not trying to buy your 'services.' We don't know each other very well, you and I. You don't know to call me 'Rasyn,' not 'sir.' And I didn't know if you would take this money and not visit me. Or if you would take this money and offer your 'services' in return." His voice, as deep and liquid as his eyes, entranced her. He stood close enough that she could feel his body heat. "I had hoped that you would behave as an honorable woman, doing as you did."
Libby's jaw dropped. "This was a test? For what?"
"To see if you are who I imagine you to be. Passion has led me astray in the past. But this, with you... I sense that you're different."
Different
. Really? No one had ever said that in a way that was so flattering.
"You're a beautiful woman, with hair that smolders with flame, and the fire of emeralds in your eyes. I have seen your kindnesses to people over the last week. And now, you've proven your worth is as great as a princess."
A princess?
The sheikh—Rasyn—dropped his hand to the curve of her shoulder. Libby gulped and took a step back to put some distance between them. She'd been warned, like all the Hotel Scheherazade staff, that Arabic people had smaller personal spaces than Westerners, but her thoughts were scattered. She needed them back. "I think your passions are leading you astray again."
"Libby, do you believe in love at first sight?"
Libby's heart pole-vaulted into her throat. She spoke without thinking. "You can't be serious." She shook her head, feeling as if she’d fallen into a Hollywood fairytale. An unlikely love story between a hotel waitress and an Arab sheikh.
Rasyn ran his fingers through his hair, and for an instant, his smile disappeared, replaced by weary lines around his mouth. Just as quickly, a wry grin was back on his face.
Libby's confusion made the room seem to spin. What had she just seen? A hint of the true man hidden behind a gloss of expensive suits and false confidence?
"Very serious. At this point, I can't understand why every man on the Earth isn't in love with you."
In love
.
In love
. The words echoed inside her skull. "I have to go. I shouldn't be here."
"Libby." He made her name sound like a caress. She stopped in her tracks. "I understand. But before you do, I'd like you to consider something. I leave tomorrow. I will never return here. The memory will be too painful. Whether you choose to believe me or not, I love you. I would like you to spend the evening with me, sharing a pleasant meal and some conversation. That is all. I will never ask anything more of you."
Libby put a hand on the table, to steady herself. How was she supposed to deal with that?
Rasyn caught up her hand and planted a kiss in the center of her palm. "My beauty."
Just as quickly, he let go of her hand. "Forgive me, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable."
The imprint of his mouth burned her palm, as if he'd taken possession. "It's okay." She forced a smile to her lips. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to stay for dinner."
She lifted the dome from his plate.
"Please, let me do that. I always see you serving others, but no one serves you."
"But I like making people's lives easier."
The corners of his mouth turned down. "You enjoy being a servant?"
"You've had servants all your life, but it isn't like that for most people," she said. "Women, especially. They have to make every meal they eat, wash all the clothes they wear, clean up every mess they make, and the messes of their families. Going to a restaurant is the only time someone serves them." And that was why she should
not
be putting this perfect job at risk. She got to work both the café and the haute cuisine restaurant upstairs; one let her serve the common folks who deserved a break, the other let her collect tips far more than most wait staff earned. She'd never find another job as good as this one.
Libby caught the confusion in his eye and laughed. "I guess that doesn't seem very important to a man like you."
"What is important to you is important to me." He lifted a stainless steel dome with a theatrical flare that made her smile up at him. But the raw passion that flashed across his face made her look away in an attempt to reinforce her melting defenses.
It was just dinner, she reminded herself. No way would she give in to sleeping with him.
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Over My Dead Body: A Teen Urban Fantasy
By Teresa Morgan, writing as Teresa Wilde
Merit Boatman has gone to a better place. Or has she?
When sixteen-year-old workaholic and Tic Tac addict Merit Boatman bites the dust in a freak traffic accident, the last thing she expects is evil Viking god Loki to show up to threaten her afterlife. According to Loki, she’s the only one who can figure out why souls are disappearing before getting to their final destination, and if she doesn’t do it in seven days, he’s got a special place in Hell reserved just for her.
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With Loki’s deadline looming, Merit has to face the ultimate challenge—putting her afterlife on the line for her friends, and for everyone on Earth, by facing down an invisible monster who considers her soul a tasty afternoon snack.
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About Teresa Morgan
Teresa Morgan is the author of
Cinderella and the Sheikh
,
Handcuffed To The Sheikh
,
Sheikh With Benefits
, Valentine VegasGigoloSheikh, and the anthology No Sleep For The Sheikh.
By day, she's a mild-mannered technical writer, but by night (and lunch hours, and weekends) she's a digital Scheherazade, weaving tales of sexy Sheikhs and the strong-willed heroines who love them.
Teresa is fascinated by the Middle East and has been to Egypt, Syria, Turkey, and Morocco. Sometimes her adventures end up in her books.
"Sheikhs break all the rules," Teresa says. "Including 'i before e.' After three books, I still have to concentrate every time I spell it."
Teresa also writes paranormal romance and YA under the pen name Teresa Wilde. Her paranormal debut is
Strange Academy
, a hot, hilarious paranormal romance set at a school for budding superheroes.
Email Teresa at [email protected].
Copyright © Teresa Wilde, 2012
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.