The Sheikh's Secret Son Read Online Free PDF Page B

desert. “The woman. Of course. The father on his sick bed, possibly his death bed, and the lovesick son passing notes like a schoolboy, demanding delivery by hand in Paris. How could I forget?”
    Ben turned on his heels, looked straight at his father-in-law. “But you did as I said, didn’t you, Nadim? You followed my direct order to have my letters hand-delivered to Miss Fortune in Paris?”
    Nadim pulled his robe about him as he lifted his chin, struck a pose caught somewhere between arrogance and servility. “You question my loyalty, Your Highness? You question my vow to serve my prince in every way? I should leave your service at once, Your Highness, if you were to have lost confidence in me.”
    â€œI will consider that an answer in the affirmative, Nadim. You did send a messenger with my letters. They were, as you had promised me, delivered directly into her hands. I must believe that she lied to me this afternoon, for I cannot believe that my most trusted advisor lied to me six years ago, and is lying now even as he looks into the eyes of his sheikh.”
    Nadim continued to stare at Ben for long moments, then bowed, turned, and departed the room.
    Ben’s suspicions went with him.
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    Ben paced the living area of the penthouse suite, pretending he did not see the hands on the mantel clock, pretending he had not heard the clock strike six a quarter hour earlier.
    She was not coming. He could not believe she would not come. Not because he had demanded her presence, but because of her loyalty to her employer. Even as he had fallen in love with Eden, he had been able to see her finer qualities with a calm and detached eye. Loyalty, he had been sure then, had been sure until fifteen minutes ago, was very important to Eden.
    As he, obviously, was not. Had never been.
    How strange, how odd, how unprepared Ben was for rejection. From the time he had been a child, he had only to crook his finger, raise his eyebrow, give the faintest hint of what—or who—he wanted, and all that he desired had simply dropped into his lap.
    His birth counted for some of this, his personality and will to succeed accounted for more. From his excellence in sports to his conquests with women, he had only ever brushed up against failure, had never embraced it. Failure had never embraced him.
    Except for Eden Fortune, in Paris.
    Except for Eden Fortune, here in Texas.
    And now what was he to do? If he backed out of the negotiations with the American triad, Eden would surely lose her position. Obviously he had not thought through his plan completely. After six long months of planning, he had failed to factor in Eden’s temperament, her stubbornness in the face of his demands.
    She was her own person. He had known that in Paris, he should have remembered it before he had presented her with an ultimatum that could only hurt any chance he had of speaking with her, perhaps holding her again. Perhaps loving her again.
    â€œStupid!” Ben told himself as he reached up a hand to his sheer kaffiyeh with its bold black agal. He had been as stupid, as cowhanded, with Eden as he had been to have dressed himself in the brilliantly striped aba denoting him as sheikh, a move meant to impress her, perhaps intimidate her.
    Before he could yank the kaffiyeh from his head, strip off the aba to reveal the more pedestrian slacks and knit shirt beneath it, the doorbell of the suite buzzed once, twice.
    â€œEden,” Ben breathed, relaxing his shoulders, realizing that he, who routinely stared down princes, had been both anticipating and dreading this meeting. He was on edge, nervous. And that made him angry.
    He walked over to stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city as one of the servants opened the door to the tiled foyer and he heard Eden give the man her name.
    â€œMiss Eden Fortune, Highness,” the servant said a moment later, bowing Eden into the room, then retiring as he