If only she and her baby were alone and heading for the peaceful canyon now, she thought, folding her hands tightly in her lap and staring out the window.
Rachel glanced at the Sheikh.
He drove quickly and competently, his left hand on the steering wheel, his right resting lightly on the gear shifter. His profile was unalterably stern.
The logical destination would be a lawyer’s office, but she dismissed that as soon as she thought of it.
Snapping his fingers and making a car seat materialize in the middle of the desert was one thing.
Conjuring up an attorney he’d trust to sort out all the legalese of Ethan’s custody was another.
Was he heading for a lab for a DNA test?
No. She doubted that, too.
The Sheikh was accustomed to using his power and money to get what he wanted, but even he had to know that he’d need her consent to get a sample of Ethan’s DNA.
After all, she was his mother.
Rachel swallowed hard.
He’d accepted her in that role without hesitation; clearly he didn’t know a thing about Suki or the months his brother had spent with her.
And she had every intention of keeping it that way.
Then, where were they going?
To the Strip. That had to be the answer.
It was not terribly far from the grimy building she lived in to the glitzy hotels on the Strip, but you measured the distance in money, not in miles.
That had to be where he was taking her. A restaurant. A coffee shop. Or his suite.
A man like him, a sheikh, would surely have a suite, an enormous, glamorous set of rooms reserved for the rich and famous.
She’d demand they stay in the suite’s sitting room and that he leave the door open, though she suspected he would not repeat that kiss.
She was certain she’d figured right, that the kiss had been a mark of male dominance. Like an alpha wolf marking the boundaries of his turf by peeing on rocks and trees, she thought.
The image made her want to laugh.
But she didn’t.
There was nothing funny in being dragged off by a man who thought he owned the world and everyone in it.
The car flew past Circus Circus, past the Venetian, past the Flamingo.
Rachel swung toward her abductor. To hell with not asking him where they were going. He was using mental and emotional muscle to get what he wanted. It was what he excelled at.
The thing she had to do was fight it.
“I want to know where you’re taking me.”
“I told you,” he said calmly. “Somewhere quiet, where we can discuss our situation.”
“Our situation?” Rachel snorted. “We have no situation.”
Ahead, a traffic light glowed crimson. Karim slowed the car, brought it to a stop.
“You would be wise,” he said softly, “not to take me for a fool.”
“I asked you a simple question. Surely you can give me a simple answer. Where are we—?”
The light turned green. He made a turn. They were heading away from the Strip, away from the hotels.
A lump of fear lodged in her throat.
The only thing that could possibly draw a visitor to this part of town was the airport.
“Either you tell me where you’re going or—”
“We’re going to my plane.”
Full-blown panic flooded through her.
“I am not getting on a plane!”
“Yes,” he said in a quiet voice that resonated with command, “you are.”
“No!”
“We’re flying to New York.”
“You’re flying to New York! I’m going home.”
“Home?” His tone changed, became hard. “Really? Is that why you came out the door with a suitcase?” There was a gate ahead; he slowed the car as they approached it. “I told you not to take me for a fool, Rachel. When you came down those steps your only thought was to run. I’d bet you didn’t even have a destination. Well, now you do.”
“Get this through your head, Your Highness. There’s not a way in hell I’m flying to New York or anyplace else with you. If you think you can—you can pick up where you left off in my apartment—”
He looked at her, his eyes cold. Then he swung the wheel to the right and pulled onto the shoulder of the road.
“I assure you, Ms. Donnelly, I’m not the least bit interested in you sexually.”
“If that’s your idea of an apology—”
“It’s a statement of fact. What happened earlier was a mistake.”
“You’re damned right it was. And if you think it could ever happen again—”
“I’m taking you to New York so we can move to the end of this little drama as quickly as possible.”
“We can do that right here.”
“No, we cannot. I have a home in Manhattan. Commitments to keep.”
“I have commitments, too.”
He laughed. She felt her face heat.
“I’m sure my life doesn’t seem anywhere near as important as yours,” she said coldly, “but it is to my baby and me.”
“I’ll have the DNA of the child tested.”
His tone was flat. Matter-of-fact, as if the issue had been decided.
That frightened her more than anything else. His certainty that there would be a test. That whatever he demanded would happen.
She knew she had to sound decisive, even in the face of his determination.
“The name of the person who fathered my child is my affair.”
“Not if that person was my brother.”
His answer was so logical that for a couple of seconds her mind went blank. What could she say to that?
“Why, Rachel,” he said softly, “don’t tell me you’ve run out of arguments.”
“Here’s the bottom line, Your Highness. There won’t be a test. I won’t grant permission. And there’s not a thing you can do about it.”
“You’re correct,” he said quietly. “I can’t force you.”
Rachel wanted to cheer. Instead, she folded her arms and waited. She knew it couldn’t be this easy.
“You may, indeed, refuse my request. You have that right.” He smiled. It was a terrible smile; it chilled her to the bone. “But I, too, have rights. Don’t bother telling me I don’t. I’ve already spoken with my attorney.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” she said, trying to sound glib despite the race of her heart.
“I have reasonable grounds to think Rami is the child’s father.”
“So you say.”
“So my lawyer