The Highest Bidder

He crossed to the bed. It gleamed with crisp, white sheets, covers pulled back, flower petals sprinkled around the plump pillows. “Shall we get this over with?”

Laila couldn’t move. She simply could not lift her feet from the tile floor.

After a moment, he turned. “No?”

She swallowed, having lost the power of speech.

“You have a different plan?” His black eyes penetrated, and his face formed into a scowl. He was clearly daring her to defy him.

He moved back toward her, watching, like a cobra sizing up a baby chick. He moved far too close, their bodies almost touching.

She could feel his heat, hear the rasp of his breath, smell his spicy, earthy odor.

“I’m going to see you naked, Laila. I’m going to hold you. I’m going to touch you. Putting it off will only make it worse.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’m a man and you’re a woman.”

“There are lots of women.”

“And there are lots of men. But you are my wife. And you are Bajal. And our child will avert war.”

“I don’t even know you,” she protested.

“And I don’t know you.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

He did smile then, and it softened his midnight eyes. “No. I suppose it is not. You don’t want me to touch you.”

“No,” she dared.

“Are you afraid or defiant?”

“I’m afraid.”

“They told me you were defiant.”

She might have been defiant—if she wasn’t so terrified. Other than the king, all the men in Rayas were beneath her in the social order. She’d never been subject to a single one. And she’d certainly never met a man so intimidating and powerful and lethal. He killed for a living, and she had no escape.

He inhaled deeply, obviously testing her scent. Then he brushed his cheek against hers. The touch burned, and her breath left her body as he wrapped a hand around her rib cage, thumb resting just below her breast.

Then, to her surprise, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. He moved to her mouth, kissing her there, tenderly at first, evoking an unexpected buzz of sensation. Then the kisses grew firmer, more insistent. His hand cupped her breast, and she gasped in shock. He pressed his advantage, tongue invading her mouth, his free arm clamping her to his hard body.

She whimpered in fear and in shame, as her breast responded to the warmth of his hand, pleasure somehow flooding her skin.

He suddenly drew back, his breathing ragged. “You are lucky I am strong.”

She didn’t feel lucky. She felt confused and vulnerable, and more frightened than ever.

He took another step back. “You may sleep on the floor.”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. A reprieve? Why would he give her a reprieve?

“You will join me by morning.” He turned to the bed. “I will not tolerate servant gossip.”

So, it would happen in the morning then?

Laila was afraid to ask.

She was afraid to move. She averted her eyes while he undressed and climbed into the big bed. She waited for him to change his mind. But he didn’t. He said nothing else.

After a few minutes, her shoulders slumped in relief. She found a few pillows and lay down on the floor.

But she was a princess. She’d never slept anywhere but in a soft, luxurious bed, beneath fresh, fine linens. It was a fitful, horrible night. So when the sun began to rise, she crept fearfully to the bed, teetering on the very edge to stay far away from Tariq. There, she fell instantly asleep.

She lasted three days, and three long, miserable nights. On the fourth night, wide awake, cramped and uncomfortable, she waited until Tariq’s breathing was deep and even. He wouldn’t know, she reasoned. How would he tell what time she’d joined him? It might as well be now as in the cold streaks of dawn. At least then she’d get some sleep.

She rolled silently to her feet, whispering her way across the tile floor, her soft cotton gown flowing in the moonlight. She inched back the covers, slipped one leg onto the bed, and carefully eased onto her back, laying her head on the blessedly soft pillow.

“You are weak,” came Tariq’s deep voice.

She tried to make a quick escape, but his arm clamped over her, pinning her to the bed.

“I thought you would last longer,” he told her.

“I didn’t think you’d wait,” she blurted out in a fit of honesty.

“I guess we both surprise each other.”

They fell silent. Laila couldn’t bring herself to ask what happened now.

Tariq rose on one elbow. He seemed genuinely confused. “You are not the first princess to marry for her country.”

She knew he was right. She knew it was her duty. She even conceded that he had been unexpectedly patient with her. Her gaze focused on the Gold Heart statue at the foot of the bed as she struggled to put her fears into words. “You have killed so many people.”

“I won’t kill you.”

The words surprised a laugh out of her. “That makes it better?”

“You are my wife, Laila. I will protect you and your family and your country.” His face was all planes and angles in the white moonlight. And though he still looked fierce, he didn’t look frightening. For the first time, she pondered the idea of his strength as protection instead of a threat.

This morning, she’d seen him practicing with his sword in the courtyard, swift and skilled against his partners. He was impressive then, and he was impressive now. His chest was bare, and his muscles were defined and delineated from his biceps to his abdomen. Angry-looking scars crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, and she felt her sympathies engage. Despite those flaws, he was a handsome man, a magnificent man. She’d become aware that she was the envy of the women in the palace.

“You’re good at fighting,” she ventured.

“I’m still alive.”

“While your opponents are not.”

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

She nodded, her gaze resting on his bronze chest.

“Touch me,” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“My patience is not endless.”

She looked into his eyes. They had darkened again, and she missed his better mood. So, she took a breath, screwed up her courage, and placed her fingertips against his chest. It was hot, supple, but iron-hard.

His hand closed over hers. “You are beautiful.”

“Is that why the king chose me?” The question leaped out. She had two sisters, but her father had chosen her for Tariq, and she couldn’t help but wonder why.

“The king said you were strong. You are not.”

“Are you disappointed?” There was no reason for her to care, but she did.

“I am impatient.” He moved in closer, his lips coming down on hers in the way she remembered. They were soft at first, then firmer, then they parted.

His tongue teased the seam of her lips. She knew what he wanted this time, and she knew she had no choice. She parted her lips, waiting for revulsion to overwhelm her.

It didn’t.

As he kissed her deeply, a flicker of warmth grew to life in the pit of her belly. He shifted, and his hard body pressed intimately against hers. This time, when his hand closed over her breast, she waited, holding still in wonder as the pleasure rippled over her skin.

His thumb flicked her nipple, and a spike of exquisite sensations shot through her body, twitching her thighs and making her gasp.

Tariq drew back in obvious surprise.

He did it again, and her chest arched reflexively against his hand.

“I have changed my mind,” he rumbled, his tone pouring over her like sun-warm honey.

She wanted to ask why, but words were nothing but a jumble inside her head.

“I am not disappointed,” he finished. Then his lips came back down on hers.

For some reason, her arms wound around his neck. She curled against him, reveling in the hard contours of his male body. When he pulled up the hem of her gown, she knew she should protest. But his hands felt exquisite along the length of her thigh, and she could only lie mute, kissing him back, squirming against the softness of the bed as desire caught fire in her throat.

He touched her intimately, and she knew she should be mortified. But she liked it, she loved it, she never, ever wanted him to stop.

“Laila,” he breathed, easing her thighs apart, bunching her gown up out of the way.

He drew back the covers, his gaze on her naked body. Instead of feeling shy, she felt wild and alive.

His fingers pressed firmly to her. She knew what he was doing, but she didn’t care. It didn’t hurt. No one had told her his touch would feel good.

He gazed into her eyes. “You are beautiful.”

“You are gentle,” she told him in absolute wonder.

He smiled at that. His hand moved against her, and warmth suddenly flooded her limbs. She writhed and moaned, arching her hips.

“I am selfish,” he rumbled.

He put his lips to her breast then, drawing her nipple into his heated mouth, his tongue doing something that showered sparks through her body.

“Tariq,” she cried, gripping him tight.

He moved on top of her.

His weight felt good.

His palms stroked the backs of her thighs, pushing up her knees, as his maleness pressed bluntly against her.

She waited for the pain.

Her aunt had told her that much.

But it was swift and slight, and then she was wrapped around him, and he was fully inside her, and all her sensations were magnified.

He started to move, and pulsing desire washed over her.

She tipped her head back, exposing her neck, instinctively angling her hips.

He kissed her tender skin, while his rhythm stabilized then accelerated, and her limbs wrapped fully around him.

He pushed a pillow beneath the small of her back, and the earth shifted to where they were joined.

He sped up, thrusting harder. His muscles tightened. His kisses grew deeper and more frantic.

He groaned deeply against her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Then his hand went between them, touching her intimately. Stars exploded inside her head, melting down in the black desert sky. Her muscles contracted and unheard-of pleasure ricocheted to every corner of her body.

She struggled to catch her breath.

Tariq was heavy, their bodies slick everywhere they touched. But she didn’t want him to move.

No wonder he’d been impatient.

Why hadn’t somebody told her?

Why had they scared her?

Tariq slowly lifted his head, smoothing back her dark hair, tenderly kissing her swollen mouth.

“Is it always like that?” she managed.

A low rumble of laughter moved through his chest. “It’s never like that.”

As her heart thudded deep, over the curve of his scarred shoulder, she caught a glimpse of the Gold Heart statue. The Royal Han marble was a rich glow in the moonlight. The woman still smiled. But Laila could swear the smile had changed from serene to satisfied.

Exquisite Acquisitions

Carter backed her up against the wall.

He murmured all the things they were going to do in this room, and Macy’s face flamed as hot as her body burned. The dress was an easy target for a man with roaming hands, and Carter made sure he touched every part of her. His sweet assault made her moan his name over and over, and she knew they’d never make it to the bed.

As his kisses moved down her throat she arched for him and closed her eyes to the sensual sensation.

He stopped for a moment and she slumped against him, breathless.

“Is…that…all…you…got?”

A deep, satisfied chuckle rumbled from his throat before he lifted her into the circle of his arms and carried her to the bed. “Just wait, sweet darlin’. Just wait.”

About the Author

Award-winning author CHARLENE SANDS writes bold, passionate, heart-stopping heroes and always…really good men! She’s a lover of all things romantic, having married her high school sweetheart, Don. She is the proud recipient of a Readers’ Choice Award, and double recipient of a Booksellers’ Best Award, having written twenty-eight romances to date, both contemporary and historical Western. Charlene is a member of Romance Writers of America and belongs to the Orange County and Los Angeles chapters of RWA, where she volunteers as the Published Authors’ Liaison.

When not writing, she loves movie dates with her hubby, playing cards with her children, reading romance, great coffee, Pacific beaches, country music and anything chocolate. She also loves to hear from her readers. You can reach Charlene for fun stuff, contests and more at www.charlenesands.com or write to her at PO Box 4883, West Hills, CA 91308, USA. You can find her on the Harlequin Authors Blog, and on Facebook, too.

In memory and honor of Sandra Hyatt, a friend and fellow Desire author.

I will always remember your sweet, friendly smile and your kind heart.

Prologue

Wild River Ranch, Texas

He struck a match on his boot heel and guided the flame toward the cigarette clenched between his lips. With one long pull of breath, the tip blazed to life. Carter McCay closed his eyes as images of the fallen soldiers who’d fought alongside him flashed in his mind. He took one drag…one honorary inhalation. The ritual was agreed upon by those lucky enough to have come home, all those years ago. On the first day of every month, each one of his comrades did the same. Somewhere out there, twenty-three former marines were lighting up and remembering Afghanistan.

The subtle rush of the river pulled him out of those thoughts. He leaned a shoulder against an ancient oak and nestled into the tree’s grooved bark, watching the rhythmic, nearly perfect ripples of Wild River. The water wasn’t as wild as its namesake today, Carter mused. It was quiet and peaceful here, shaded from the hot Texas sun.

The dog plopped down at his feet and whimpered long and loud as the trail of smoke met his upturned wet nose.

Carter pushed his Stetson higher on his forehead and looked into questioning, soulful eyes. He couldn’t blame the dog for being wary of smoke. The dog saw too much, knew too much. “You followed me up here, pal.”

Carter tossed the cigarette and crushed it into the ground with his boot, then lowered to a crouch beside the golden retriever. He gave him a pat on the head. The dog sandwiched his head between his front paws and gave a big sigh.

“Yeah, I know, boy. You’ve had it tough.” Carter ruffled Rocky’s furry neck, damn glad he’d rescued the hound from his father’s place. The home where Carter had grown up wasn’t fit for a dog.

His cell phone pinged. Carter pulled his iPhone from his back pocket and gave a quick look. A text message from Roark Waverly appeared on the front screen. He hadn’t heard from his former marine buddy in months. But he wasn’t surprised that he’d leave a message today of all days. “Probably just lit one up, too,” he muttered, glad to hear from his friend. But as he read on, Roark had something entirely different to say. Something Carter had to read twice.

C. Ran into some trouble. In hiding. Get word to Ann Richardson at Waverly’s. The Gold Heart statue is not stolen. I can’t trust Waverly’s networks. R.B.

Carter frowned. What the hell what that all about?

After his tour of duty, Roark had gotten heavily involved in running around seven continents procuring valuable artifacts to sell at Waverly’s auction house based out of New York. Roark had been in some tough binds through the years, and normally the marine could take care of himself just fine. Carter had been on the receiving end of his friend’s quick thinking when they’d been on street patrol in a small settlement in Afghanistan. Roark had discovered that the car Carter was about to inspect was booby trapped. He’d shoved Carter out of the way before his hand met with the door handle, and Carter knew then that he owed Roark his life.

“C’mon, Rocky,” he said, heading toward his Jeep without a glance back. He knew his father’s dog would follow. He was as loyal as they come. “I’ve got some investigating to do.”

Two hours later, his cousin Brady knocked on his front door and Carter led him into the great room. The room meant for entertaining was one of many improvements he’d made to the house after he’d inherited Wild River Ranch from his uncle Dale. Over the years and after a little luck and a lot of hard work, Carter had turned his uncle’s small working ranch into a stellar operation that competed equally with elite Texas cattle barons.

He handed Brady a shot glass of whiskey. “Here you go, cuz.”

Brady grinned. “I know it’s five o’clock somewhere, but tell me, why are we drinking this early in the afternoon?”

“Because thanks to you, I’m heading to New York tomorrow.”

“Me? What do Brady McCay and New York have in common?”

Carter couldn’t tell him about Roark’s cryptic text message. That message wasn’t meant to be discussed, not even with someone Carter trusted. But he could tell Brady the other reason for his trip. As he’d researched the New York auction house Roark worked for, he’d found that Hollywood screen legend Tina Tarlington’s diamond rings were being auctioned off this weekend. The famed Tarlington diamond had been in the press ever since Tina Tarlington’s first marriage, decades ago. Now, there was even more buzz about all three of her diamonds since the Queen of Cinema had passed away a few months ago. Carter planned to get his hands on one of those diamonds and, at the same time, deliver Roark’s message to the CEO of Waverly’s.

“You’re the one who introduced me to Jocelyn, right?” Carter asked.

“I can’t deny that. I sure did.”

“She’s in New York right now, visiting a friend.”

His cousin’s eyebrows narrowed. “I’m not following.”

“I intend to join her there and ask her to marry me.”

Brady blinked and jerked back in surprise. “You intend to marry Jocelyn Grayson? I didn’t realize things were that serious between you two.”

“Damn straight they are. I’ve been hunting for the right engagement ring for weeks now. If all goes as planned, she’ll be my fiancée very soon.”

“You’re really in love with Jocelyn?” There was a note of disbelief in Brady’s voice.

Carter had to admit he was moving a little fast. But from the day he’d been introduced to the granddaughter of Brady’s neighbor, Carter had been smitten. Now, less than a year later, Carter was ready to make a commitment. Putting a Tarlington ring on Jocelyn’s finger would be impressive, even to an oil heiress who came from old Dallas money. She’d know, without a doubt, how much she meant to him. “She’s the one for me, Brady.”

“Well, then. Congratulations,” Brady offered.

Carter lifted his shot glass. Now that he’d made up his mind, he couldn’t wait to see Jocelyn’s expression when he proposed to her with a Tarlington diamond. “To Jocelyn.”

Brady hesitated for a second and stared into Carter’s eyes before lifting his glass, as well. “To Jocelyn.”

And after they downed the liquor, the smile Carter expected to see on his cousin’s face never really emerged.

One

Macy Tarlington never knew whether her attempt at disguise would work or not. Today, the beige scarf covering her ink-black curls and dark sunglasses hiding her violet-blue eyes seemed to do the trick. She hadn’t been followed. Thank goodness. She looked a little too much like her mother, which wasn’t overall a bad thing. Her mother had been known for her beauty, but resembling Hollywood’s beloved Queen of Cinema had drawn paparazzi to Macy like bees to honey. They believed her DNA alone gave them the right to trample on her privacy, especially during her time of mourning.

Tina Tarlington might have been world famous and her fans might have believed they knew everything about her, from her award-winning movie roles and her three doomed marriages to her celebrity status, but they hadn’t really known her. Not the way Macy had.

Walking into New York’s opulent Madison Avenue auction house made her twitch with anxiety. She bumped shoulders with her good friend, Avery Cullen, as they approached the Waverly salesroom. Avery was the least likely sort of American heiress, very unassuming and certainly not a spoiled cliché. “Sorry if I’m crowding you,” she whispered. “I can’t seem to help it.”

Avery’s warm smile reassured her as she took Macy’s arm. Her friend’s steady touch soothed her jumpy nerves. “I don’t mind, Macy. That’s why I’m here, for support.”

With eyes well hidden beneath sunglasses, Macy was free to dart glances all around, scoping out the large, elegantly appointed room where Tina Tarlington’s prized possessions would be auctioned off. Beautifully tufted, rounded high-back chairs were lined up in a dozen rows, split in the center by an aisle. The surrounding walls were easy-on-the-eye tones of beiges and light peach. Wide white wainscoting centered the walls and wrapped around the perimeter of the room. Multifaceted crystal chandeliers twinkled and provided abundant light overhead.

“I can’t thank you enough for enduring this with me.” Avery had made a quick trip from her home in London to be with her today.

“I know how hard this is for you.”

“Hard and necessary, unfortunately. Having my mother’s things on display like this gives me a stomachache. Oh, I am so not looking forward to this.”

Avery gave Macy’s hand a squeeze as they pressed farther into the room. “Those two seats on the aisle in the back are ours,” Macy whispered. “I made arrangements beforehand for us.”

And as they headed to those seats, Macy noticed that every other chair in the room was taken. Even in death, Tina Tarlington drew large crowds.

An attendant came by immediately to hand them a catalogue listing the items being auctioned off, and after a brief conversation Macy nodded her thanks to the woman standing at the head of the room. Ann Richardson, the CEO of Waverly’s, who had secured the estate sale from Macy, gave her a silent greeting in return before turning to shake hands with the patrons in the front row. It was important to Ms. Richardson that the Tarlington auction go off without a hitch. Waverly’s stood to make a hefty commission.

Macy opened the catalogue and flipped through the pages, noting item after item from her mother’s estate. The descriptions were listed as lot numbers along with an estimate as to their value. The first item stopped her cold as memories flooded in and tears formed in her eyes.

On Macy’s tenth birthday, just as the celebration was about to begin, Tina had rushed into the Magic Castle Mansion, an exclusive club showcasing musicians from around the world, dressed as Eleanor Neal, the role which had garnered her an Academy Award nomination. She’d come straight from the set, the shoot going longer than anticipated. Macy hadn’t cared that her mother was late for her party or that she’d come in her professional makeup and wardrobe. She’d flown into her mother’s arms and hugged her so tight that Tina laughed until her mascara had run down her face. It was magic and one of the best birthdays of Macy’s life.

Now, the pink silk and sequin dress her mother had worn that day was described as “Worn by Tina Tarlington in the acclaimed film Quest for Vengeance, 1996.”

Her mother’s entire life seemed to have been whittled down to one-sentence blurbs and numbers. The ache in Macy’s stomach intensified.

Discreetly, she closed the catalogue booklet and took a deep breath. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now. She had to go through with this auction. She gave herself a little pep talk, reciting in her head all the practical reasons why selling her mother’s treasures and jewels were necessary.