The Trustworthy Redhead

  PRAISE FOR IRIS JOHANSEN

  “Iris Johansen knows how to win instant fans.”

  —Associated Press

  “Iris Johansen is a powerful writer.”

  —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “[Iris Johansen is] one of the romance genre’s finest treasures.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A master among storytellers.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Johansen serves up a diverting romance and plot twists worthy of a mystery novel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Iris] Johansen has … a magical quality.”

  —Library Journal

  “[Johansen is] a consummate artist who wields her pen with extraordinary power and grace.”

  —Rave Reviews

  “Iris Johansen is a bestselling author for the best reason—she’s a wonderful storyteller.”

  —CATHERINE COULTER

  “Iris Johansen is incomparable.”

  —TAMI HOAG

  The Trustworthy Redhead is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2012 Bantam Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1984 by Iris Johansen

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in mass market in the United States by Bantam Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 1984.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53853-6

  www.bantamdell.com

  Cover design : Eileen Carey

  Cover image : © Julia Davila-Lampe / Getty Images

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Other Books by This Author

  Dear Reader,

  They say gentlemen prefer blondes, but that’s certainly not true in The Trustworthy Redhead. My hero, Alex Ben Raschid, is a billionaire businessman who has a weakness for redheads. And my independent heroine, Sabrina Courtney, is a redheaded beauty who cares more about trust and respect than she does about Alex’s money.

  I always love writing “opposites attract” stories—and reading them, too!—so this couple’s story was a lot of fun for me, and I’m thrilled to be able to share this beautiful new edition of it with you. I hope you enjoy reading about Alex and his feisty redhead.

  ONE

  “HERE YOU ARE, lady,” the cab driver said cheerfully, as he slapped the arm of the meter down and peered curiously out of the windshield at the brilliantly lit entrance to the mansion. “Seems they’re having a party.” He gave a low whistle as his gaze traveled over the cars parked in the courtyard. “This looks like a combined Rolls-Royce–Mercedes car dealership. Very nice!”

  Sabrina smiled, amused by the man’s admiration for those purely mechanical toys. He seemed not even to notice the magnificence of the mansion itself. “Yes, very nice,” she agreed, as she drew her white velvet cloak about her, adjusting the hood carefully to shadow her face. “And you’re quite right that there’s a party here. It’s a birthday party.”

  He got out of the cab and opened her door. “A birthday party,” he repeated thoughtfully, as he helped her out and then reached across the back seat to pull out a large, tarpaulin-covered canvas. “This is a pretty hefty present for a little thing like you to be carrying. Would you like me to take it inside for you?”

  Sabrina shook her head. “I’m stronger than I look.” She handed him the fare and accepted the painting in return. “If you’ll just ring the doorbell for me?”

  “Sure thing,” he said. Suddenly his eyes widened in surprise. “Birthday party,” he said, snapping his fingers as he made the connection. “Didn’t I read about some fancy party in the newspaper this morning? It was for that billionaire oil sheik who’s set Houston on its ear in the last few years.”

  Sabrina nodded calmly. “Alex Ben Raschid. It’s his grandfather who’s the sheik. He’s only the heir apparent to the Sheikdom of Sedikhan.”

  “He may not run the country yet, but he sure must run everything else,” the driver said wryly, as he punched the bell in the recessed entry to the doorway. “Sedikhan Petroleum seems to be buying up every industry in sight.”

  He cast a knowing glance at the young woman standing quietly at his side. Now he could understand his passenger’s presence at what must be an elite party. The apartment complex where he’d picked her up, while respectable, was inexpensive, and Ben Raschid had a very rakish reputation where beautiful women were concerned. Even with her face shadowed by the hood of her cape, he could tell this one was exceptionally lovely. The door was suddenly opened by a white-jacketed manservant and the driver touched his cap in a parting salute. “Good night, Miss. Have a nice evening.” He turned and strode swiftly back to his cab.

  “You have an invitation?” the butler asked politely.

  “No.” Sabrina shook her head as she reached in the pocket of her cape, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to the butler. “I was told to give this to Mr. Clancy Donahue.”

  The butler nodded. “If you’ll wait in the foyer, I’ll see if I can locate him for you immediately. I believe I saw him step into the library just a moment ago.” He glanced at the canvas in her hands. “May I take that from you?”

  “No, thank you,” Sabrina answered, her hands tightening protectively on the canvas. “I was told to deliver it only to Mr. Donahue.”

  The butler frowned uncertainly. “Then perhaps you’d better come with me,” he said. “I’m sure it will be all right. Will you step this way?”

  The elegant foyer was almost deserted, but as she passed the open doors of the ballroom she caught a brief glimpse of motion and color and heard the mellow strains of a live orchestra. Then the butler was knocking discreetly on a carved teak door opposite the ballroom. He preceded her into a large book-lined room, lit only by a single brass desk lamp on a massive executive desk which was the central focus of the room.

  “You wanted to see me, Josef?” a gravelly voice demanded from a bar in one corner, and Sabrina’s gaze flew to the shadowy alcove as a man came forward into the pool of light before the desk.

  “This young lady has a parcel to deliver, Mr. Donahue,” the servant said, handing him the note and silently withdrawing.

  She would never have pictured Clancy Donahue as an executive assistant. The man looked more like a prizefighter than a businessman. The dark tuxedo he wore only served to emphasize the burly toughness of his tall, massive figure. His blunt features were granite hard beneath curly brown hair, heavily streaked with gray. He appeared to be in his early fifties and the look he directed at her confirmed her supposition. The wisdom of hard-lived years shone in the ice blue eyes that assessed her with a hint of suspicion.

  Then he swiftly read the letter before looking up with a frown. “You know what is in this letter, I presume, Miss”—he glanced down at the letter again—“Miss Courtney. I see that it’s been in your possession for almost six months.”

  Sabrina shook her head. “No, of course not,” she s
aid, faintly shocked.

  “Seeing that it was a personal letter from Princess Rubinoff concerning you, I’d say you’ve exercised admirable restraint,” Donahue said dryly. “Particularly since Honey failed to seal it. Not many women could be trusted to stifle their curiosity to that extent.”

  “She knew I wouldn’t read it,” Sabrina said, a thread of indignation in her voice. “I met Honey at a gallery exhibition of her husband’s work six months ago and we became very good friends. She knew very well I wouldn’t violate that friendship.”

  “As I said, admirable,” Donahue repeated. “It’s very brief and to the point. It merely states that Honey has arranged a little birthday surprise for Alex and I’m to help in facilitating the giving of the gift in whatever way you may require.” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at the canvas in her hands. “I take it that’s the gift in question?”

  “No, this is Prince Rubinoff’s gift,” Sabrina said softly. “Honey entrusted it to me at the same time she arranged for her own present.” She set the canvas down on the floor, leaning it carefully against the desk. “I’ve had it at my apartment for the last six months and I admit that I’m rather glad to be rid of it. It must be very valuable. Prince Rubinoff is so enormously famous now.”

  “Well, then what is the present that I’m to facilitate?” Donahue asked impatiently.

  “Me,” Sabrina said simply, as she slipped the hood from her head to reveal the dark, flaming shimmer of her long red hair. “I’m from Noveltygrams Incorporated, Mr. Donahue. I specialize in bellygrams. Honey paid me quite generously to perform a dance for Mr. Ben Raschid’s birthday celebration. That’s her gift to him.”

  “A belly dancer?” Donahue muttered, momentarily shocked out of his cynical coolness, “Good Lord, a belly dancer! And a red-haired belly dancer at that.” Suddenly he started to chuckle. “Are you sure it wasn’t Lance who put you up to this?”

  Sabrina shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I scarcely saw Prince Rubinoff after I performed at the gallery exhibition. He was closeted away completing a portrait for almost the entire week of their stay. No, this is Honey’s idea entirely.” She continued gently, “You needn’t worry, Mr. Donahue, the sheik’s guests won’t find anything offensive in my performance. I’ve been very well trained.” Her green eyes twinkled. “I solemnly promise you that there will be no bumps and grinds.”

  “If it’s Honey’s show, I’m not worried about that,” Donahue replied, his expression still amused. “I presume you’re in full regalia. Am I to be permitted an advance preview?”

  “Of course,” Sabrina said serenely, opening the cloak to reveal her midnight blue, chiffon costume.

  The costume showed off her lush golden tan, and the flaming silk of her hair against the dark blue of the chiffon seemed almost to issue a tactile invitation. The outfit consisted of a comparatively modest bikini with sheer chiffon panels that floated gracefully to her ankles. The panels parted when she danced and her midriff was bare. The bodice of her costume, while not shockingly low, displayed a generous amount of cleavage.

  Donahue gave an admiring whistle. “Lovely, absolutely lovely,” he said sincerely. “You’re an exceptionally beautiful woman, Miss Courtney.” There was a hint of mischief in his broad grin. “I think I can guarantee that you’ll be Alex’s favorite present at this particular birthday party. I can hardly wait to see his face when he catches sight of you. When do we get this show on the road?”

  “At the intermission when the orchestra takes a break,” Sabrina answered, pulling a tape cassette out of the pocket of her cape and handing it to him. “Honey wanted the performance to come as a complete surprise. If you’ll just take care of starting my music on Mr. Ben Raschid’s stereo tape player, I’ll introduce myself.”

  “Right,” Donahue said, checking his watch. “That should be in about ten minutes. You’d better wait here in the library until I come for you. I’ll tell Josef to stand guard and be sure no one comes in to disturb you.” His lips curved cynically. “Though I doubt that even your charms would tempt that pack of sycophants away from Alex.” He strode toward the door with surprising grace for such a large man. “Lord, I can’t wait until he sees you!” The door shut quietly behind him.

  Sabrina shook her head ruefully. Donahue’s reaction of impish delight was the usual one, and most of the time her clients arranged for her particular messagegram as a practical joke. But the joke was almost always good-natured and she hadn’t run into any real problems due to the slightly sexual overtones of her performance. She was paid far better than the other performers at Noveltygrams who did the various singing telegrams and balloongrams, and God knew she needed every penny she could scrape together these days.

  She picked up the painting and carried it over to a massive, brass-studded, black leather armchair. Placing the canvas carefully on the seat of the chair, she unwrapped the tarpaulin, but scrupulously avoided the mocking dark eyes of the man in the portrait. It was strange the effect that face had exerted on her since the moment she’d seen it in Honey’s hotel suite. It had filled her with a nameless uneasiness which hadn’t faded with familiarity. There was something about those smoldering dark eyes that seemed to know all the secrets in the universe and was not about to reveal a single one of them. Combined with the lean forcefulness of that bone structure and the passionately sensual curve to those finely cut lips, the image was very disturbing.

  It was to be expected that Prince Rubinoff would produce a portrait of his cousin that was dynamically alive, and this one was undoubtedly brilliant. Dressed in dark pants and a simple white shirt, open at the throat, he was half sitting, half leaning on a gray stone balustrade, his dark hair lifting in the breeze. His lips were curved in a cynical little smile. Alex Ben Raschid had the bold, dangerous look of a marauding corsair!

  Dangerous? How fanciful could she get? Ben Raschid could represent no possible threat to her. In less than an hour she would have completed her performance and be on her way. Ben Raschid might be regarded as an economic shark in his own territorial waters, but she’d soon be swimming serenely away and be home with David before he could possibly gobble her up.

  Not that he would want to, she thought wryly. According to the columns, Ben Raschid had more women panting at his heels than he could handle. He’d hardly be diverted by a pretty little dancer like herself for more than a passing moment. It was natural that her imagination had been stirred by having that mocking, enigmatic face constantly before her for the last six months, but he had no real connection with her own struggles and triumphs. Yes, she’d be glad to have this episode over, so she could rid herself of both the picture and the fascination it engendered.

  “Miss Courtney.” She looked up, startled, at Donahue standing in the doorway. “It’s intermission. The orchestra will be breaking for the next twenty minutes.”

  “I’m coming,” she answered, as she slipped off her white ballet slippers and once again pulled the hood of her cape over her hair. “I’ll wait at the entrance of the ballroom until I hear my music. If you’ll please turn on my tape?”

  “Delighted,” he said with a grin, his blue eyes twinkling. “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” He disappeared and she quickly left the library and crossed the gleaming, oak parquet floor to stand in the open doorway of the ballroom.

  Sabrina’s lips pursed in a silent whistle of admiration at the sheer magnificence of the enormous room. It seemed to sing with color and light. The polished inlaid floor gleamed; a huge amber and crystal chandelier flowered like a brilliant blossom from the center of the ceiling. Exquisitely gowned women were fluttering within its sparkling light like colorful butterflies while men in somber tuxedos were their elegant foils.

  Sabrina stood patiently, waiting for her music to begin. Suddenly she had the sensation of being watched, and with a strange feeling of inevitability she slowly turned her head toward a cluster of people at the far end of the ballroom.

  Her gaze met that of Alex Ben
Raschid, and for a moment she was only conscious of those ebony eyes holding her own across the room. Then his eyes traveled lingeringly over her body that was still enveloped in the white velvet cloak until they rested, with amused curiosity, on one shapely bare foot.

  He was well over six feet with a whipcord strength that was shown to advantage in a beautifully tailored tuxedo. His portrait really hadn’t done him justice, Sabrina thought dazedly. Ben Raschid stood out in this artificial atmosphere like a candle in the darkness—totally virile, totally alive, totally in command.

  The familiar syncopation of her music throbbed through the loudspeakers and she shook her head as if to clear it. What was she doing gaping at the man like a bedazzled teenager when she had work to do? Even if she hadn’t sincerely liked Honey and wanted her gift to be really special, she always took pride in her performance.

  She took a deep breath before gliding gracefully to the center of the ballroom. The chatter of the guests and the clink of crystal hushed abruptly. She paused for dramatic effect, then pushed the hood back from her hair. “Good evening,” she said softly. “I’m Sabrina Courtney. I’ve been sent with a birthday greeting for Alex Ben Raschid from Princess Rubinoff.” Ignoring the sudden startled murmur from the guests, she slowly unbuttoned her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders to form a pool of white velvet at her feet. She was vaguely conscious that the murmuring became startled gasps, but the volume of her music had risen, and she began to dance.

  She moved, turning, twisting, weaving graceful patterns that gradually built into a sinuous and sensual excitement. She’d chosen the most difficult dance in her repertoire, but it was also the most enthralling. Somewhere along the way she became one with the music, letting it carry her into the most ancient and passionate of rhythms. Nothing mattered but the dance and the throbbing sound. Then, as the wild music ended in a dramatic burst of chords, Sabrina fell to her knees in the traditional position of obeisance before Ben Raschid. There was a moment of silence and then a tremendous burst of applause from the guests.