Bought For One Night: The Sheikh's Offer

by Holly Rayner

NINE

  Amity awoke to a knocking at the door. She blinked awake, her heart beating erratically, and shuffled from beneath the sheets. She had no concept whatsoever of the time, given that she’d been thrust halfway across the world the previous day—and then hadn’t bothered to go to bed at a decent hour. This wasn’t like her. She reprimanded herself internally as she shuffled toward the door—calculating the time she’d lost.

  “Hello?” she said drowsily, ratcheting open the door. She blinked heavily as her eyes took in the sight of a maid.

  “Miss Winters,” the maid said in a thick accent. “The Sheikh has asked me to inform you that he’s left for the day, for a business meeting, and that your office has been prepared for you downstairs.”

  Amity continued to blink, trying to make sense of the words. “He’s already awake?” she croaked.

  The maid nodded. “It’s nearly noon, miss,” she piped. “He wanted to go over the details of his meeting prior to his departure—”

  Amity held up a hand, mortified. She should have set an alarm, something. God, this was a juvenile mistake. She roughed her fingers down her crinkled nightdress. “Allow me to get dressed, then. I’ll come downstairs to the office in ten minutes. And, if you could, alert my intern to meet me downstairs—”

  “But Miss Winters?” the maid interrupted, her eyes large. “I’ve attempted to contact Miss Flora several times this morning, to no avail.”

  Amity frowned, her eyebrows low. Already, her suspicions about Flora were being proven correct. She would party her way through the project, without helping Amity with a single element of the Sheikh’s case. She sighed gruffly. “Very well. I’ll see you soon.”

  She shut the door with a clatter and moved to the wardrobe, rifling through her clothes and brushing her hair, thinking she could take a much-needed shower once she’d organized the office and made her first steps toward completion of this project. Her head had rolled the previous evening—with lusty thoughts, with an unexpected crush. But she would blotch it out now, much like she’d blotched out the terrible image of celebrities all over Hollywood. No one spoke about Justin LeGarde’s theft at the Whole Foods anymore, and she wouldn’t think of her attraction to Aziz a single moment longer. She had to think of it the same way.

  The office was a long, bright room near the gardens, with massive windows and sea green drapes that arched in the breeze from the corner fans. The maid placed a cup of tea on the table for her, bowing deeply before leaving her alone, a lost figure in the echoing office.

  Amity tapped her fingernails against the desk, staring at her computer. After pushing aside her feelings for Aziz, she’d begun to assess the conversations she’d had with him—about his father, about his livelihood in Al-Mabbar. She was starting to cultivate an idea.

  After a brief search, she found the numbers for several Al-Mabbar charities, many of which Aziz’s father had worked with closely. She dialed the first number, a charity that worked with young orphans, and summoned her chipper, lively voice.

  “Hello there. My name is Amity Winters, and I represent Sheikh Aziz al Arin.”

  “Yes, Miss Winters. Thank you for calling. What can we do for His Highness today?”

  “Well,” Amity began, knowing her smile could be felt through the phone, “I’d like to make a public donation in the Sheikh’s name. I think you’ll be quite surprised by the sum we’re willing to put down.”

  The line was quiet for a bit. Amity knew this must have been a shock—that the spoiled, rampant Sheikh (as he was perceived) would put down such an insane amount of money for a good cause. For orphans, of all things. She waited for the awe, for the questions. She’d used this tactic with several pop stars back in LA, and each time, without fail, the stars had received nothing but good press in the following weeks. This would work like a charm.

  “Ah, I’m sorry—” The woman on the other line hesitated.

  Amity heard the shuffling of paper, the surprise. But the words that came next nearly knocked her over.

  “According to our records, the Sheikh made a substantial donation just a few weeks ago. Quite a hefty sum—larger than the figure you just mentioned—and he asked that he always be recorded anonymously.”

  Amity drew her head back. She took a deep breath. “Anonymously?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Winters. I can’t process a public donation for you today. I have to trust what His Highness stated previously.”

  Amity thanked the woman and stabbed her finger on the End button, shaking her head. An anonymous donation? Why would he do that?

  Frustrated, she turned her gaze to the next charity on her list, one that fought to end hunger. She dialed the number, humming to herself until the call connected. A moment later, the woman on the other end of the line informed her that the Sheikh had done the exact same thing—donated anonymously—only a few weeks before!

  Each time she dialed a new organization, she encountered the same problem. And each time, her heart rallied high in her throat, generating anger and confusion. Why was the Sheikh making it so difficult for her to do her job? This should have been a major step in the right direction. And instead, it seemed as if he were working against her. She felt as if she were walking backwards.

  After calling nearly twenty different charities, each time encountering the same problem, a flustered Amity thrust herself into the sunshine of the gardens, scratching her head. Her brain was humming. So often, her clients had been far too consumed with which party they would be attending next, which girl they would date, which event they would ruin. Generally, they didn’t even know which charities were present in their city—let alone donate to them.

  Amity paused next to the animal enclosure, where the lions and tigers were sleeping like house cats, their paws twitching. She strung her fingers through the fence, somehow unafraid of these massive creatures, and inhaled, exhaled, trying to think. How was she growing so used to this world, in such a brief amount of time? Her hair fell in muddled strings around her face, and she decided to shower and change before the Sheikh returned from his afternoon meetings.

  A few hours before dinner, the same maid from that morning arrived at Amity’s office and knocked at her door, informing her that Aziz was out in the garden, and wanted to speak with her. Amity thanked her and scurried to her feet, whizzing out into the garden and into the sunshine. There, she found Aziz—grinning at her with those dark, penetrating eyes. He wore another tailored suit and stood with his fingers dipped into his pockets, waiting.

  “Good evening, Amity. How are you? I’m sorry I missed you this morning. I know you were struggling with jetlag.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Amity said brightly. She took his offered arm and walked beside him, through the gardens. “In fact, I began work on a new strategy for your image today. But it seems that you foiled it already.” She was trying to tease him, but she could tell that her words cut into him, gave him pause.

  “I’m sorry?” he asked. He cleared his throat, halting their walk. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Amity said, suddenly anxious. She bit her lip. “I thought about what you said about your father being so involved with charity. What a wonderful thing. And so I figured it would be appropriate for you to do something similar—to make donations—in your name—to various charities around the city. But it seems that you’ve already beaten me to it.”

  “And chosen to do it anonymously,” Aziz said sternly. He swiped his hand through his dark hair, shaking his head.

  “Why is that?” Amity continued, feeling like a child. “Why would you do this anonymously, when it seems that it would bolster your image so much? I hate to pry. It’s just making our mission that much more difficult.”

  “Amity, I feel very strongly about the concept of charity,” Aziz began. His sigh was heavy. “I believe that too many people contribute to charity for that exact reason—to show other people they care, when they really don’t. I don’t want to exploit charities, orphanages or food d
rives to improve my personal reputation. That’s what my father did. Everyone knew how much he donated, and when. And they clapped him on the back for it. I don’t want to do it that way.”

  Amity took a step back, allowing the air to cool between them. She opened her mouth, searching for something to say, but all of a sudden, Aziz’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He lifted his finger, asking for a moment. And she nodded, watching him march back into the house with a firm, “Hello, this is Aziz.”

  She shifted her weight from foot to foot, assessing their conversation. So often, she’d used the tactic of charity donation to improve someone’s image in the public eye. But what had she actually been doing? She’d been taking advantage of orphanages. She’d been taking advantage of food drives. And for what? For A-listers who hadn’t gone a day without food in their lives?

  Internally, the Sheikh’s words mortified her, forcing her to realize the faulty ways of her business. At the same time, though, she was starting to realize what a truly worthy person he was. His thoughts were pure and simple—oriented toward the people in need, rather than the need of the people to view him as some kind of deity. She passed her foot through the garden grass, feeling like a fool.

  Moments later, the Sheikh reappeared in the mansion doorway, the grin restored on his face. He beckoned for her, his face earnest. “You’ll never believe it, Amity. My meeting this evening’s been canceled. Does this ever happen to you?”

  “Almost never,” Amity laughed, happy that he’d apparently already forgiven her for what she’d tried to do. “How does it feel?”

  “Surprising,” he admitted, grinning. “It seems that I’ve been left with nothing to do.”

  “I suppose you could help me with a new strategy,” Amity sighed, clinging to her cellphone. “I hate to ask you to help me do my job, but boy, could I use your insight.”

  But the Sheikh shook his head vehemently. “No, no,” he said. “I know you’ll work out what to do in the coming days, but already, the work day has come to a close. I refuse to allow you to work through the night. Instead, I request that you join me this evening. Help me wind the day down. Won’t you?”

  Amity’s eyebrows rocketed toward her hairline. She tilted her head, remembering the intimacy they’d shared the previous evening. Surely—surely this wasn’t a date. He was her client. Plus, she’d seen the thin, twirling waists of those models at the club, the way they’d looked at him all doe-eyed. She couldn’t compare.

  “Um—sure,” she said quickly, trying to sound casual. “I’d love to spend the evening with you. After all, you’re the only person I know on this continent.” She paused. “Except Flora. Who I still haven’t heard from.”

  Aziz chuckled, his teeth flashing. “I’ve heard that she’s with a friend of mine. Apparently they are already insanely in love. I give it another week before we see her again. So much for having an intern, hey?”

  Amity rolled her eyes. “She’s always like this. I should have thought twice about bringing her.”

  “Oh well. You can’t stop true love, that’s what I always say,” he laughed. He rubbed his palms together, then, scheming. “Well, well. Let’s see. For this evening, we could have dinner in the tallest building in the city, perhaps. I know the chef there, and he can create any and all recipes for you—anything that suits you. It’s extravagant, sure, but it’s worth it.”

  Amity grimaced. She imagined the headlines when the paparazzi learned that the Sheikh was having a thousand-dollar meal with one of his employees. “Maybe we could drop it down a notch?” she asked, laughing. “Seems like a lot.”

  “Ah,” Aziz said, latching his nails into the back of his neck and scratching. “Not really your scene, is it? Well, what about wine tasting? Al-Mabbar has some remarkable wines, and I’m friendly with a few vineyard owners.”

  Amity scrunched her nose. Again, his plans already seemed too good to be true. Why was he trying so hard with her?

  “Still too much, eh?” he asked, balking. “Hmm. Let me see.”

  “You’re not good at keeping it casual, are you?” she said playfully.

  “Never have been,” Aziz grinned back. “Why, smarty? What would you suggest for tonight?”

  Amity paused, her mind rolling. She wanted to impress him—but how was she meant to impress a sheikh who had an entire city at his disposal? How could she top a meal at such a remarkable restaurant, or wine tasting at a top-of-the-line vineyard?

  “All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Let’s try it like this. What would you do if you had the night to yourself in L.A.? What would you, Amity, do with a little time to yourself?” He took a step toward her, his eyes connecting with hers.

  Amity took a step back, searching for breathing room. “Um. I suppose if I was home alone, I might watch a film.”

  Aziz looked pleased. He nodded. “You’d hide from the world and watch a film?”

  “I suppose I would,” she said firmly. “Would you be willing to do that?”

  “If you’ll let me choose the wine.”

  “I’m assuming your taste in wine is far better than mine,” Amity laughed. “But you’ll have to let me choose the movie.”

  “Deal,” he said. The air was tense between them. “Perhaps this is just what I needed.”

  Amity cleared her throat, searching for the right words. She shrugged, faltering. “I suppose I’ll meet you—”

  “In the living room, connected to my suite,” he said, then. “Give me a few minutes to get changed, first. Can’t very well watch a film in a suit. Unless you tell me that’s how you normally do it in L.A.?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “That would be sacrilege.”

  “Comfortable it is, then.”

  “And casual,” she added, stabbing her first finger through the air. She needed to assure him that she wasn’t expecting anything from this—that they were just pals, just a client and his PR rep, getting together to cool off after a long day of work. That was all. “I’ll see you there in half an hour.”