Liv rolled her eyes and sighed. “Sounds like my last night out with the girls,” she said.
The Sheikh smiled halfway, but he was dead serious in a way that sent that chill back up and down Liv’s bare thighs. “Be that as it may,” he said. “But this particular phenomenon has nothing to do with being drunk or high or intoxicated in any way. Indeed, I do not take alcohol or drugs, at least none that . . .” He paused for a moment, frowning as if reconsidering his words. Then he looked back into her eyes and continued without finishing his sentence. “It is a phenomenon that has been reported in conjunction with stories of UFO sightings, alien abduction, and . . . spirit possession. I believe I experienced it in connection with the latter.”
Liv’s mouth hung open so wide a UFO could have flown in and she wouldn’t have noticed. “Are you being serious? Are you seriously trying to tell me that the house I just sold you is . . . haunted?”
Hakeem frowned, rubbing his jaw as if he was only just considering what he’d told her. He looked up, his jawline tight, eyes narrowed. “Yes. I am.”
Liv closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She’d underestimated this guy and the size of his ego. Clearly he’d spent three days getting himself worked up about a woman besting him in a negotiation, and now he was hitting back. Did he really expect her to believe she’d sold him a goddamn haunted house? Did he really expect her to believe that he believed the house was haunted? Though perhaps he did. Who the hell knew what this weirdo king from Arabia-land believed in!
“Well,” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “As far as I know, there’s no clause against selling someone a haunted house, because United States law does not grant ghosts, spirits, or demons any legal status. Not sure how it works in your country, but out here—”
“This is not about laws and clauses,” the Sheikh said calmly. “It is about what is right. Now answer me truthfully: Did you know about this house?”
“Did I know what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I don’t know what. You’re not going to trap me into saying anything! Are you recording this conversation?”
The Sheikh sat back and frowned. “What? No! I have no need to trap anyone! This is not about money. You should know by now that I do not care about it in the way a common person might.”
“A common person,” Liv said, crossing her arms under her breasts and smiling with satisfaction as if she’d managed to trap him into saying something he’d regret. “Like me? Oh, how awful it must be to have to engage with me, to smell my foul stench, my unwashed body. Let them eat cake, right?”
Hakeem snorted in surprise, shaking his head as his green eyes widened. “What in bloody hell are you talking about? Perhaps it is you who is insane.”
Liv blinked and shook her head. “I’m sorry. It just came out. I don’t know what I meant.”
“For the record, you smell just fine, and in my kingdom, everyone gets as much cake as they want. Though most of my people prefer pastries made out of dates. Delicious. You will try one someday.”
Liv blinked again, an involuntary smile coming to her face as she was reminded of the attraction she’d felt to the man the first time they’d met. She felt it again now, that earlier feeling of unease suddenly gone as if a cloud had lifted from over them.
“Of course you don’t think of money the way the rest of us do,” she conceded. “You paid me half a million dollars for a house that was listed at just over a hundred grand. And I bet you would have paid more without giving it a second thought.”
The Sheikh grinned. Then he took a breath and shrugged, his eyes narrowing until he winked at her. “You should have pushed harder, Ms. O’Reilly. You took me nowhere close to my limit.”
Liv felt the color rush to her face when she saw that although he was teasing her, Hakeem was also dead serious. He would’ve paid twice that amount, maybe even more. Hell, she could be driving a Porsche instead of that Mustang—though of course she only bought American cars as a rule.
“Regardless,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Now you’re here complaining about UFOs and the ghosts of Christmas Past. And I’ve told you in no uncertain words that you’d be better off if you’d found termites or Burmese tree-rot on the property, because then insurance would kick in and you’d be covered. But with some claims of a stopped watch and things that go bump in the night—”
“Lost time,” the Sheikh said, correcting her. “And nothing has gone bump in the night.” He paused, raising an eyebrow as he lowered his gaze down to her bosom for a moment and then back up toward her eyes. “Not yet, at least.”
Liv’s eyes widened as she moved her folded arms up over her breasts, pressing down her boobs as best she could. Did he really just say that? And did she really just feel that tingle that told her she was turned on?
“Not ever,” she said sharply, her jaw tightening as she reminded herself that she still didn’t know this man, that this was all still most likely a scheme to get back at her for pulling a fast one on him by upping the price. Never underestimate the size of a king’s . . . ego, she told herself. “What I mean is that there’s no such thing as ghosts, so this conversation is ridiculous.”
“But did you not just say that you believed in ghosts and spirits?”
“I was being sarcastic,” Liv replied. “Italians are known for being superstitious—especially when it comes to angels and demons. And so are the Irish—leprechauns, anyone? So I was just making a joke about . . . OK, you know what, I’m not having this conversation. You want your money back, then you can talk to my lawyer.”
The Sheikh didn’t bat an eyelid. He simply leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest, his fitted shirt showing off his powerful pectorals as Liv picked up the subtle aroma of his expensive cologne mixed with his natural scent, an alluring mix of green sage and betelnut. “Certainly. Do you have a lawyer? Because I have several, and they are well paid and almost certainly better than yours.”
Liv closed her eyes as she felt her world roll up into a ball and begin to bounce away. The past two years had been so fucking hard, and she thought she’d finally gotten a break with this big payout. But now this guy was sitting here talking about ghosts and how he wanted to cancel the transaction for a full refund. Well, hell, there wasn’t gonna be a full refund, because she’d spent a good chunk of it already!
So Liv took a breath and did her best to relax. It was time to play this game again with him, she knew. She wasn’t going to win by playing hardball—that much was clear. She probably could scrape up a lawyer, but no shit his lawyers would be better than hers. So she’d have to go it alone, just like always. Liv against the world yet again. Though this time there might be some ghosts or banshees or goddamn werewolves involved.
If he starts howling at the moon I’m outta here, she told herself, almost smiling as she pictured the Sheikh’s ears getting pointy and fangs growing out past his perfectly formed dark red lips. Though him turning into a were-beast might solve some legal issues, because there’s no way in hell a judge is gonna rule in favor of a Middle Eastern dude who turns into a wolf at the full moon, yeah?
“So let’s back up a moment here,” Liv said in her calmest voice, the tone she’d use with her dog when he was a naughty puppy. “You’ve already said that money isn’t a huge issue for you, and clearly you liked the house to begin with. So I can’t help but feel there’s some middle ground here, some other resolution to this . . . problem.”
“So you admit there is a problem? You have prior knowledge that this property is infested with spirits of the dead, perhaps worse?”
Liv snorted, her eyes going wide. “Whoa now. Nobody’s admitting anything! And I thought you said you were a scientist. What the hell kind of scientist tosses out phrases like ‘spirits of the damned’?”
“I said dead, not damned,” the Sheikh said. “And I
happen to believe that there is scientific proof that life continues after death.”
“So then why are you so obsessed with living forever?” Liv shot back.
The Sheikh narrowed his eyes. “So you have looked me up. Done your research . . . on my research.”
“Sure. You’ve been pretty public about it. Your name is all over the Internet in connection with donations and foundations, research grants and funding for long-term studies. Not to mention the new initiative you’re funding with Duke and UNC and independent researchers in the Raleigh-Durham area.”
“Then you know that I believe science will eventually explain everything, including the phenomena of the afterlife, spirits, perhaps even angels and demons.”
Liv blinked as she took a breath. “And so my question still stands: If you believe in all that, why are you so interested in research that extends our lifespan? Why do you want to live for two hundred years?”
The Sheikh shifted in his chair, his jaw going tight. “Because there are benefits to being alive in the flesh and not just in spirit. Benefits and joys. That is why . . .” he began to say, but then shook his head vigorously.
“That is why . . . what? What were you going to say?” Liv asked, a strange curiosity rising up in her as she stared at this man, this mixture of opposites, the Arab king who’d bought a palace in the Southern United States, this scientist who believed in ghosts, this man who believed in the afterlife but yet wanted to live in the flesh forever. Who the hell was he? And what did he want?
“You do not believe, do you?” he said softly. “That life goes on beyond the grave?”
Liv closed her eyes, holding back the tears as she thought of the way death had touched her over the past two years. “No,” she said, her voice trembling as the tears threatened to come. “I’ve seen too much death, and not a sign of anything beyond that.”
The Sheikh’s heavy chest moved as he frowned and inhaled deep. He rubbed his thick stubble, his green eyes focusing away from Liv as he thought. Then he exhaled slowly and nodded. “Ya Allah,” he muttered, still rubbing his jaw. “Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . yes, perhaps . . .”
“That’s a lot of unfinished sentences,” Liv said, wiping her eyes and forcing a smile, relieved that the tears hadn’t rolled down her cheeks and ruined her makeup.
“Precisely. An unfinished sentence. An incomplete thought. Unfinished business,” he said. “That is the reason spirits remain attached to the world of flesh, and so perhaps there is another way to solve this.”
“Solve what?”
Hakeem suddenly stood, his expression stoic, his jaw tight and resolute. “This property dispute. Here is my proposal: Spend one night in the house with me. See for yourself that what I claim is real. And help me resolve the matter with the spirits concerned. Or else cancel the transaction and provide me with a full refund so I am no longer connected to this property.”
Liv stared wide-eyed as the Sheikh towered above her. “You want me to . . . spend a night in a haunted house? What is this, Halloween in ninth grade? A low-budget horror movie?”
The Sheikh shrugged. “I have laid the choice before you, Ms. O’Reilly.” He glanced at her shoes and then shrugged. “And judging by the shiny new car outside and the even shinier new shoes, you might not have much of a choice here. One night.”
“And if we see no signs of any ghosts, ghouls, werewolves, or banshees, I’m off the hook?” Liv said slowly, her mind spinning as she wondered if this was just a plain ol’ serial-killer story and she was going to be skewered and then roasted over a campfire by an insane Arab Sheikh.
The Sheikh hesitated, and then he nodded. “Yes. You have my word.”
Liv closed her eyes and smiled. Then she shook her head. “This is insane. I don’t know you. That house is way out in the middle of nowhere. This is insane. No way this makes sense in any possible reality.”
Hakeem shrugged again. “Then say no. And my lawyers will be in touch. Good day, Ms. O’Reilly.”
The Sheikh walked toward the door, and as Liv stared at his broad back and muscular ass in his perfectly fitted trousers, she knew she couldn’t say no . . . because there was a part of her that didn’t want to say no.
“One night alone in a haunted house in the middle of nowhere,” she muttered, glancing down at her shiny new shoes and shaking her head. “When has that ever come out to a happy ending?”
6
“Does this conversation have an ending, Mother? I have told you a hundred times: This is what makes me happy! Iidha qumt bitarjamat hdha, sa'ursil lak ktabana mjanyana!” the Sheikh said, frowning as he stared at the image of his mother on the laptop screen. He’d recently shown her how to talk to him via video, and now he rubbed his chin as he wondered if it had been a mistake.
“Personal happiness is not a Sheikh’s top priority,” she told him, her dark eyes focused somewhere to the left. “The happiness of his people is his first responsibility.”
“Really? Because it seems the happiness of his mother has become the top priority for this Sheikh,” said Hakeem, rubbing the back of his neck and sighing. “Ya Allah, Mother. I am a grown man and a king. Can we please let this go? I am in America because its universities draw some of the top researchers and scientists from all over the world.”
“You can draw scientists to Ramaan with the right incentives. And that way you can rule your people while these so-called scientists are looking for ways to make you live forever.”
Hakeem sighed again. It was pointless to argue with her. She was too stubborn to give in, just like Hakeem was too convinced of his own path to give in. This would end the way it always had: with him doing what he wanted anyway, and his mother howling in the background about how he was shirking his responsibilities, committing heresy, or whatever the flavor of the week was for her latest rant. He loved her, but she gave him a damned headache. And she wanted him to bring another woman into his life?! Ya Allah, one woman trying to get him to stay on the straight and narrow was bad enough!
“Is there an American woman involved?” she suddenly asked, and the Sheikh sat bolt upright on his chair in the Presidential Suite of the Raleigh Hilton, where he kept the suite always reserved and ready in case he needed to stay in the city.
“What?” Hakeem asked, his mind serving up an image of that curvy realtor walking up the stairs of his new home, her black skirt riding up her thick thighs as he stared at her creamy white legs like a horny schoolboy. “Why would you ask me that?”
“You have bought a house there. Put down roots. It seems curious.”
“Over the past ten years I have bought houses in London, Paris, Brisbane, Casablanca, Beijing, Mumbai, Cape Town, and—”
“And there has been a woman involved in each case, yes?”
The Sheikh blinked as he stared at his shrewd old mother, her dark eyes shining as she finally found the camera and looked directly into it.
“That is beside the point,” Hakeem said, stifling a grin when he saw that his mother was doing the same. Ya Allah, she was right! There were women involved in each of those cases—sometimes more than one. But how did his mother know? He never spoke of his romantic interludes with her. It was not something a man should be discussing with his mother! Did she have spies watching him? Was one of his personal attendants reporting back to her under threat of death or dismemberment? His mother would not hurt a fly, but she could make a man shiver in his boots just by staring at him long enough. Hakeem had seen her do it many times when she held court alongside her late husband.
“A woman is never beside the point. Most of the time she is the point—especially for you,” replied Mother Dearest.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. Why are you obsessed with this idea of living forever, of holding on to your body, which you know as well as I do is only a temporary vessel for the eternal spirit that flow
s within us?”
“Firstly, I do not wish to live forever. Just one or two hundred years.”
“Ya Allah! I am seventy and I am losing my eyesight, my hearing, and can barely walk twenty steps without feeling it in my joints.”
“Perhaps if you cut back on those sickeningly sweet date-cakes topped with camel-milk ice-cream you would not be living with diabetes. And if you had not threatened to behead the personal trainer I hired to help you lose weight, you would not be dealing with borderline obesity.”
“You are calling me fat?!” his mother screamed into the microphone. “Ya Allah, if only your father were alive to hear this!”
“Father was no better. If he had listened to my advice on diet and exercise, he would be alive to hear this!”
“Iidha qumt bitarjamat hdha, sa'ursil lak ktabana mjanyana!” his mother shouted. “I cannot win with you, yes? Always a ready answer! Always back-talk and insolence! Go then! Eat your tasteless green foodstuffs and lift your weights like a muscle-bound fool! You chastise me for taking pleasure in food and comfort, but you are no different, Hakeem. You are obsessed with the pleasures of the flesh too—it is just that your tastes are different from mine. And more dangerous, I assure you. Iidha qumt bitarjamat hdha, sa'ursil lak ktabana mjanyana!”
Hakeem smiled as he prepared to end the call, satisfied that he was finishing the argument on his terms. But as he watched his mother’s lips move as she muttered in Arabic, he frowned and leaned close to the speakers on his computer.
“Iidha qumt bitarjamat hdha, sa'ursil lak ktabana mjanyana,” she whispered. “Iidha qumt bitarjamat hdha, sa'ursil lak ktabana mjanyana.”
“May the spirit that lives within you teach you the difference between what is temporary and what is eternal,” Hakeem whispered as he translated the Arabic out loud for himself, just to make sure he was hearing her right. “May they teach you the difference between what is fleeting and what lasts forever.”
Haunted for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 15) Page 3
