The Sheikh's Irresistible Proposal

by Rayner, Holly

  I don’t have time for this! I thought to myself, but I was already a good three weeks behind on my rent. Given that it was the third time in as many months, running past this woman was a very bad idea. So was fighting her about people touring my apartment. The smart thing to do was get to my car as fast as humanly possible.

  “I’m sorry your rent is late, Mrs. Coleman,” I began, doing my best to sound sincere. “I’m going to do something about that right this minute. But I really need to go now. I’m very late. I’ll come see you the day after tomorrow.”

  “I truly hope so,” she simpered sweetly, letting me pass. “I’ve always said you have such nice things. It would be a crying shame if I were forced to put them out in the street.”

  I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t time. At that point, the best case scenario was I’d show up half an hour late.

  I ran outside, and into a cloudburst. Just imagine my luck. California’s in the middle of a drought, but the little rain that is falling somehow managed to find me. I did a lot of swearing, and ran to my car: a white Malibu from two or three years ago. It was nothing fancy, but it got the job done without using too much gas or breaking down too often.

  I barreled down the streets of North Hollywood, weaving through the lanes, and yelling at drivers to get out of my way. There were two things waiting for me at that talent agency: an audition for a national commercial, and preliminary instructions for the reality show I was going to appear on that evening.

  When I’d moved to LA from Arizona, I had hoped to do more than sell shampoo and go on televised dates, but bill collectors don’t give a damn about your dreams, so that’s precisely what I was racing to do. The pay for the reality show was described as “generous” but I couldn’t afford not to have a backup just in case. They could always cut my part, and if I didn’t get a paycheck soon, I was going to be out in the street.

  I reached the agency at 11:40, and dashed straight up the stairs to the third floor waiting room. I had tried out for so many parts here in the last few months that the woman at the front desk knew me on sight. Her name was Ms. Rosen. She was small and pale, about forty years old, and had a few wrinkles and a very thin smile. She shook her head reproachfully as she came into my field of vision, and instinctively I knew all my hurrying had been for nothing.

  “They called you three times, honey, but you didn’t answer. They moved on, and gave the part to an up-and-coming named Melanie Pond. Your agent isn’t happy, and you need to run up to her office right this minute.” She said it all matter-of-factly, in a quiet, even tone, as if she wasn’t reading me a death sentence.

  I thanked her curtly and headed upstairs. If the reality show didn’t work out now, I was pretty much screwed. I had nothing to fall back on, and it was all because of a stupid alarm. On top of that, my agent was waiting in her office, simmering in her displeasure. It wasn’t even noon yet, but I was sure my day couldn’t get worse. I was wrong.

  You’d think a Hollywood agent would have a fancy office, but Margaret Thune’s merely had a small desk, a file cabinet, two chairs for guests, and a water cooler. Margaret was sitting at her desk, furiously typing away on her laptop. When she saw me, I got an icy stare, and she went back to typing.

  I coughed politely, cleared my throat, and shuffled about, but the woman took no notice of me. Finally, she glanced up from what she was doing, and pointed at one of the chairs. She was twenty-six, only three years older than me, but the way she was ordering me about, she might as well have been my mother. I sat down in spite of my misgivings, and struggled to master my anger.

  “You made me look like a fool just now,” Margaret finally began, in slow, dangerous, tones. “I spent the last half hour trying to convince the Bare Necessities representative to wait just a little while longer because the perfect candidate would be arriving any minute. I spent all that time talking you up, telling them you’d make their ads shine, only to have you be a no show. This sort of thing tarnishes your reputation as well as mine, Emma. You’re making it really hard for me to do my job!”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It was the stupid al—”

  “I don’t care what it was, Emma. There’s no room for laziness in this business. You wanna play in the majors, you show up on time. Movie careers have blossomed from advertising gigs. If this happens again, you’re on your own. I’m not wasting my time if you’re not serious.”

  “Just a minute!” I roared, rising to my full height, and gazing into her cold, narrow eyes.

  She overruled me with a wave of her thin white hand, and a pursing of her crimson lips. “We’re going to discuss your assignment this evening,” she returned coldly. “For God’s sake, don’t be late for it. You’re to be at the Merridoc at seven sharp. When you get there, you’ll go straight to wardrobe and get your script for the evening. You’ve heard of Date Roulette I assume?”

  “Yeah,” I replied stiffly. “It’s constructed reality. Kind of like the show I did last month.”

  “Right,” Margaret replied dismissively. “Follow the script exactly, and you’ll be home free. I don’t have anything else lined up for you yet, so if you mess this up, you’re on your own.”

  She dismissed me like I was an army private, and I got out of there, swearing under my breath.

  No question about it, Margaret was a hard-ass. But I needed her, and she was good at what she did. I’d been on twelve television programs because of her. Two months ago, she landed me a role as an inspector on that show about a paper company that everyone loves. It was only a tiny role in two episodes, but I’d got to be a part of one of the most popular shows in the country. Margaret had also got me bit parts in four commercials, including the one where the kids love me because I make them pizza rolls. That one allowed me to make last month’s rent and my car payment. Now she had gotten me on Date Roulette, a show more popular than any I had done before. It was going to be my largest audience yet. Hard-ass or not, I didn’t want Margaret even thinking of dropping me.

  I went back downstairs, and out into the rain, to find something I could afford for lunch. Six or seven glamorous restaurants caught my attention, but my money hid deep in my purse at the sight of them. I ended up in a cheap sandwich shop, gnawing at an even cheaper chicken Caesar wrap. Two tables down, a six-year-old was shouting herself silly, climbing all over the booth she and her mother were in. When I looked over, her mother blushed red with embarrassment. She was trying in vain to get her little girl to settle down, bribing her with smartphone videos.

  The rest of the day went by pretty much like that: one annoyance after another. By 6:45 that evening, I was stuck in traffic and swearing like a pack of devils.

  “Parking’s gonna suck,” I told myself flatly. There was no point holding out hope.

  It felt like everyone in Hollywood was trying to get to the Merridoc, and I had to weave through traffic and cut past a few people on my way there. I saw many a middle finger flashed my way, but I didn’t care; being late again was not an option.

  I shot into the right lane like a woman possessed, just ahead of a sedan, and drove in the wake of an ambulance for three blocks.

  “The hell are ya doin’, lady?” some guy shouted, nearly running into me.

  I ignored him and drove on, feeling adrenaline pump through my veins. By the time the restaurant came into view, I was sure every cop in the city would be behind me, like the ending of Blues Brothers.

  I pulled my car into the parking lot, amazed that it was still unscathed, and saw what I’d known I would: every single space was taken. It was the perfect end to a terrible day. I was five minutes late, with nowhere to park.

  I was just considering taking my chances and parking it on the street when a miracle happened. Just a few spaces ahead of me, a car’s lights flashed to life. Someone was pulling out of a space. For the first time today, something was going right. That space might as well have come with a light from heaven and its own choir.

  Just at that moment, I saw a car b
eside me, a sleek, black Audi that had to have cost more than a small house. I tensed: it was heading for the space as well, but after all I had been through today, there was no natural way anyone else was getting it. I slammed my foot on the accelerator, cut ahead of my competition, and made a very sharp turn into the empty lot.

  My heart was beating much faster than usual, and I felt like I had just come off a runaway roller coaster. Collecting myself, I got out of my car and smoothed the wrinkles that had formed in my dress.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” a clear voice suddenly shouted. It had a slight Mediterranean accent. “You cut me up and nearly ran into my car! If you don’t know how to drive, stay the hell off the road. What makes you think you have the right to cut in front of people?”

  “I saw it first,” I returned simply, turning to look at the guy yelling at me.

  I swear he looked like he belonged in a movie. My first thought was that he was one of the bachelors I would be “dating” that evening. If the other two looked anything like him, doing the show might not be so bad after all.

  He was tall, a few inches over six feet, with olive skin that had been further tanned in the sun. Even through the expensively-tailored suit he was wearing, it was obvious that he had a chiseled body. He had a strong jaw, and short, wavy, black hair that shone under the lights of the parking lot. A neatly trimmed beard covered his face, which at the moment, was set firmly in an expression of rage.

  “You saw it first?” he shouted, walking towards me. “What are you? Five? I was about to pull in, and you had to nearly kill us both to stop me.”

  I was about to reply when I remembered I was already late, for the second time that day. I didn’t want whoever was in charge to find me in the middle of a shouting match, as opposed to in wardrobe, so I turned away and stepped inside the Merridoc.

  “Get back here!” the man ordered. “I’m talking to you!”

  The restaurant looked like a fifties nightclub, complete with the grand stage and intimate lighting. TV cameras were mounted in a ring around the rear of the room, and each one had a perfect view of the tables with their golden tablecloths. Fine crystal shone in the artificial candlelight, and silver sat at every place setting.

  Before I could see anything else, a stocky Hispanic woman grabbed my arm. She wasn’t the least bit gentle about it, but I said nothing. It had been too rotten of a day for me to take any more chances.

  “If you still want to be on this show, you need to get your ass to wardrobe,” she said tersely.

  Without waiting for any sort of reply from me, she took off in that direction.

  TWO

  Kristos

  I strode into the Merridoc in an evil temper. It had not been a good day by any stretch of the imagination.

  The logistics of booking the restaurant for the evening had been a nightmare. You’d think a production that’s bringing in revenue would have an easier time getting the city to cooperate, but it had taken three hours just negotiating how to secure the area around the damn place. But it had been worth it; celebrities loved the Merridoc, and the viewing audience loved celebrities.

  I barely got five steps in the building before my production assistant ran up to me. Terrence is a good man, but he’s cursed with the world’s worst timing. It was clear from his face he had a problem that was going to piss me off, and I was already livid about the woman who just snatched my parking space.

  “Sir,” Terrence began, in a voice that might have been the soundtrack for obsequiousness, “Mr. Elliot just called. He regrets to inform you that a last-minute emergency popped up, and now he won’t be able to make it to the show this evening.”

  I slipped my hands in the pockets of my slacks to avoid balling them into fists. When you’re in charge of production, it doesn’t look good if you suddenly start throttling people.

  “He decided to let us know that an hour before we go live?” I said, exasperated. “I’m going to go ahead and guess that we haven’t got an alternate.”

  “Er…no, sir, we don’t,” Terrence replied, nervously running a hand through his ponytail. “I’ve made a few brief inquiries, but we haven’t got anyone else on call that can perform live on such short notice.”

  “Well, we’re not cancelling the damn thing,” I asserted. “Not after all the red tape we’ve gone through to get the venue. Go back to the team and start getting things ready. I’m going to head to makeup.”

  “You’re filling in, sir?” said Terrence.

  I found the surprise in his tone annoying, but I just nodded. I had far more important things to do than worry about what surprised Terry.

  When I got to the makeup room, the artists there were surprised to see me too, but they hid it better. What no one seemed to grasp was that my name was on the line, along with my reputation, and the success of the show, and I was willing to do anything to protect that.

  Twenty minutes later, I left makeup and checked with Terrence to make sure the proper changes had been made to the script, and that the performers knew what was going on. I wasn’t going to shit on them the way Elliot had just done to me.

  THREE

  Emma

  The moment I arrived in wardrobe, the costume designer picked out a jade green dress for me to wear. I don’t know about green; it’s not my favorite color, but I’m constantly being told that it highlights the color of my hair. She told me that the other reason this dress had been chosen was that the length of it showed off my legs, which, I’ll admit, are quite long.

  Speaking of long, that’s the amount of time it took them to apply the makeup and crinkle my hair to just the right degree. No matter how many times this was done to me, I never quite seem to get used to it. When they were done, I thought I looked like Mary Jane’s fancier sister. One of the women shook her head when I told her this, and I was sent outside, where a pale man in a ponytail was waiting for me.

  “Good evening, Ms. Johnson,” he said, offering me a thin hand.

  I shook it lightly, watching him closely. The dress wasn’t tight, but it hugged my body pretty well, and the man in front of me was making a valiant effort to keep his eyes straight ahead.

  “My name is Terry Cross, and I’m an assistant to the executive producer. I’m here to run you through the script for this evening. As you probably already know, we’re going to need you to be outgoing, effusive, and generally likeable. You’ll go on three dates, one of which will be with a wealthy gentleman. Keith Elliot canceled on us, so Kristos Metroupolos, the executive producer, has offered to step in. You’ll date him first, and then two other gentlemen. Then you’ll be offered a choice: take some money or ask one of the men for a second date. You’re to ask the second guy you date if he’d like to go out with you again. He’ll turn you down. And that’s the show. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes,” I replied, feeling slightly upset that I was going to be rejected on national television.

  “The guy will seem like a huge jerk,” Terry continued, as if reading my mind. “People will think of him as the villain. Villains attract audiences who love to hate them, and are eager to see them get their comeuppance. Having one around is good for business.”

  “That makes sense,” I replied, being careful to keep my voice even.

  Terry escorted me to the set, and the moment I stepped onto the floor, surrounded by the nightclub tables, my heart leapt into my throat.

  “This is Mr. Metroupolos, miss. He will be your first date tonight.”

  I took one look at the guy and swore audibly. I was becoming convinced that this day was cursed. It was the same man from the parking lot.

  I could barely breathe. I had just been arguing with the show’s executive producer! Today was definitely going down in history as the absolute worst I could remember. Kristos’ blue eyes were still flaring with anger, and I prayed to God for the safety of my paycheck.

  “You again?” he said with bitter shock. “You’re the contestant I’m dating?” He shook his head disbelievin
gly.

  “That’s right,” I said, struggling to sound calm. “Mr. Cross just took me through the script.”

  “I hope you didn’t walk away in the middle of that, too,” he sniped coldly.

  “I didn’t, but then he wasn’t screaming like a monkey,” I replied.

  I hadn’t meant to say it. It had just slipped out, and I was horrified. In my mind, I saw my rent money going up in smoke. I was certain I was about to go home empty handed, but Terry suddenly cut in and saved the day.

  “Ten seconds to air!” he called out. “Actors to first positions!”

  Kristos went to a table, and I went to the stage.

  I’m going to have to date this man on live TV, I thought, moving behind the curtains. This is going to be a disaster.