“Her offices? Ya Allah, brother. You need to get out more! Spend some time with people who are not CEOs and CFOs and CGOs!”
The Sheikh raised an eyebrow. “What is a CGO?”
“I have no bloody idea,” said Alim. “But anyway, I told you I have never met this woman. She may not even be a woman, in fact. And who knows if the address on her website is even real. Probably not, if she is a crook.”
“A con-artist is not quite the same as a crook,” the Sheikh said glancing back at his computer screen and frowning as this latest email stole his attention. He’d been targeting a struggling company in the southwestern United States, feeling out the CEO and owner, trying to see if he could convince the man that his company was beyond saving. This way Rahaan could buy it cheap, turn it around, and make a killing. Rahaan had almost given up on the deal—it had been months since he last put in a bid. But now the CEO was asking for a meeting, and the Sheikh knew what that meant: He was ready to sell.
Rahaan began to type—a short, professional message that would not betray his excitement to do the deal: I am busy this week. Perhaps I can visit on Thursday if one of my other deals goes through quicker than anticipated. Where did you say you are located again? I am still a tourist in America when it comes to any place outside of New York and Boston.
Of course, Rahaan knew quite well that the company was based in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a place Rahaan had never been near but one that often came to mind for some reason. Perhaps it was the unusual spelling of the name: Albuquerque started with “Al” and could almost be an Arabic name—like Al-Buquerque. Maybe it was because he knew that the Southwestern United States was a sprawling landscape of beautiful desert, something Rahaan did miss now and then, much as he hated to admit.
“New Mexico,” said Alim.
“Yes. What of it?” said Rahaan, still distracted as he sent off the email and watched his screen for a response.
“That is where this astrologer keeps her offices, dear brother,” said Alim. He looked at his phone and frowned. “Al-byu-kwerk-kyu. What a name for a city, by Allah.” He frowned again. “Actually it could almost be an Arabic name, yah? Al-byu—”
Rahaan sat back in his chair and stared up at his brother and then back at the screen as that old feeling came rushing back with a suddenness that knocked the wind out of him. It felt like he had been pulled back into that boyhood dream, like he was in a dream right now, living within a vision or an illusion. He forced himself to take a deep breath as he heard his computer beep again, alerting him to a new message.
It was the CEO: We’re in the fine city of Albuquerque, New Mexico, Sheikh Rahaan! Desert Country, USA! Thursday would be great. I’ll have my secretary book a suite for you downtown right away—there’s some kind of New Age conference happening (that stuff goes on all the time here—New Mexico is weird that way), and hotel rooms are scarce this week. Looking forward to it, Sheikh Rahaan.
Rahaan blinked as he read the email and looked back up at Alim, who was scrolling through his phone, his face still flush with embarrassment.
“Well,” said Alim, looking up and holding the phone facing out. “It appears she did not lie about her name or address. She does indeed live in Albuquerque. Her name is Hilda.”
“Full name, please,” grunted the Sheikh as he turned on his swivel and faced the sprawling expanse of Central Park once again.
“Hogarth,” said Alim. “Hogarth is her last name.”
“Hilda Hogarth,” said the Sheikh as he rubbed his stubble again. “Hilda Hogarth, the Astrologer from Albuquerque.”
2
Hilda Hogarth polished her crystal ball and tried to catch her own reflection in its hazy surface. Was her face really that round? Was this crystal ball really this filthy? Was she seriously in her thirties, unmarried and childless, polishing gypsy trinkets in this sad excuse for a . . . what was this place, anyway? And what was she? The sign outside said “Hilda’s Astrological Readings,” but it could have said, “If you’re gullible enough to come in here, I’m going to take you for everything you’ve got, with the stars as my witness.”
Hilda giggled as she put that silly prop back on the small round table that sat against a wood paneled side wall, beneath an oval mirror with a beautiful old silver frame. She walked to the mirror, deliberately avoiding looking into it, instead just running her red-painted fingernails along the smooth bumps of the ribbed silver frame. This had been her only inheritance, the only gift from her parents before they moved away and then moved on—first leaving New Mexico for a Florida retirement community (really?) and then leaving Earth to take their place amongst the stars.
And the mirror wasn’t even a gift really. Hilda had to pretty much steal it from her parents’ cluttered apartment when she was helping them pack for Florida. So that meant the only gift Hilda had ever gotten from her parents, her family, her bloodline was . . .
Stop it, she told herself, turning from the mirror and walking across the empty store to the far counter. She lit some sandalwood incense and sighed, turning and standing tall, all five-feet-not-much of her. Hands balled into tight fists now, firmly placed on her wide hips, eyes closed as she reached inside herself for what she had once been told ran in the Hogarth family, traced back at least three generations, when her great grandfather had told fortunes on the street corners of Brooklyn, New York, in the days after the War, earning enough to raise a family. He had looked the part, Hilda thought with a smile, thinking back to those black-and-white photographs that had faded to sepia: a young Bertrand Hogarth wearing what appeared to be a black cloak of some kind—something an evil viscount might have worn in an old romance novel. He had a big gap between his front two teeth, which highlighted his canines in those old pictures. Hilda had always thought the man looked like a grinning vampire with his cloak and fangs! Of course, Bertrand Hogarth had been a showman, and although the family legends were that he did indeed have a gift, they were just that: legends. The man was a salesman, a marketer, even a con-man if that’s what he needed to be to put food on the table. There was honor in that: a man providing for his family, doing what it took to protect his woman and child.
“Well, I may not have the much-bandied Hogarth gift of visions and foresight or hexing and vexing or whatever the hell Bertrand supposedly had, but I can certainly look the part,” Hilda said out loud, smiling as she looked down at the green-and-gold paisley harem-style pants she had on with a fitted black top stretched tight over her boobs that were still firm but admittedly a bit less buoyant and perky than when she was in her twenties. She sighed, looking down at the healthy curve of her not-so-flat belly, that black top bunched up a little around her waist, tucked sorta haphazardly into the elastic waistband. She took a breath and got into character—or perhaps a caricature of a character—turning to the door and flashing an inviting smile at no one. “Ah, a visitaaurr! Come eeen! Come eeeen!” she whispered in an accent she was sure would offend at least three different ethnic groups. “Madaaaam Heeeldaaa vill tell you your fyoochaur, read your faurchooon, interpret your dreeeems . . .”
Dreams, Hilda thought as she blinked and shook her head, wondering if she should just close up for the day and get back to that bottle of red wine that would certainly turn to vinegar if it wasn’t finished off within the next couple of hours. After all, it had been sitting open since ten this morning, when she had downed a quick glass (was it two?) with her eggs and sausage. The French drank wine at breakfast, didn’t they? Sounded right.
“Nobody actually goes to stores these days anyway,” Hilda muttered as she walked back to her ornate, dark-wood desk in the back, where her old gray laptop was silently waiting. “All the money is online now. At least I was able to read the tea leaves on that one,” she said as she clicked open her browser and checked on her website traffic. A few hundred new visitors this morning, but no new inquiries about personal horoscopes or stardust-and-rainbows hocus-pocus chartamajig
gies. People just peeking in to read the free bullshit horoscopes she’d made up while finishing a bottle of that lively Pinot Noir last Saturday night, with Sabbath sitting quietly on the purple armchair, staring her down with those green eyes of his.
“Where are you anyway, Sabbath?” she called out as she opened her email and started to delete the junk messages. “Come hither, Sabbath! Come, or I swear I’ll trade you in for a goddamn dog. Maybe one of those tiny lap dogs that are sooo cute, and soo—”
Now she heard movement at the foot of her desk, and hey, presto, the cat was on the tabletop in a flash, green eyes shining brighter than that crystal ball ever did, black coat shimmering in the dim yellow lamplight of the cluttered space.
“Jealousy and paranoia,” said Hilda as she smiled and tickled Sabbath under his bristly chin. “Works every time. Perhaps next time you’ll come to me not out of fear but out of love, Sabbath. Love! You know what that is?”
Hilda sighed again as she pushed her old red-cushioned swivel away from the desk and pulled out her phone. God, she thought. I cannot bear to swipe through these losers on Tinder or Bumble or whatever other ridiculous dating site I’ve signed up for. Who are these weirdos who keep showing up as “OMG it’s a 99% match!”? Half these dudes look like they’d be Dungeons & Dragons grandmasters if they weren’t so strung out on whatever the hell pills they’ve been stealing from Grandma’s Medicare prescription box. Goddamn it. I’m never gonna have a kid, am I?!
A chill ran through Hilda as she tossed her phone onto the table and stood up again. Why did I even think that, she wondered, touching her belly. Am I in my “Dirty Thirties” now? Is my body shouting out to me that it’s getting close to that time, that I’m still prime but spoiling fast, still peaking but close to the precipice, that if I don’t take care of business, my business is going to go bad, my business is going to—
“How is business, Ms. Hilda Hogarth,” came the voice now, clear and resonant, deep and booming, smashing through her self-imposed cloud of self-pity and melancholy with a vigor that startled the hell out of her—certainly startled the hell out of Sabbath, who leapt off the desk and disappeared into the shadows of the store.
“Sorry, what?” Hilda stammered, wondering if she should straighten her top or fix her hair first. She chose hair, which was wild and untamed and needed one of her many paisley scarves more than ever. Where was a scarf when she needed one! Her thing was the Cute Gypsy Woman look, not the Crazy Wild Witch of the West! “I mean hi! Hello! Come on! I mean come in! Not come on! Come inside!”
“I am already inside, Ms. Hogarth,” said the man, and she could see his silhouette as he stepped into the store and stood in front of the doorway, the light of the New Mexico afternoon sun streaming in behind him, lighting his frame in an almost surreal, certainly spectacular way.
God, he was tall, Hilda thought as she squinted to get a look at his face, which was clouded in shadow. And shit, he was broad. Were those really his shoulders?! And the way his muscular outline tapered down in that masculine V shape. Tight waist, strong legs, great posture. Oh. My. God. Tell me this guy matched me on Tinder and I just don’t remember because I blacked out from the wine last night! Come on, universe, where’s my gift? Show me some love for the faith I’ve put in you, doing your work of mystery and wonder!
“Would you like a reading?” she asked weakly, swallowing hard as she wondered why she felt so goddamn nervous. Usually she felt confident and in charge when she was on her own turf. Of course, her usual customers didn’t look like this . . .
“On the contrary,” said the man, and now he stepped out of the shadow and into the light. “I am here to speak of your future.”
“Ohmygod you’re here to kill me, aren’t you,” she said as she stumbled away from the cramped space behind her desk and straightened up to full height and full curvy, doing her best to pull in her stomach and stick out her bum, cursing herself for not wearing the one bra that made her boobs stand up right instead of flopping about like a couple of badly-stuffed sacks.
The man was handsome, his skin a deep, smooth olive, his strong jaw lined with well-manicured stubble, his black hair short and even, like he had just had a haircut. Who gets a haircut before going to kill someone?
He cocked his head to the left, taking a half-step and stopping. He wore brown linen trousers and a white shirt that Hilda could tell was fine Egyptian cotton. The clothes were tailored, fitted perfectly, the trousers hugging his tight hips, the shirt hanging lightly on his broad shoulders, three buttons open, heavy pectorals clearly visible.
Hilda found herself frozen as she stared at the man, her gaze slowly drifting down along his body, past his flat stomach, stopping briefly at the old leather belt that seemed vaguely out of place with the pristine clothes. She allowed her gaze to rest on his full crotch for a moment before realizing what she was doing and quickly blinking and looking up, suddenly finding herself staring directly into his eyes. Green eyes, dark and piercing, full and open, clear and . . . familiar?
He held her gaze, his head still cocked to the left, a slow smile breaking behind those dark red lips. Beautiful white teeth showing now, and before she knew it she was smiling too, somehow, for some reason . . . for every reason.
“I do believe that was not a serious question,” he said slowly, his voice betraying an accent that was clearly Middle Eastern but with hints of the West in it. “But given the world we live in, allow me to be clear: I am not here to kill you, Ms. Hilda Hogarth.”
The man’s confident smile and the easy, smooth delivery of his words were hitting home, and Hilda could feel her composure returning fast. “Well,” she said, somehow managing to hold his gaze as well as her own smile, “then please stop calling me by my first and last name. That’s a total serial-killer thing.”
The man frowned. “I thought having three names was the hallmark of an American serial killer.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Hilda said, folding her arms under her boobs and trying to push them up as discreetly as possible. She felt her knees go weak when the man clearly let his gaze fall to her bosom before he looked back into her eyes without flinching, like he couldn’t give a damn that she had just seen him check out her tits. Oh, God, she could feel a tingle beneath those harem pants of hers now. Oh, shit, get a hold of yourself, Hilda!
“Mutually exclusive? You are a student of logic?” the man said, glancing around the dimly lit store, his gaze quickly sweeping past the crystal ball props and the tie-dye tapestries. He stared at that old mirror for a long moment before looking back towards Hilda. “I suppose that makes sense. In America they teach logic in the philosophy departments, and philosophy seems a reasonable course of study for a fortune teller.”
“Astrologer,” said Hilda firmly, looking down at the maroon fake-Persian carpet and taking a breath before narrowing her brown eyes and looking back up at him. “And actually I studied physics in college.”
“Really,” he said, not sounding particularly impressed—which actually impressed Hilda in a way: she couldn’t count the number of first dates she’d been on where the guy said some patronizingly sexist shit about being a woman who studied physics. “Where did you attend college? I do not see a degree on your walls.”
Hilda blinked and frowned. Had he really scanned the walls in that much detail with that one sweeping glance of his? There was a lot of crap on the walls, and even some framed certificates from those bullshit seminars she’d taken. But no—there was no degree on the wall. “University of New Mexico. And yeah, I didn’t graduate. I—”
“UNM at Santa Fe? They have a surprisingly good physics department, if I remember correctly.”
“Why is it surprising?” Hilda said, feeling the strangest annoyance rising up in her, like she was angry suddenly, angry that her hair wasn’t at its best, that her eyes felt tired, that her boobs felt uneven and saggy. It had been so long since she’d even been ne
ar an attractive man, and it felt painfully obvious to her that this man’s type was almost certainly not a short thirty-something hippie with paisley harem-pants and a big butt. “And how do you know my name anyway?”
“It is on the sign outside,” said the man, his smile leaving his lips, eyes narrowing just enough to let on that he wasn’t going to back down just because Hilda was getting angry.
“That’s just my first name. I don’t publish my last name, and so—”
“Well, I am sorry to inform you that Google publishes your last name, whether you like it or not,” he said crisply.
Hilda felt a chill run down the curve of her back, and she involuntarily tightened her buttocks as she stared up at the man. So a handsome, muscular Middle-Eastern man had googled her, and now he was in her store. Ohgod, no! That guy Alim she had just milked for fifteen grand?! Was this him?! The name Alim sounded Middle-Eastern enough, didn’t it? Shit, this was him! Oh, God, she was screwed!
Stop, she told herself as she swallowed hard and tried to get her lower lip to stop trembling like it used to when she was a little girl. She wasn’t a moron. She had always planned for something like this happening. Yes, she only pulled bigger cons like this with customers too far away to actually drive down to New Mexico. But she wasn’t a moron. She knew that someday some pissed-off customer was going to walk in here or at least try to sue her, and she knew she needed to be ready.
“You’re Alim,” she said quickly, forcing a smile that she hoped would hide her panic. “Is that right?”
The man’s eyes widened for a flash, like he was surprised at how quickly Hilda had gotten there. And then that wide, warm smile of his was back, melting through her anger, pushing past the paranoia, making her want to push her boobs up right again. God, she really was in her dirty thirties, wasn’t she? Was every man she met now a prospect? Was every man now a candidate for knocking her up? Was she that pathetic? That desperate?
Stars for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 8) Page 2
