“Sorry, I’m so late,” I say to Sylvie, tearing my eyes away from Zahir.
“No worries,” Sylvie answers, her Jamaican accent ringing melodic as she pulls me in for a big hug. She gives me a full kiss on the cheek without seeming to worry about her makeup. “I am just so very glad you made it here, my friend. And thank you for sending the twins out early. They have been so very helpful.”
“You look head to toe fine as hell, girl,” I tell her, even though I can feel Zahir’s cool judging gaze on me as I give my friend the big ups she deserves.
But Sylvie, proving she hasn’t changed much despite being on deck to marry a billionaire, deflects my compliment. “You look even better than me, my beautiful friend, I swear it!” she insists.
“Forgive the interruption, Sylvie,” Zahir says, his tone coldly polite. “I understand your friend would like to catch up with you, but she is also over forty minutes late. We should start the wedding without further delay.”
Okay, why is he acting like I decided, out the blue, to hold up my best friend’s wedding?
You need him…I remind myself before I can give into the temptation to tell him something about his crib’s five checkpoint situation. A lot more than he needs you.
Plus, Sylvie’s already been to hell and back with Holt to make it to this special day. She doesn’t need any more drama—especially from her best friend.
So instead of pointing out that I would have been on time if not for the five security checkpoints outside his palace, I lower my head and my eyes, just like I learned in the multiple “Doing Business in Jahwar” articles I read on the flight over. “Thank you for hosting this wedding in your beautiful palace,” I say in my best facsimile of a super polite guest. “And please forgive my tardiness.”
He just stares at me as if he’s trying to figure out a way to turn my apology into an insult.
“Should we give the orchestra the cue then?” Sylvie asks into the awkward silence.
Another beat of annoyance, then Zahir nods at a guard, who translates the simple move of his king’s head as, “Tell the band to start playing.” He says something under his breath into a Bluetooth ear-set and in the next moment, a melodic swell of stringed instruments fills the hallway.
“You and Luca go first,” Mika, the other bridesmaid, tells me with a kind look as she hands me a small bouquet of dark purple roses that she must have been holding onto for me. “Then Zahir and I go, and then Sylvie.”
Mika’s technically Sylvie’s nanny, but I can tell she’s excited to be here for reasons that have nothing to do with overtime pay. And I see why Sylvie hand-picked the young woman to take over the position of her soon-to-be stepson’s nanny after she quit the job. Mika positively emanates compassion and affable kindness, like a walking good vibe—which puts her at the complete opposite end of the spectrum of the stone-faced sheikh she’ll be walking down the aisle with.
“Okay, great,” I say, thankful for the excuse to turn my back on Zahir as I get into the first position beside Luca outside the double doors.
But when I start to take Luca’s arm, he steps away with a chuckle and says, “Sorry, beautiful, no touching allowed since we’re not married.”
“Oh…” I say, letting my arm fall awkwardly to my side.
“You would have known this if you bothered to come to the rehearsal yesterday as everyone else did,” a dark voice comments behind me.
No drama, I remind myself, fisting both hands around the stem of my bouquet. You need him more than he needs to be told not everyone has the money or job security to easily attend weddings in exotic destinations.
“Ready to go?” I ask Luca, instead of responding to the accusing voice behind me.
“Sure thing,” he answers.
Like magic, the doors open, revealing a large, two story ballroom with enough crystal studded chandeliers, ivory molding, gold detailing, and silk drapery action to host a second live-action remake of the Beauty and the Beast wedding scene. I walk beside Luca down a golden satin aisle runner while a full string orchestra plays a soft melody, and an audience, so well-dressed they could be swapped in at the Oscars, turns as one.
Everything is so enchanting, I can almost ignore the malevolent dark stare drilling a hole through my back.
Almost, I think, wondering how I am going to get Zahir to stop hating me long enough to give me what I need.
Chapter Two
I’m still wondering a couple of hours later as I stand against a wall all by my lonesome while Holt and Sylvie share their first dance as husband and wife. The opulent ballroom has been quick-changed by a flurry of palace servants into an unbelievably elegant reception venue, complete with a fleet of tables, an international buffet, and a performance stage, with enough space leftover for a dance floor.
The twins are on stage singing Jill Scott’s “Jahraymecofasola,” and I’m not one to bet on happily ever after, but Holt is staring down at Sylvie like he’s won the lottery, and Sylvie is looking up at Holt like she might burst into happy tears at any moment.
I’m happy for them…I really am. The road to this moment has been paved with obstacles, and quite frankly I questioned Sylvie’s sanity when she started up with Holt again ten years after their dramatic break up. But Sylvie is a mother twice over now. And Holt’s gone from trustafarian headcase to the much improved and clean-shaven CEO of Cal-Mart. Sylvie’s more content than I’ve ever seen her as a student pursuing a doctoral degree in Psychology, and Holt’s approval rating is through the roof thanks to a timely reveal of his and Sylvie’s sensational love story.
Forget those tumultuous ten years. Right now, Holt and Sylvie look the same as they did when I crashed their meet-cute in his Connecticut penthouse bedroom.
My heart tightens with the memory of that night. How I’d gone up to that party full of hopes and dreams for a fairytale ending with the Arabian prince who’d finally noticed me…
But I know better now.
I’m not soft and good natured like Sylvie and Mika. And if the last ten years have taught me anything, it’s that life doesn’t give happy endings to women like me. Kasha’s always telling me I’m bound to end up in my own romance sooner or later, it’s only a matter of time. But I know the truth. Too much has happened, and I’m too cynical and broken to ever attract a love like the one Holt and Sylvie somehow managed to achieve, despite all the obstacles standing in their way.
But enough with the self-pity. I shake my head and refocus my attention on the other side of the dance floor where Zahir is seated at a table with a couple—an older man and a much younger blonde. The blonde looks beyond bored while Zahir talks intently with the man. The guy must be an American business associate, I guess—probably a Texan, if the large cowboy hat hanging off the back of his chair is any indication. But it doesn’t matter who the couple is, only that they are one…
The twins told me earlier that they’d been instructed to tell all the couples and family members to join Holt and Sylvie on the floor at the end of this song, and then they would transition into a set of way more upbeat tunes.
Kasha had been adorably annoyed for me because, “There are so many single hotties here, but you’re not allowed to dance with any of them. How messed up is that?”
But I smiled at the intel, seeing it as an opportunity to approach Zahir while the man he’d been talking to for nearly twenty minutes was otherwise engaged.
So I wait, pretending to watch Holt and Sylvie from the sidelines, while really, I’m preparing to pounce…
“What’s what, Jersey?”
Luca, the only other person from New Jersey who’s not me or the twins appears in front of me, blocking my view of Zahir. The young don’s got two glasses of champagne in his hands and offers me one.
I take it, grateful for the Dutch courage, but… “I thought this was supposed to be a dry wedding. Where did you get champagne?”
“Helps when your best bro runs the whole kingdom. He made sure my room was fully stocked upon arriva
l. The hook up’s too generous, really. I could never finish it all by myself. Wanna come back to my room and help me out?”
Oh, I realize belatedly, he’s hitting on me. Again.
“No, thanks,” I answer, just like I did when he invited me back to his hotel room at Holt and Sylvie’s engagement party—the one Zahir hadn’t attended because he’d still been in the mourning period after his father’s death. Then I down the champagne in one gulp, just in case Luca decides to use my latest rejection as an excuse to take it back.
“You look like you could use something to take the edge off…” he says, raising two perfect dark brows over his mesmerizing light-colored eyes. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider my offer?”
“You sure you’re not just offering because I’m Amber’s former assistant?”
His answer is classic bad boy, neither a confirmation or a denial. “I’m sure we could have a lot of fun together... plus free booze.”
Yeah, I’m sure we could, too. It’s been a while, and one area of my body feels like it has way too much in common with the desert outside the palace walls. But tonight, I’m on a mission way more important that ending my overlong sex drought.
And besides… “Dude, sleeping with me won’t make Amber jealous. I mean, I didn’t even know she was your ex-wife until she decided to represent Sylvie in her custody dispute with Holt. I suggest you go find some other girl to have fun with, because she’s not even trying to pay you any attention.”
Classic read, and I can tell I hit a target. A cloud falls over Luca’s flirtatious smile. So dark, I have to wonder what the hell went down between my blind legal eagle former boss and the head of one of Jersey’s most dangerous mafia families. Or how they even got together in the first place.
But instead of cussing me out like a lot of guys from Jersey would, Luca says, “So, you seen her lately?”
I crook my head, surprised by the question. “Who? Amber?”
“Yeah.”
In fact, we had lunch a couple weeks ago, but I don’t say anything…unsure how to process this question from her ex-husband.
“I just wanna hear she’s alright. That she’s doing okay,” he says quietly. Then he shifts from foot to foot, looking as close to uncomfortable as a totally made guy from Jersey could.
What’s crazy is I’m tempted to tell him Amber’s fine. Better than fine—thriving even, after Sylvie’s case brought in so much new business.
But then the moment’s broken when Sasha calls out, “Okay, everyone, if you’re part of a married couple or have a friend or child to dance with, get out on the dance floor!”
That’s my cue. Shoving my empty glass back into Luca’s hand, I push past him, too intent on my target to say goodbye.
Just as I suspected, the bored trophy wife is pulling her husband onto the dance floor, which leaves Zahir alone at the table. I make a beeline for him, determined to have a private conversation.
But halfway there, a little hand grabs mine and says, “Wait, Princess, wait! Dance with me!”
I look down to find a little girl with raven hair down to her waist. She’s shockingly cute with delicate features that hint at a future great beauty. But I’ve never met her in my life. “Hey,” I say, reflexively squeezing her hand. “Do I know you?”
“No,” she answers with a shrug, like that’s neither here nor there. “I loved your show though. My old English nanny, Roslyn, used to let me watch it with her sometimes when my amo Asir was on it, but when Mama found out, she made Roslyn leave.”
I chuckle at the unexpected story. “Yeah, His Majesty was definitely a show for grown-ups,” I tell her. “But you know Princess is my full name, right? I’m not a real princess.”
“Oh, I know. My mommy is a real princess, but I like your voice. You sound like Clawdeen from Monster High.”
I rankle, not because of the fake princess comment, but because… “Clawdeen has a Bronx accent. I’m from New Jersey.”
“Is there a difference?” she asks, blinking innocently.
I suck my teeth, prepared to give her a big Jersey answer to that awful, awful question. But then I spot Zahir rising from the table.
“Alright, nice meeting ya, kid, but I’ve got to go,” I say, trying to move past her.
“No, no, not yet!” she cries out, grabbing my arm again. Then she hits me with the puppy dog eyes and says, “Dance with me, please! You’re my favorite from that show.”
“Maybe later,” I say, eyes still on Zahir.
“Later when?” she demands, grabbing onto my wrist, like the fate of the world depends on my answer to her question.
“Aisha, what are you doing?” a new voice demands before I can answer her question.
A woman, wearing a hijab and a formal sari appears behind the girl. Her mother. I can tell, even though the woman is much paler, while her daughter is on the browner side of olive-toned, like Zahir. They have the same regal beauty and wide eyes.
The girl called Aisha lets go of my arm as the woman scolds her in rapid Arabic. Then she turns to me with a dutiful, “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“You weren’t any bother at all,” I tell her truthfully. “Thanks for the laugh.”
Aisha’s mother just gives me a polite smile and nod before pulling her daughter away. But Aisha waves at me over her shoulder, an impish smile on her face as her mother hauls her off.
I watch them go with a bemused smile, and for a moment I wonder what that would be like. To be a mother of a child from the start, not the guardian of two heartbroken sisters whose mother died along with my father in a private plane crash.
The thought of babies makes me glance toward the dance floor again. Looking for Sylvie and Holt who’ve only told a few select people that they’re expecting and will be welcoming a baby girl in six months. A new beginning for a new beginning, Sylvie told me when she called with the news.
But then I stop cold, because instead of finding Sylvie and Holt on the dance floor, I see Sylvie with her prodigy son, Ender on one side and her blond stepson, Wes on the other. Kasha and Sasha have switched to a Jamaican song I don’t even remotely recognize, and the trio are leading the rest of the wedding guests in a line dance.
But Holt is nowhere to be seen…and neither is Zahir.
I drop all my f-bombs because I obviously spent too much time talking with the little Arabian princess and now I’ve missed my chance—
But no, hold up…I spot Holt and Zahir on the other side of the ballroom, exiting through the now open set of double doors. They’re walking in a heads-down manner I recognize as executive mode after two months of working in a law firm that specializes in big business court cases.
Awesome, I think as I cut across the ballroom and follow them out. Maybe they’re going to Zahir’s office. In which case, I can wait outside and then slip in for a private conversation when Holt leaves.
But I stop short in the hallway, heels skidding, before I reach the end of the corridor. I can hear them talking, not in Zahir’s office, but right around the corner.
“I gave him my best pitch, but he is refusing to even consider this deal. He would not even do me the courtesy of agreeing to meet with me when I’m in the states.”
“I’m sorry the introduction didn’t work out, man. But you know, steel is an old tycoon business, and a lot of the execs in charge have more in common with my father than me.”
“You are saying he will not discuss this matter with me any further because I am an Arab? Even though my family has gone out of its way to turn Jahwar into a modern hub of technology and business? Even though I know he’s worked with quite a few hotels and other projects in Dubai? Why not here?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, man. If I had a steel company, I’d jump into this project, no questions asked, based on your business reputation. But your father, as advanced as he was, wasn’t the Sheikh of Dubai. He built a business empire but didn’t do much to make connections outside the region. You can make those connections now, and
that’s what will make you a great king.”
“Yes, I plan to be a better king than my father, but that’s a difficult role to fulfill with this ongoing disaster of a mall project and no one I can trust to rebuild our aging oil pipeline—”
“Princess! Princess! What are you doing here?”
I cringe at the sound of the voice behind me, followed by a tug on the long skirt of my bridesmaid’s gown. It’s Aisha. But before I can put a finger to my mouth to shush her, she says, “My mother’s in the toilet. Can we dance now?”
She leans on the word “now” like she’s been waiting hours not minutes for this opportunity.
She reminds me of Kasha, and I’d almost find this situation amusing… if I couldn’t hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming to a stop behind me.
I turn around, hoping maybe, just maybe Zahir didn’t hear a thing.
But no dice. He and Holt are standing there with two black suited guards on either side. And I can tell from the thunderous look on Zahir’s face and the quizzical one on Holt’s that they heard every word Aisha said.
Chapter Three
“Amo Zahir! Amo Zahir!” Aisha yells, throwing her arms around Zahir’s waist.
“Were you talking about something interesting? I was looking for Princess and I found her out here spying on you!”
Wow, I think, blinking at the little girl. This kid really does not subscribe to the “snitches get stitches” school of thought.
Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 28
