by Holly Rayner
The Sheikh’s Bought Ballerina
Holly Rayner
Contents
The Sheikh’s Bought Ballerina
1. Salim
2. Ophelia
3. Salim
4. Salim
5. Ophelia
6. Salim
7. Ophelia
8. Salim
9. Ophelia
10. Salim
11. Ophelia
12. Ophelia
13. Salim
14. Ophelia
15. Salim
16. Ophelia
17. Salim
18. Ophelia
19. Salim
20. Ophelia
21. Salim
22. Salim
23. Ophelia
24. Salim
25. Ophelia
26. Salim
27. Ophelia
28. Salim
29. Salim
30. Ophelia
Epilogue
The Sheikh’s ASAP Bride
Introduction
1. Willow
2. Willow
3. Ibrahim
4. Willow
5. Willow
6. Willow
7. Ibrahim
8. Willow
9. Ibrahim
More Series by Holly Rayner
The Sheikh’s Bought Ballerina
Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.
All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Salim
Salim barely felt the plane touch down. In his mind, he thanked his father once again for the gift of one of the best pilots in the world; a private jet was one thing, but a pilot of the caliber that his father had given him was another thing entirely—it meant that he could forget that he was even flying.
New York. Home. Well, not home the way Al-Shyla was supposed to feel like home. But, for the last five years, his apartment here had grown to feel more and more like the only place where he could truly live his life the way he wanted to.
There were tradeoffs, of course, but his wealth shielded him from most of them. Like the pilot, and the plane, and the private gate that he went through, and the streamlined customs and passport experience, everything was just a little bit easier for Salim. Or, in some cases, quite a lot easier. It made his life—shuttling as he did between his apartment in Manhattan, the family home in Al-Shyla, and a few other favored properties scattered around the globe—possible.
His usual car, complete with his usual driver, waited for him in its usual space. In the smooth, casual motion of a man comfortable with every piece of this routine, Salim slid into the back seat.
“Welcome back, sir,” the driver said. His accent, after all this time in the States, was barely noticeable. Sometimes Salim could discern it, but today, his driver sounded like a genuine American.
“Thank you, Rahul.”
“Did you have a good trip?”
The small talk was light and familiar as Rahul pulled out into traffic and skillfully navigated the congested airport. But the question had more of an answer to it than Salim wanted to breach at the moment. The trip had only been a few days long this time, but it had involved some complicated relationships with some even more complicated people.
“It was a productive trip, Rahul. Let’s leave it at that. Take me home.”
There was the slightest hesitation in Rahul’s voice before he spoke.
“Home, sir?”
It wasn’t like him to contradict.
“Yes, home. Is there a problem?”
He could hear his father’s voice, and the way his father interacted with the staff in his own voice. He made a mental note to try harder to eradicate it. He had never wanted to be the kind of man who belittled his employees. But nearly three decades of immersion in a world that very much worked that way was sometimes hard to shake.
“No, sir. Of course, sir. It’s just that I had assumed you had come back for the Caravaggio auction.”
Salim’s eyebrows raised.
“Someone’s been paying attention to the art world lately. Yes, that’s why I scheduled my flight when I did. I have every intention of attending the auction tonight.”
“Yes, sir. Only, the auction is this afternoon, sir.”
Salim felt his spine stiffen and his body straighten up with surprise.
“This afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. I believe it has already started. There were some last-minute changes to the scheduling. I believe if you had not made such good time across the Atlantic, you might have ended up missing it entirely, sir.”
The slight lift, the implication in his voice was clear. Salim let out a little laugh. As devious a move as this was, he had to respect it.
“Nikolai managed to get it moved, did he? How did he even know my flight time?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir. To the auction house?”
Salim leaned back in his seat and grinned. His return to New York was getting off to an eventful start.
“To the auction house.”
Salim usually didn’t mind the traffic. It was one of the things normal people had to deal with that he did, too. But today, rushed as he was, he couldn’t help but resent it.
Nikolai. His oldest friend. His greatest rival. It would be good to see him again, and it would be even better to foil his plot to swipe the Caravaggio out from under his nose. If only he could will the traffic coming in from the airport to move a little faster.
Luckily, whatever gods manage traffic were kind to him today, and Salim found himself in front of the auction house in decent time. He was a little unsure at first if he had made it before the bidding was complete, but the reaction of the auction house employees told him everything he needed to know.
He couldn’t help but be amused by the way he was treated. He was revered here, it was true. After the better part of a decade spent carefully curating his collection, he was a familiar face in these halls. Today, however, it was as though there was an extra level of accommodation granted to him. Every hallway he walked down, he was expected; no one seemed to need to speak to him to know exactly where he wanted to go and exactly what he wanted.
And so he was half-led, half-escorted to the top auction hall. He knew this room well. It was the one where many of his most treasured pieces had been won. It was the site of a few of his most bitter defeats, too…the ones that he’d let slip through his fingers.
As he and the attendant escorting him approached the door, Salim reached out his hand to stop the man from opening it. The attendant gave Salim a quizzical look, but Salim only put a finger to his lips to indicate quiet; if Nikolai was going to play games—as Nikolai liked to do—then what sort of friend would Salim be if he didn’t play along?
Salim opened the door slowly. Quietly. And he slipped in unnoticed.
He could be stealthy when he wanted to be. A holdover from growing up with seven brothers and sisters and still wanting to get away with being the troublemaker. It helped that the room had no interest in the doors at the back. All attention was focused intently on the podium.
There it sat: the Carava
ggio. When Salim set eyes on it for the first time, it was enough to make him forget the tense bidding war happening between Nikolai and two other parties, one of which Salim recognized and one of which he did not.
This particular piece had a “questionable” provenance. There were some people, Salim knew, who would definitely be here if its authenticity were undisputed, but who were noticeably absent. It had been a subject of rumor for many years. Mentioned in letters but never actually seen, until it surfaced a few months ago in the private collection of the great grandson of a collector known for his unscrupulous collection practices.
Since the news broke, Salim had anxiously been paying attention to the authentication process, and was delighted when it had turned out to be, in the best opinion of the foremost experts in the field, genuine.
And he saw a version of that delight on Nikolai’s face, now. The other bidder was slowing down, and Nikolai had never seen much reason to slow down whatsoever when he was pursuing something he wanted.
The price was up to thirty-five million dollars. A steal, if the painting was legitimate, and a lost fortune for a lesser man if it were not. Nothing, to Nikolai, either way. But the other bidder—an older woman Salim didn’t recognize, who seemed deeply invested in the sale—was flinching, now, with every bid. She kept looking back at the painting, and then to Nikolai, and then back to the painting.
When, at thirty-seven million, she finally dropped out, the look on Nikolai’s face reminded Salim of all the rough parts of Nikolai’s turbulent personality. He was winning. And his angular features always somehow seemed sharper when he was willing.
“Thirty-seven million to Mr. Ansaroff. Do I hear thirty-eight?”
Nikolai’s grin broke into a full-blown smile.
“Going once.”
He scanned the room, looking for an acknowledgement of his victory in the faces of the defeated.
“Going twice.”
Nikolai was straightening up, now. Preparing to stand and go inspect his prize.
“Forty-five million.”
Heads turned. Salim could swear he heard someone gasp. But, more than anything, Nikolai’s smile faded. As the auctioneer continued his narration, the two rivals stared each other down.
Salim would go as high as he needed to, and Nikolai knew it. Salim could see, clear as day, his old school friend considering driving up the price intentionally, forcing Salim to go higher than he needed to. Higher than the market would bear, certainly. And, eventually, higher than Nikolai could afford to lose without attracting his father’s negative attention.
There had never been an explicit discussion of wealth between them, but the general numbers were well-enough-known publicly. Salim had always rather suspected that Nikolai resented the fact that, when the chips were down, the wealth of the prince of a nation—even as small of a nation as Al-Shyla was—would always beat the wealth of the son of a businessman—even one as fantastically successful as Nikolai’s father.
If he wanted to, Salim could punish Nikolai for this, and they both knew it.
He could ride the bidding war up, further and further, and let Nikolai’s competitive and mischievous streak take over until he was way out of his depth. Less than fifty million invested in a risky piece was a defensible action to his father. But great works by master artists could go into the hundreds of millions, and if Salim brought him up into that rarified air and then dropped out, leaving him to pay the price, he could ruin him in his father’s eyes. And Nikolai’s father was not a man to take disappointment lightly.
The auctioneer was calling out his closing words. The piece was going. The piece was going. Salim held Nicolai’s gaze and allowed himself a slight smile.
The piece was gone. The piece was his.
Since the Caravaggio was the only piece in this specially called auction, the room broke up. Salim could hear a running commentary in a variety of dialects and accents all around them. Some were voicing their disappointment regarding missing out on it. Some were remarking on the bizarre sudden change of the auction timing.
But for Salim, there was only one priority.
He went over to the painting, and let himself drink it in.
Of all the masters, Caravaggio had always been one of Salim’s favorites. It was to do with the drama of the light, he thought. The mystery that the darkness within the figures emerging from that light brought. Salim had always liked the feeling of it—imagining that there was a whole world of mystery and darkness behind these figures that Caravaggio brought forward and drenched in the light of observation.
There had always been a part of him that wanted to explore and disappear into that world. But to observe what the master had laid down of it on canvas—that was the closest he could get. And, of all the advantages, of all the treasures and benefits that his wealth gave him, this was Salim’s favorite.
“Quite a prize.”
Nikolai’s accent was softer now than it had been in Switzerland, when they had been at school together; so many years ago, now.
“It is,” Salim said softly, resenting Nikolai for forcing him out of his reverie. “Tell me, how did you get the auction time changed? What pull do you have and with whom?”
In his peripheral vision, Salim saw his friend shrug.
“Some might call it pull. Some might call it push…”
Salim felt himself laugh involuntarily, and fixed his eyes for the first time on Nikolai.
“So, the rumors about you are true then, are they?”
Nikolai himself laughed.
“That…that, I cannot say. You know I do not lie to you, Salim, so don’t ask me questions you don’t want to hear the answer to.”
There was a twinkle in Nikolai’s eyes. There always was. It had always been the most frustrating thing about him—that he was, at the end of everything, so charming. He had a playfulness to him that had always kept Salim on good terms with him, against his better judgement, regardless of what he did to deserve a falling out.
It was also, Salim knew, extremely effective with women, at least in the short term. Though Nikolai had never been one to care much about how anything would fare in the long term. The long-term had never interested him much, and certainly not with one woman, when there were so many more out there in the world waiting for him. He’d expressed as much time and time again.
“You seem to be in a good mood for a man who put considerable effort into obtaining a painting, only to lose it at the last moment.”
Nikolai shrugged again. It was a common movement for him. The sense that he didn’t care about anything altogether too much was another component of his playful air. He leaned against the podium, knowing that to do so probably wasn’t permitted, but also knowing that no one here would have the gall to tell him not to.
“Well, it is nice. But it’s probably a fake, anyway. I got excited, I’ll admit, but now, I’m glad you’re the one who has wasted his money.”
Salim raised his eyebrows.
“As always, gracious in defeat, Nikolai. A lot of trouble you went through to keep me from getting a fake piece.”
“Oh, you know me,” Nikolai cocked his head to the side. “Always looking out for my friends. Besides, I didn’t just change the auction so you couldn’t be here.”
This was a new one in Nikolai’s playbook, and the first thing that he had said that actually almost surprised Salim.
“Nikolai, as you just said, we don’t lie to one another. Tell me that you even knew this piece was on the market before you heard me express an interest in it, and I might believe you.”
“Believe me or not, that’s your choice. And remember, I didn’t claim that I knew about this piece before you. I only said that you are not the only reason I got the auction time altered. I hate to break it to you, my dear old friend, but you are not the only thing in my world.
“The truth is, that I had a conflict. There’s another acquisition I want to investigate tonight. Something far more worthwhile than these colors dashed across
an old cloth that you care so much about.”
Nikolai’s words had the exact effect on Salim that he knew he’d wanted them to. This was how Nikolai always got him. A raised eyebrow. A cocked head. A casual air and then an expression of intense interest. There was something Nikolai wanted, but that he wouldn’t tell. It made it feel all the more precious and intriguing—just like the world beyond the edges of a Caravaggio painting.
“And what’s that?”
Nikolai grinned, and both men knew that Salim was already on the hook. Both men knew how Nikolai wanted it to work out. As payback for losing the auction, Nikolai would show Salim something else he wanted—in some area where he himself had the advantage. And then, he would make Salim watch him acquire it, just when Salim had decided that he really wanted it after all.
As predictable as the script was, Salim felt himself getting sucked in. It was predictable because it worked. Salim had spent the entirety of his adult life so far in search of beauty. He wasn’t going to leave any potential source of it uninvestigated. Not this time; not ever.
“Come to dinner tonight, and afterwards, I’ll show you.”
Salim made a show of thinking it over, but both men already knew that whatever it was, Salim was going.
Chapter 2
Ophelia
Opening nights were both Ophelia’s favorite and least favorite thing in the world. They always had been, from her earliest memory of being gently launched onto the stage in a tiny pink tutu with equally tiny pink ballet shoes.
On the one hand, there was the excitement of it. In her admittedly sheltered life to date, she had never found anything that was quite so exhilarating as the rush of going on stage to dance the first show. No matter how many times a ballet had been performed, it was still a new one, each time, with a new cast.
And while, with every new season, and every new performance, she had practiced and practiced until she bled, and wept, and knew every step and every movement inside out, to bring it to an audience always felt like the biggest act of creation she could possibly imagine.
