The Sheikh's Bought Ballerina (The Sheikh's New Bride Book 6)

by Holly Rayner

  She held her fingers tightly together, her muscles straining. She wanted to reproach Ibrahim, tell him that it was all wrong to lie to his mother in this manner. Luckily, she was able to hold her tongue.

  They exited the limo, and the coast stretched before them, with the waves lapping up along the sand. The waves were turquoise, glittering beneath the idyllic sky. Willow dotted her foot atop the sand, watching as the tip of her heel disappeared beneath it. Ibrahim reached for her hand, guiding her toward a paved walkway.

  A restaurant awaited, perched on a rocky outlook, its walls made entirely of glass. At this point, Willow realized, they hadn’t said a single word to one another in over thirty minutes.

  Halfway up the walkway, the restaurant workers began to scuttle at their arrival. A maître d’ approached, bowing and guiding them toward the entrance.

  “Sheikh Ibrahim, Madame,” he said. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to our humble establishment. As requested, we’ve closed off the entire restaurant for the evening, and have set up a table just for the three of you near the overlook. You’ll have a private view of the sea, and the attention of our entire staff. Know that anything you want in this world can be yours from here.”

  Ibrahim bowed his head slightly in return and gave the man a confident smile.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” he said. “I suppose, to begin, we’ll need a bottle of champagne. My mother hasn’t yet arrived, correct?”

  “I believe her driver informed us she’ll be here within fifteen minutes,” the maître d’ said, his face scrunching up and showing his anxiety. “A drink before then, sir? I know the last time you were with us, you appreciated our aged scotch—”

  “Fine, fine. Yes,” Ibrahim said, placing his hand at the small of Willow’s back and guiding her into the restaurant.

  Willow was caught off guard by the beauty of the interior. It was luxurious, with a long bar stretching across the whole of the restaurant, and chandeliers glittering from above. The left side of the building jutted out over the pier and gave a view of the smooth sand and swelling waves.

  A single table had been placed where the best view would be, with a white tablecloth and a single, flickering candle in the center. She and Ibrahim approached it, with the maître d’ pushing ahead and whisking the chair out for her. He waved his hand for her to sit, and she did, perching awkwardly on the edge.

  “What a beautiful fiancée you have, Sheikh Ibrahim,” the maître d’ said, speaking to Ibrahim as if Willow wasn’t directly in front of him. “Your mother will be quite pleased.”

  Ibrahim didn’t respond, perhaps perceiving the strangeness of the conversation. He sat alongside Willow, reserving the seat across from them for his mother. The closeness of his body gave Willow pause. She shifted in her seat, trying to draw herself away from him. She couldn’t stop inhaling his musk, along with a sandalwood cologne.

  Soon, a server arrived with a glass of Scotch, passing it to Ibrahim without even glancing at Willow. Her throat felt parched, dry as a desert. Her eyes flicked around the room, wanting to memorize everything to tell Summer later. “It was like I was invisible,” she could already hear herself telling her. “It was like they didn’t care that I existed.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” Ibrahim murmured to her, his voice low. He sipped his scotch and passed it to her, nodding. “Have a sip of this. It’ll calm you down.”

  Willow took a small sip, feeling the amber liquid burn at her tongue. As she did, Ibrahim stood from his seat, raising a hand. Alarmed, Willow placed the glass on the table and rose, too, glancing toward the doorway.

  There stood a tall, beautiful woman, wearing long, elegant robes of emerald green. She smiled broadly toward her son. Striding forward, she lifted both arms toward Willow, wrapping them tightly around her slim frame.

  Suddenly, Willow was wrapped in a hug, feeling her face pressed against the woman’s taller form. The woman chortled, drawing away from Willow and gripping her shoulders.

  Tilting her head, she murmured, “My, my, Ibrahim. You have found yourself an American beauty, haven’t you? Finally, I’m meeting the woman who will make my son an honest man.”

  Willow’s smile widened. Feeling embarrassed and anxious, she turned toward Ibrahim, waiting for his response. But he gave her none, his eyebrows raised—telling her it was up to her, now. It was time for her performance to begin.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you, Amira,” Willow said, relieved that she was able to recall the woman’s name in the moment. “Ibrahim’s talked of you so often. I feel it’s been such a long time coming.”

  “Oh, darling,” Amira said. She sat at the edge of her chair, leaning forward on her fist and staring at her. “I feel as though I hardly know anything about you. You’re going to have to tell me everything. We’re going to have to start from the beginning. It’s not your fault, of course. Ibrahim said he was just so caught up with you, he didn’t bother to call his mother…”

  Willow’s face burned. As she sat, hunting for the right words to say, a server approached from the side and brought them a bottle of champagne. “Your favorite, Madame,” the man said to Amira, bowing his head.

  He poured them each a glass, then darted away. During this time, Willow was hardly conscious of where she was, hoping only that if she blinked hard enough, maybe she could transport herself back to Houston. Back to her normal life.

  “Well, cheers, then,” Amira said, raising her glass. “To the woman who will marry my son, in just a week!”

  A week? Willow’s brain felt like it was on fire.

  She tried to steady her expression as Amira sipped her wine and closed her eyes, but inwardly, she felt like screaming. A week? What was Amira talking about?

  “I’ll admit, it’s really rather fast—” Willow began, filling in the silence.

  “But when you know, you know,” Ibrahim added quickly, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. He gave his mother a cocky smile, tilting his head. “And we wanted to ensure that it was the kind of wedding you could be proud of.”

  “I know you, Ibrahim. I know you would be absolutely content with running off to Vegas and having some sort of sinful celebration without me,” Amira laughed, trying to share the laugh with Willow.

  Willow joined in, sensing that her laugh was far too high-pitched to sound natural. She sipped more champagne, hoping the liquid courage would get her through the next few hours.

  “But I’m so grateful the two of you chose Rebai as the place to have your wedding,” Amira continued. “With your help, I’ve been able to plan everything. I have the venue, the cake, the caterers—the same one we had for your father’s funeral, Ibrahim. And you remember how remarkable that food was. Everyone said it was the proper way to honor him. A man who loved his food, wasn’t he?”

  “Indeed,” Ibrahim said, shifting in his chair.

  Willow glanced toward him, sensing his face twitching with the mention of his father. Willow drew lines up and down her thighs with her fingers, unsure of what to do.

  She felt anger buzzing inside her, reeling against the fact that she was helping Ibrahim dupe this woman. But also, she realized, she and Ibrahim weren’t due to leave Rebai until after the wedding—which meant she’d actually have to go through with it!

  That hadn’t been a part of the deal. Ibrahim had lied to her, telling her that she’d have to fake the role of his fiancée for a week, speak to a few journalists and pose for a few photographs. But now, he was asking her to marry him, for show.

  Willow forced herself to smile through the rest of the dinner, listening to Amira’s excited chatter about the wedding festivities. She ate slowly, trying to savor the flavor of the succulent lamb curry, but finding herself much too distracted.

  She found herself drawn to the light in Amira’s eyes. She was as excited as a child, yet as regal as any queen. Willow wondered, in an abstract way, how nice it would be to actually have the woman as her mother-in-law. If only it all wasn’t a farce.

  After dinn
er, the fake couple bid Amira goodbye, hugging her again and offering their cheeks for her kisses. In the silence that followed, Ibrahim placed his hand on Willow’s back and guided her toward the porch of the glass restaurant, where they could gaze out over the dark water. Willow pressed her lips together tightly, feeling herself sizzle with anger. Ibrahim lifted his glass of scotch and sipped it, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Willow demanded suddenly.

  Ibrahim blinked toward her, looking handsome yet far away.

  “I’m sorry?” he asked, confused.

  Willow’s hands formed tight fists at her sides. “Aren’t you going to explain why you lied to me? Why you’re actually having me go through with a wedding?”

  “Oh, that,” Ibrahim said quietly.

  “No! Not ‘just that,’” Willow cried out. She gripped the railing of the porch, feeling the sea wind whip at her hair. “You conned me, sure. But now, you’re asking me to con your mother—giving her a daughter-in-law, a chance at grandchildren, at least in her mind. That’s disgusting, Ibrahim. I can’t imagine anything more…more…deceitful.”

  She felt herself stuttering as her passion grew. Ibrahim looked grim, his eyes dark and searching. Reaching for her, he put his arms around her, and Willow suddenly felt a bit more centered. She no longer teetered with anger.

  “Let me try to explain,” Ibrahim began, drawing away from her. “My mother is the most important person in the world to me, and she will never be happy until I settle down. I’m her favorite child, at least after…” He paused, his eyes looking sad, distant. “That is, I’m her favorite, since we lost my brother.”

  “Oh,” Willow said, her chin quivering. “I didn’t realize you also lost your brother…” An image of Paul sprung up in her mind’s eye—those soft, blue eyes, the ringing memory of his laugh.

  “The fact that you work so hard to make your brother’s memory known—that really speaks to me,” Ibrahim said. “I can’t imagine what it felt like to watch Paul pass like that. For me, one day, I had my brother, and the next, I didn’t. It was a car accident…” he trailed off, his voice losing force.

  “It must have destroyed you. It certainly did for me, for a while,” Willow murmured, knowing better than most that no words would actually do. They could never fill the hole in his heart.

  “The issue is that I don’t want to settle down,” Ibrahim continued. “As you know, I like my life back in Houston. I’m famous, rich. I have a lifestyle that I’ve worked hard to cultivate, and I don’t see a single reason for giving it up.”

  Willow nodded, closing her eyes for a long moment. She knew what he was referring to, and she wasn’t sure why, but she felt her stomach sour with jealousy. The women in Ibrahim’s life—she could never compete with them. She was a nobody; they were models and actresses and rich heiresses.

  “I just don’t understand why you can’t wait to find the right woman for you,” Willow said, her voice softening. “Wouldn’t you much rather marry someone honestly, for your mother? Rather than building this false reality with me?”

  “No. It just couldn’t happen that way,” Ibrahim said, sounding certain.

  “How do you know?” Willow asked, her voice growing higher in pitch.

  “I just do,” Ibrahim said. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he gazed at her, chuckling. “I can see already that I’m going to have to show you, rather than tell you. Aren’t I?”

  “What do you mean?” Willow asked. Her head swam from the jet-lag, from the wine.

  “Not tonight. But tomorrow morning,” Ibrahim said, slipping his fingers through hers and leading her toward the waiting car. “I can see we’re wiped out for the night. I want nothing more than to collapse in that hotel bed. And, don’t worry—” He squeezed her hand, glancing back toward her. “I made sure we have separate beds.”

  Willow fell into the backseat of the limo, listening to the humming of Ibrahim’s voice as he spoke to the driver. She allowed her head to lean back against the headrest, her eyes to close. They were whisked back to the downtown hotel, where Ibrahim guided her up to the penthouse suite, opening the door to the bedroom in which she’d napped earlier.

  For a long moment, she stood in the doorway, gazing up at him. Exhaustion filled her, making her eyelids droop. Ibrahim gave her a small smile, his face dark and clouded with emotion, making her feel almost woozy at how handsome he was.

  “Good night, Willow,” he finally said, his voice strong. “This will all be over soon. It will be like a dream. I promise.”

  Willow closed the door between them, unable to find the words; her throat felt constricted. But after stripping off her luxurious gown, which felt like silk beneath her fingers, she collapsed atop the sheets and fell asleep, not stirring until the sunlight streamed in through the small crack between the curtains.

  Chapter 9

  Ibrahim

  Ibrahim awoke early, walking in his boxers toward the balcony and sipping fresh coffee—a morning ritual for him. The sunlight illuminated his shoulders and chest, shadowing the ripples muscles of his torso.

  As he sipped his brew, he remembered Willow’s anger from the evening before: how she’d gazed at him with piercing blue eyes and told him he was wronging not only her, but his mother, as well.

  Ibrahim had long felt that little white lies were the very backdrop of the world: they allowed him to have meaningful relationships with loved ones, to flit between girlfriends with ease.

  What they don’t know won’t kill them; it’ll just help me along the way, was something he thought often.

  It was true that this entire trip to Rebai was built on lies that were a bit more than “white.” He’d conned this poor girl into coming here and masquerading as his fiancée, and then he’d dropped her into a meeting with his exuberant mother, with hardly any preparation. The very fact that his mother had seemingly adored her spoke of what a precious woman Willow truly was.

  He’d gotten lucky when her photo had been dropped in Eva’s place. Of course, Ibrahim was accustomed to getting lucky. He’d been born into it.

  But growing up a royal in Rebai hadn’t been easy.

  Sliding his hand across his cheeks and chin, he rubbed at the spiky, unshaven hair, knowing that this was his last chance to convince Willow of this false wedding’s importance. He wouldn’t involve anyone else. No drivers. Just the two of them and the open road.

  If only she would awaken!

  Finally, he heard the door creak.

  The Sheikh’s heart began to beat fiercely in his chest. He was suddenly incredibly conscious of his body, and he flexed his muscles slightly before turning.

  Willow stood in the center of the living room, her hair brushed and bright, catching the light from the sun. She wore a simple white dress, one she’d brought with her from Houston. Her arms swung at her sides, her fingers toying lightly with the fabric.

  “There you are,” Ibrahim said, feeling suddenly dizzy. He felt a stirring of longing, one he had to push back. “I was about to wake you.”

  “Sorry. Turns out traveling halfway across the world really knocks you out,” Willow said, giving him a soft smile. As she strode toward him, Ibrahim was conscious of her eyes, which seemed to rove over his abdomen.

  Finishing the last of his coffee, he walked toward the kitchen area and set the mug in the sink. He brewed another pot for Willow, and then turned back toward her.

  “I was hoping I could show you, today…”

  “Show me why you have to be dishonest with your mother?” Willow asked, catching him off guard. “Because you think you can change my mind.” But she gave him a broad smile, showing him her kindness. That she was open to his argument. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “It’s something of an adventure,” Ibrahim told her, feeling oddly giddy. “If you’re ready for that.”

  “I’ve already followed you to Rebai,” Willow said, chuckling. “I think I can follow you a bit further.”

  Twent
y minutes later, the Sheikh was dressed, jangling the keys of his sports car in his hand. He and Willow entered the elevator, shifting about a foot apart from one another. Ibrahim was all-too aware of her perfume, her long legs, how, for some reason, he wanted to touch her lower back. Suddenly, she seemed like a woman he wanted to make his own, rather than just some random girl from Texas.

  Willow whistled as they approached his red coupe, bringing her hands on either sides of her hips. In response, Ibrahim slid his sunglasses over his eyes, knocking his head back in mock cockiness.

  “I knew the old wagon would make an impression on a girl like you,” he said, teasing.

  Willow laughed in surprise. It was rare that Ibrahim showed anyone how self-aware he could be, and he was grateful that she seemed to appreciate it.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, he waited until Willow was situated beside him. He cranked the engine and sped from the garage, screeching the tires as he bolted from the inner city and toward the desert, taking the highway along the coast.

  As they drove, Ibrahim put the windows down, allowing the wind to whizz through their hair. He turned up the radio, and Willow seemed to hum along without being conscious of it, gliding from note to note. For a moment, Ibrahim felt more comfortable than he had in years.

  About ten miles outside of the city, Ibrahim steered the car down a paved driveway, lined with palm trees. At the end of the driveway was a once-elaborate palace, now empty, sun-scorched and browning.

  It was an immense building, with over thirty rooms. As Ibrahim drove down the driveway, he turned off the radio, feeling the weight of his past circulate. He could almost see himself, as a young boy, racing through the trees. He could almost hear his brother calling his name.

  “Ibrahim,” Willow said, sounding almost breathless. “Where are we?”