The Sheikh's ASAP Bride

by Holly Rayner

  Chapter 7

  Ibrahim

  The poor girl beside him seemed to shake with apprehension. Willow, that was her name. Ibrahim couldn’t allow himself to forget it, the way he so often did.

  He glanced down at her again, drinking in her beauty. She looked far different from anyone in the rest of Rebai, with her golden hair and blue eyes. Almost angelic—or, at least, far too innocent—for such an impenetrable sun.

  Ibrahim felt a sudden wave of emotion flow into his heart, one that told him to wrap his arms around her and hold her close. One that asked him to tell her everything would be all right, if only she kept her head held high.

  But he knew that those such feelings would pass. He couldn’t very well have the woman he’d asked to play act as his fiancée fall in love with him. It would complicate things, especially since he hadn’t been fully truthful with her yet. So, he held back, shifting his weight and maintaining a confident aura.

  In just a few days’ time, he’d return to Houston, and to the chaotic and vibrant life he’d built for himself. And he would allow himself to forget this Willow. She’d go back to being a nobody, and he didn’t bother himself with nobodies.

  The elevator doors opened into the penthouse suite, which he often took as his during his trips home. The polished wooden floorboards reflected the bright sunlight, and the floor-to-ceiling windows showed the skyline beyond. Willow took tentative steps into the large suite, looking awkward in the midst of such luxury.

  Ibrahim clucked his tongue, turning his attention to the large cabinet in the kitchen area. He’d asked the hotel staff to stock it with whiskey and scotch, all high-grade and aged to perfection.

  “You want one?” he asked Willow, making her jump at the sound of his voice. “Just to calm your nerves.”

  Willow nodded slowly, raking her fingers through her hair. She tried to smile again, in that weak way, but her eyes lowered to the ground.

  Again, Ibrahim felt a surge of sadness, wanting to make her feel better. Pouring two glasses of whiskey—and adding a bit of ginger ale to hers—he gestured for her to sit on the small white couch near the window. From there, they could see the ocean, lapping up against the sandy shore beyond the edge of the city.

  Ibrahim spoke slowly, softly, not wanting to frighten her.

  “I have many fond memories of summer days on the water,” he said. “We—my brother and I—would head out in the morning, before the sun got too scorching, and play in the waves. My mother never knew what to do with us when we didn’t have school. She’d always have the driver take her over there around noon, where she’d persuade us to go back home with a picnic or the promise of cake back at the house. Then, she’d make us practice our instruments and languages. But the world I always craved was out there, on the water.”

  Willow exhaled slowly, taking a long sip of her drink.

  “That’s beautiful,” she murmured. “Growing up in a place like this…I can’t even imagine it.”

  “You need to leave Houston once in a while,” Ibrahim said, chuckling. “There’s a whole world out here.”

  They allowed silence to fall. Ibrahim was entirely conscious that too much time was passing, that he needed to update Willow on the character she was meant to play that night. In only a few hours, she’d be meeting his mother, Amira—the only person in all of Rebai he really needed to fool.

  Willow was his tool for that. And, still, she didn’t know.

  “So,” Willow began. “Tell me a bit more about this acting gig. Who am I? Surely I’m not a call center worker from Houston…”

  “No, no. God, no,” Ibrahim said, trying to hold back his laughter. “Can you imagine? Local sheikh marries customer service assistant!”

  Willow’s eyes looked hurt for a moment, but she licked at her lips, nodding her head.

  “Sure. So, who am I, then?”

  “Well, you’re going to retain your personality, of course. Most of it, at least,” he said. “It would be too difficult, otherwise. And all lies need to be based on some truths.”

  “Only the sparkling bits of my personality,” Willow said. “But the name? The newspaper said my name was Eva.”

  “Too complicated,” Ibrahim said, sipping the last of his whiskey far too quickly. Was he anxious? “We’ll tell her that the newspaper flubbed up the details. I mean they did, didn’t they?”

  Willow’s eyebrows lowered in a frown. Tilting her head, she said, “Her? Which her?”

  “Erm—just them, in general,” Ibrahim said, not ready to tell her that she’d be meeting his mother in mere hours. “The country, the journalists. It will be a brief affair, this lie. I promise, if you just commit yourself to the character, it’ll go by fast.”

  “Sure,” Willow said. “So, I’m Willow. Willow the—what? Artist? Chef?”

  “No. You’re from a wealthy family out of Houston, and you have a high-flying job in finance,” Ibrahim said, having thought this up the previous evening. “Your father was one of the richest, most powerful men on Wall Street, before moving back to Houston to be with his family. You’re a born-and-bred Texan, and you’re proud of it—”

  “That part’s actually true,” Willow said, grinning.

  “Great. But also, you’re a lady. A classy one. One who drinks aged whiskey…” He gestured toward her glass. “You’re learning already.”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Willow leaned forward, gazing into Ibrahim’s eyes. Again, his stomach flipped. It was rare that his body had such a physical reaction to a woman’s beauty. He leaned back, trying to resist the smell of her perfume.

  “And when will this public appearance be? Not tonight, right? I’d love to get some beauty rest.”

  Ibrahim’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. Muttering to himself, he drew it out, seeing that it was his mother calling. It was as if she’d already sensed his arrival. Ignoring it, he glanced up at Willow, whose eyes were burning with questions.

  “Well, tonight, it’ll be my mother,” Ibrahim finally said, hearing how distracted he sounded. Again, she was ringing him, almost as if she knew he was ignoring her. “Man, she doesn’t stop trying.”

  “Your mother?” Willow asked, her voice rising a half-octave.

  “What is it?” Ibrahim asked, trying to play the fool.

  “Your mother. I mean, that’s a personal interaction…” Willow said, stuttering slightly. “Your mother knows you better than anyone, and she’ll be able to see right through me. She’ll know in a minute that I hardly know anything about you!

  “What are we supposed to say about how we met? I don’t know your—your tastes, your habits. Heck, I barely even know what you look like! If you had chosen anyone else in Houston, maybe they would have at least read a gossip column or two about you. But I never paid attention to any of that.”

  As Willow began to pace across the hardwood floor, Ibrahim felt a surge of frustration, knowing she was right. For all his life, he’d been able to gloss over his mistakes: flash a smile, swagger in and use his confidence as a kind of armor. But, in this case, he was dealing with a sensitive young woman who clearly had a conscience—unlike Eva—and his intelligent, if occasionally overbearing, mother.

  Who was he kidding? He’d never been able to fool her. Could he now?

  “Honestly, Willow,” Ibrahim heard himself say, working hard to remain calm and collected on the outside. “My mother is so excited that I even have a fiancée—”

  “But you don’t,” Willow said, her bottom lip quivering.

  “Right. Well. She’s so excited that I have someone to bring home that she’ll probably do all the talking. She’ll want to tell you every embarrassing thing I ever did as a kid. She’ll want to know about you, about your life. You can fill in the gaps however you please, as long as you keep the basics.”

  “Right. That I’m rich. That’s basically it, right?” Willow asked. She sighed heavily and collapsed against the side of the kitchen counter, looking absolutely miserable.

  I
brahim reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured her a second glass, attempting to pass it to her. But Willow fluttered her fingers in the air, refusing it.

  “Okay. How much time do I have until we meet your mother? I mean, do I have time to mentally prepare and get changed, at least?”

  Ibrahim glanced back at his phone, realizing they had only three hours. He brushed his fingers through his dark hair, recognizing that he’d created an awkward situation for Willow—one that made her anxious and alarmed. She was clearly a jumpy person at the best of times.

  “What would be better for you?” he asked finally, lowering his voice slightly. Anything to make her feel calmer. “Would you prefer to talk it through at length? Or would it be better for you to take a few hours alone to rest and recuperate?”

  Willow didn’t answer, but her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Ibrahim strode toward the far bedroom, opening the door. Inside, a white bedspread gleamed in the light from the window. With his index finger, he pressed a button on the wall that dragged a thick black curtain across the glass.

  “Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you up an hour before we need to head out. And I’ll have coffee ready.”

  Willow quietly thanked him. She entered the bedroom, walking softly, and then collapsed onto the bed. Ibrahim felt a jolt through his heart, wishing he could go hold her and soothe her anxiety. But that wasn’t appropriate for the situation, and intimacy only ever complicated matters.

  “Rest well, Willow,” Ibrahim said, softly closing the door between them. “I promise, things aren’t as complicated or terrifying as you think.”

  Chapter 8

  Willow

  The minute Willow’s eyes closed in the dark room, she fell into a deep slumber. But all too soon, Ibrahim arrived back at the door, knocking and telling her that it was time. Rubbing at her eyes, she had to remind her dream-state mind where she was—Rebai, far from her normal reality.

  Just push yourself through it, she told herself. A million dollars for Jayne’s research. Just a few hours of pain. This isn’t your mother. You’re not duping anyone you care about.

  But, for Willow, simply knowing she was duping anyone filled her with apprehension.

  Outside the bedroom, Ibrahim had hung up a gorgeous, mustard-yellow dress for Willow to wear. Beside it stood a tiny woman, no taller than five feet, with round glasses and a pinched expression. Scurrying forward, she began to yank at Willow’s hair, muttering something in the local dialect. Willow stared at Ibrahim, confusion filling her.

  “This is Lina,” he explained. “She’s going to prepare you for dinner tonight. We need you looking like…well. Like you’re that Houston royalty we talked about.”

  Willow nodded, knowing she had no other option. She sat in a chair along the counter, closing her eyes as Lina began to apply foundation and blush and eyebrow pencil. She tried to meditate, but only came back to the same conclusion, over and over again: this couldn’t possibly be reality.

  Only feet away from her, the most handsome man she’d ever seen was prepping as well, combing gel into his hair and speaking casually with Lina. It was clear they’d known one another for years, though Willow couldn’t understand a word of what they were saying.

  “Lina is my mother’s beauty guru,” he told Willow, off-handedly. “She knows just what type of look my mother appreciates.”

  “Oh?” Willow mumbled distractedly.

  In her normal life, her beauty regime took only about ten minutes every morning. Summer had long told her she was one of the lowest-maintenance people she’d ever met. It was something Willow liked about herself: that she thought far more about her fundraising than, say, her moisturizer. But to play the role of the Sheikh’s fiancée, she knew things had to change.

  Forty-five minutes later, Willow was dressed in the dark yellow gown, staring at herself in the mirror.

  She hardly recognized herself, the way her hair shone like gold thread in the sunlight that continued to stream in through the large windows. Her eyebrows had been darkened and filled in, and her blue eyes glowed. She seemed almost alluring, if she could ever use that word to describe herself. Lina clucked her tongue in approval beside her, muttering something else to Ibrahim.

  “You’re right,” Ibrahim said, his voice booming. “She’s absolutely perfect.”

  He led Willow down the elevator and into the same limo they’d taken from the airport. The driver whisked them from the hotel, speeding out toward the coast. Willow was incredibly conscious of the silence between them, the silence growing more and more tense as the minutes passed.

  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.