The Sheikh's Illicit Affair

by Lara Hunter

  Zaakir retrieved his jacket from the table and reached into an interior pocket. He pulled out several bills, folded them, and handed them to her. “For tonight. Thank you, Megan, for your time and expertise.”

  She took the money and watched as he turned and walked out. From the door of her studio, Megan could just make out the street where he climbed into the backseat of a waiting car. No sooner had Zaakir shut the door, the sleek black limousine pulled away from the curb and sped off into the night.

  Megan counted the bills in her hand. The Sheikh hadn’t paid for a one-on-one lesson. In fact, he hadn’t even given her what was the cost of a class of thirty. The amount she held in her hand was enough for a class of one hundred students, more than three times their agreed amount. He must not have realized how much he’s given me, she thought. Even if he intended this as payment for the following evening as well, it was still far too much, and she’d have to give some of it back.

  She counted out the fee they had agreed upon, then added to it the price for a private tango lesson. She set aside the remainder and tucked it into an envelope once she was back in her office, thinking she’d return it to him and explain her fees the following night. She put the envelope and her earnings for the two classes into her safe box and locked it in the safe.

  At least now she’d have enough to pay for the ballet costumes for this summer’s recital, Megan thought. It was a huge order—her biggest expense of the year, aside from the rental of the building for the recital—and it was a difficult payment to make. When the time came to pay the hire charges for the building, the year’s tuition would be paid in full and all of the tickets for the event would be purchased, but the costumes had to be ordered far in advance, and most parents were still making payments on the fees. The payment tonight put her ahead of schedule.

  Megan glanced over her stack of bills, checked her bank account, and sighed in relief. For her first year owning a studio, she’d done well for herself. Much better than her parents expected she ever would. She hadn’t taken the more secure path of law or medicine—a decision they still hadn’t let her live down—but had instead chosen to follow her deepest passion and chase her dream. Now, coming to the close of only the first year, Megan’s dance studio had become one of the largest single-teacher studios in the neighborhood. Soon, she’d be looking at hiring additional teachers, and in a few years, she’d have to move to a larger space. Maybe then her parents would see that her lifelong love of dance hadn’t merely been a frivolous hobby, as they’d called it. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she was going to make it.

  TWO

  “You are not going to believe what happened last night,” Megan said to Rachel.

  They were sitting at a small wrought-iron table at their favorite café, a bistro with a tiny garden out back; a sanctuary away from the crowded Manhattan streets. Rachel sipped her coffee and bit into her turkey wrap as she waited for her friend to go into detail.

  “After working all day,” Megan continued, “I get this email asking me to stay late to take a class of thirty, so of course, I accept. Only thing is, the time for the class comes and goes. Then one guy shows up. One.”

  “Oh wait. Let me guess,” Rachel said, putting down her wrap so she could illustrate her point with her hands. “And he just happens to be the most gorgeous man in the world who can dance like he’s taken lessons for years and, oh yeah, who just so happens to be rich.” She sighed and took a long sip of her coffee.

  “Well…” Megan took a bite of her salad, crunching the walnuts and savoring the chicken and crisp greens as she considered how to answer. “Actually, you were pretty much dead on, there.”

  Rachel’s mouth hung open as she shook her head and grinned. “No. Way.”

  “He was gorgeous, and he picked up the moves very, very fast. You forgot the part about him having a sexy accent, though. Oh, and based on the way he was dressed and the fact that he paid enough for a hundred students without batting an eyelid, I’d guess he probably is loaded.” She let out a wistful sigh. “He could be my dream man.”

  “Except…?” Rachel leaned forward.

  “Except the reason he came for a lesson was so he could be ready for his wedding in a few weeks’ time.”

  Rachel’s hands flew into the air. “Of course. That’s how it always goes. Meet the perfect man, then sure enough, find out that some lucky woman figured out he was perfect long before you even met him.”

  Megan smiled ruefully as her gaze drifted to the next table; the couple sitting there seemed to be hopelessly in love. They gazed longingly into each other’s eyes, hands reaching across the table to clasp together. Was it so wrong for her to want that? To want someone to look at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world? To spend hours talking and sharing ideas and passions. To love and be loved.

  “I’m giving him another lesson tonight,” Megan said.

  Rachel nodded. “Hey, if you can’t have him for the rest of your life, might as well have him for another night.”

  “I guess.” Megan sighed again. “You’re so lucky.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Sometimes I don’t feel it.” Rachel rubbed her back and twisted in a stretch, letting her hand fall to her round stomach. “This baby is going to kill me if she doesn’t get out soon.”

  “Maybe I should have a baby. Do it on my own…”

  Rachel reached over and covered Megan’s hand with hers. “If anyone could pull it off, it would be you, Meg. I can see you with a little girl in a pink tutu, sitting in the corner of your studio, playing with dolls while the nanny watches to make sure she doesn’t interfere with her mommy’s teaching. Yup. That could totally work.”

  “There are lots of single parents these days, right?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how they do it, but they do. I’d be freaking out if I didn’t have Matt to talk me down, but you’re not like me. You wouldn’t need a man.”

  “No.” Megan looked over at the couple again. “But I want one. I want the cute little family and the married life. I just don’t know if I want to wait until I have that before I have a child. What if I don’t find someone until it’s too late?”

  “Women have babies in their thirties and forties all the time, you know.”

  “I know. And it’s not that I wouldn’t do that, but I’m already just two years from thirty. If I haven’t found my husband by now, why should I think I’ll find someone in the next few years?”

  “Well,” Rachel said, taking another sip of her coffee. “You never know when magic will strike. You could meet him today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe your dreamy dancer guy will wake up and realize you’re the love of his life.”

  Megan laughed. “Oh sure, right. After one dance lesson.”

  “Never know. Maybe his fiancée will get hit by a bus.”

  “Rachel!”

  “What? I’m not saying you’d be driving it or anything. If fate wants it to be, it shall be.”

  “Fate hates me,” Megan said, shoving the last forkful of salad into her mouth.

  ***

  A few minutes later, after quickly downing an espresso, Megan put down enough bills to pay for lunch for them both, waving away Rachel’s protests and insisting her friend could pay next time they got together. She wasn’t ready to leave Rachel’s company, but she had to get back to her studio for her next class. She missed her best friend desperately. They’d met when they had dance classes together in high school, and as they’d grown up and moved onto college, they had always kept in touch, seeing each other whenever they could. Rachel had moved to New York a few years before Megan, and her being here had been one of the biggest draws of choosing the city for her studio.

  In the early days of Megan’s studio, Rachel had come to many of the classes there, sometimes acting as an assistant. Now she was nearing the end of her pregnancy, she’d decided to take a break from dancing for the time being, and Megan only saw her when they had lunch together. Soon, Megan thought, Rachel would have a baby an
d would slip into mommy world, becoming one more frantic parent running around her studio.

  The worst part was, Megan wanted to be one of those parents. What Rachel had said, about her having a little girl in a pink tutu, had touched on a deep yearning that existed within her. Megan could see her daughter there, her hair tight in a bun, playing with a doll. She could see her ballet shoes coming loose and her learning her first plié.

  Megan strolled down the sidewalk, casually eyeing the people she passed. All these people in New York. Was there anyone that would be right for her? And where was he?

  Zaakir came to her mind. She wouldn’t mind someone like him. Handsome, classy. She didn’t particularly need the money part, though. She’d seen too much of what it did, and how it corrupted people. Having someone with less money, but stronger morals was much preferred over money and conceit. This was why none of the rich boys her parents tried to set her up with had stuck. They were more into themselves than anything else. They just wanted a prize to put on their arms and someone to sleep with when they were bored. They had everything else—money to travel and to buy whatever they wanted and to do anything they desired. There wasn’t much left for a relationship to fulfill.

  Maybe those boys were different now. Maybe they’d grown into upright businessmen, running companies across the world and going home to their wives and children who they loved. But she wasn’t sorry. She still wanted no part of the society life with the dinners and the expectations and the gossip. She much preferred the skimpy vegetable diets of dancers, and the chiffon and ribbons and leotards of the dance world.

  Back at the entrance to her studio, Megan unlocked the door and flipped the lights back on. She took down the “Out for Lunch” sign and headed into her office. There were still several more minutes to kill before her next class, so she got on her computer and paid a few bills, then she opened a fresh internet tab.

  The logo and empty search bar sat before her, waiting. All she had to do was type. With a deep breath, Megan slowly typed the words “sperm bank New York.”

  Megan stared at the photos that popped up, all happy families and smiling children. Could she really do it, though? Choose the father of her child by his height and hair color? Have a baby all on her own? Her parents would never approve. They might even disown her over it, regardless of the fact that she would be giving them a grandchild. The hassle of the gossip and controversy around her decision would outweigh any desire to know their grandchild.

  The start time for her next class was approaching. Megan clicked off the website and closed her browser, staring for a moment at the image that formed the background of her computer screen: a group of small girls in their leotards, with her at the center. The first class she had ever taken. Maybe having these kids as “her children” was enough, she thought. Even if it was only for a few hours a week.

  Well, Megan thought, she didn’t have to do anything about it today. Right now, all she had to do was get ready for her next class.

  THREE

  All afternoon as Megan taught, she tried not to think about Zaakir, the evening before, or their upcoming lesson together. Every time she thought of his smile, or how strong his arms felt around her, or how smooth his dance moves were, she had to force herself to remember that he was taken. He would be married in just two weeks. There was no point in thinking of him any differently than she thought of any other client.

  But as eight o’clock drew near, the flutter in her stomach heightened. She found herself watching the door for him, even a half hour before he was due to arrive. She set up the studio, sweeping the floor, wiping down the tables, cleaning the mirrors from the plethora of tiny fingerprints. She had the music cued, the water jug full and set out a fresh towel for him in case they worked up a sweat again. She checked her hair and pulled it into a fresh bun, somewhat neater than her usual loose knot. By 7:30, everything was ready.

  With a half hour to spare, Megan tried to sit down to do paperwork, but found she couldn’t concentrate. She kept watching the clock and glancing to the street outside. Finally, she got up and did the one thing she could always rely on to relieve her stress: she went into her studio, put on some gentle piano music, and warmed up in a series of stretches and slow, graceful moves.

  As each muscle pulled tight, Megan relaxed further. She focused on making her pirouettes precise, her arabesque straight, and on the breath moving in and out of her lungs. When she checked the clock again, it was 8:05. She looked out into the waiting room, through the glass door, and saw Zaakir stepping out of the same black limo. She quickly wiped away her sweat, checked her hair, and pretended to be focused on stretching when he walked in.

  “Hello again,” he said from the doorway.

  “Hi.” She walked over and greeted him with a handshake, hoping that, if her palms felt clammy, he would assume it was due to her warm-up.

  “I hope you had a lovely day.”

  “I did. Full of crying toddlers and complaining ballerinas, but those are the best days,” she chuckled. “It’s what I love.”

  “We should all be so lucky. Have you been dancing long?”

  “Nearly twenty-five years or so. I started when I was four, like some of my students.”

  “Was it one of those Mommy and Me classes?” the Sheikh asked, and Megan was again soothed by his accent; she could listen to him speak all day.

  “No. My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead doing something like that. My nanny was the one who took me to class.”

  “But still. It sparked a love of dance?”

  “It did. I mean, when I was four I was all about the sparkly tutus and soft shoes, but as I got older, I realized that I loved the feeling of my body moving to the music. I took every type of class that was offered: ballet, tap, jazz, hip hop, lyrical. At one point, I think I was at the studio six days a week. I entered competitions, I even taught classes as an assistant when I was a teen. That was when I knew that owning my own studio was my dream. And now, here it is.” She gestured to their surroundings, smiling to think of how far she’d come.

  “Your parents must be very proud.”

  “Ha. I wish.” Her smile vanished, as it often did when she thought of her parents. “They’d have been much happier had I gone to law school or become a doctor. They always thought dance was just a wonderful hobby—something they could brag to their friends at the country club about, but never anything worth taking seriously. When it started affecting my grades because I spent more time dancing than studying, they made me cut back on a lot of my classes. They had much higher hopes for me, they said.”

  The line was a direct quote, her father had repeated it so many times. “We wanted more for you, Megan.” “We spent a fortune on an excellent education so you would have a bright future.” “Dance is lovely, but it’s not a career, Megan.” She’d heard it all. From the time college applications were sent until a year ago when she’d opened the studio.

  She sighed to herself. “What do you do, anyway?”

  “I deal mostly in investments. Buying and selling businesses, that sort of thing,” he said coolly.

  “I should have guessed,” she said with a grin. “Shall we get started?”

  Megan started to walk over to the mirrors, but the Sheikh took his time following her.

  “Does that disappoint you?” he asked softly.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, turning back to face him.

  “Are you disappointed at how I make my living?”

  Zaakir slid off his jacket, revealing a tight-fitting, navy-blue shirt. The sleeves were short and, for the first time, Megan was able to see the muscles behind his strength. The roundness of his biceps, his wide chest. Clearly, he spent time at the gym.

  Megan realized she was staring and moved her gaze back to his eyes. “Not disappointed, no.” She shook her head and looked down as she replied. “It just reminds me of my parents.”

  “Does your family deal in investments as well?”

  “Something like that. The
y’ve dealt in oil for years.”

  “Sounds messy,” he said.

  “More than you know.”

  “In all seriousness, it seems like that would be an interesting upbringing. You must have had opportunities other kids your age didn’t have.”

  “I’m sure you know what it’s like growing up with money: fancy schools, designer clothing, brand new car on your 16th birthday. And, most of all, the expectation that you’ll do whatever they want you to do for the rest of your life in order to pay them back for it.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes, I understand, somewhat. Growing up in Al-Sharrabi, things were a bit different for me, but I know where you’re coming from; being the eldest son, I certainly got my fair share of it.”

  “We should all be so lucky,” Megan said, mimicking his earlier words. “My father would have been thrilled to have a son. I was a disappointment from the start, I suppose. And they never did have any other children besides me, so it’s been all on my shoulders.”