The Sheikh's Illicit Affair

by Lara Hunter

  “Do you know much about wine?”

  “Some,” he said, swirling his glass casually. I’ve learned over the years how to appreciate a good taste, but I’m not the connoisseur many wealthy Manhattanites are.”

  “My mother tried to make me learn, but I never did. I’ll admit, I can’t tell much difference between cheap wine and expensive wine.”

  “Well, I can assure you, this is rather expensive wine. It’s all I buy.”

  “I had no doubt about that,” Megan said with a grin.

  After they finished the wine and the hour grew late, Megan was starting to feel tired. Zaakir turned on a TV and watched the news, while she took advantage of the couch for a lie down. She took out her phone to check it and saw a text from Rachel from a few hours ago.

  Meg! I’m dying here! It’s late. What’s going on? Are you still there?!

  Megan shook her head and smiled. How was she going to explain this?

  I’m still somewhere. LOL.

  She hit send, but didn’t know if the message would go. “Zaakir, is there cell service or Wi-Fi on the jet?

  “There is Wi-Fi.”

  She looked back at her phone. It took longer than usual, but the message did send. The reply came back quickly.

  What do you mean by that?!

  Well. I’m on a private jet. Zaakir’s private jet. Heading to Al-Sharrabi, to his palace.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. How in the world? What does this mean?!

  He wanted to have the lesson there and thought I would appreciate getting out of the city for a few days.

  I can’t believe this. You’re dating a rich man.

  Right. Except we’re not dating at all.

  Meg. You don’t just fly people on your private jet to spend the weekend in another country if you’re not interested in them.

  Megan’s fingers hovered over her cell for a few moments before she typed out her reply.

  I think I might know what’s going on. He seems sad to be getting married, he doesn’t want to talk about it at all. I think he’s doing the same thing I’m doing. Spending as much time together as possible before the wedding, after which we’ll never see each other again.

  This is crazy, Meg. Just crazy.

  I know.

  Get some rest!

  Only if you promise not to get any!

  Funny. Go to sleep!

  Megan laid down on the couch. She usually didn’t sleep well on planes, but she’d never been able to stretch fully out, with a warm blanket, and lie down on padded leather. She expected her mind to keep her up, busy as it was. But when she lay down, she drifted off to sleep in moments.

  TEN

  When Megan woke up, Zaakir was still sitting at the table, watching the news. Light was seeping in through the windows and it felt like many hours had passed.

  “What time is it?” she asked blearily.

  “Good morning.” He looked at his phone. “New York time or Al-Sharrabi time?”

  “Umm… How many hours has it been since we left New York?”

  “Around nine. We’ll land in another two hours.”

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes and fluffing her hair. “I can’t believe I slept so long. Didn’t you sleep?”

  “I did. I woke up a short time ago. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” She sat across from him and glanced at the TV. “Anything good going on in the world?”

  “Is there ever?”

  “Sure there is, just not that the news tells us about. Last night, someone was kissed for the first time, someone fell in love, someone got engaged, someone else got married, someone had a baby.” She clasped her hands together on the table and gave him a dramatically dreamy smile.

  He chuckled. “And someone else was murdered, someone was robbed, someone had their heart broken.”

  She let her smile fall. “Well, good morning to you, too,” she said flatly.

  A dark-haired woman Megan hadn’t seen before came through a curtain into their section of the jet. She was carrying a tray with plates full of bacon, eggs, toast, juice, and oranges. She set the tray down between them.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the stewardess asked brightly.

  “Coffee for Miss Van Lieden and I’ll need a refill as well,” Zaakir said.

  “Of course.” The woman walked away and Zaakir gestured to the food. “Help yourself. I asked them to make my usual breakfast, but I was unsure what you like to eat in the mornings.”

  “Usually, it’s just coffee and a protein bar. This is great.” She slid her plate closer and picked up her fork to dig in.

  They ate together in silence, but for the low volume of the newscaster’s voice. Megan sighed as she thought about how nice it felt just to sit quietly with someone and eat breakfast together.

  He looked up at her. “Something wrong?”

  “No… These eggs are just really good.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  When they’d finished, the stewardess returned and said to Zaakir, “We’ll be landing in an hour.”

  Megan took advantage of that time to go into the bathroom and clean up. The bathroom was at least three times the size of the largest airplane bathroom she’d seen, and it included a shower at one end. She thought of taking a quick shower, but didn’t think there would be enough time, and found herself wishing she’d come in sooner.

  She found the toothbrush and hairbrush Zaakir had said was in there for her, and cleaned up the best she could with her limited supplies. Luckily, she had her makeup with her in her bag. She applied a little and looked over herself in the mirror. It would have to do.

  There was a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” she said.

  “Miss Van Lieden? I have your clothing for you.”

  Megan frowned. Her clothing? What clothing? She had nothing else with her besides the outfit she’d worn to walk to and from the studio yesterday.

  She opened the door and the stewardess handed her a hanger with a plastic garment bag attached to it.

  “It may not be what you’re used to wearing,” the woman said. “But Sheikh Al-Hosseini thought you might feel more comfortable in something that fit the style of the culture.”

  “Thank you.”

  Megan took the garment and closed the door. She pulled up the plastic bag to reveal a flowing, light tan dress. The sleeves were three-quarter length and loose fitting, the skirt cut at an angle, with several layers that hung to the ground. The fabric felt light and soft. A fine gold thread was woven in elegant designs along the hems and neckline. Across the shoulders hung a sheer white scarf with tan and gold metallic threads.

  She dressed quickly and spun slowly to watch the skirt swirl around her. The dress felt wonderful. Loose and light. She wasn’t sure how to best wear the scarf to fit the culture, but she did her best. She lay it over the top of her head, then draped the ends loosely under her chin. She took a quick photo on her phone and sent it to Rachel with the caption, “Official Al-Sharrabi garb. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  She stepped out of the bathroom and went to find Zaakir. He, too, had changed his clothing. Now he wore a long white robe-like garment and a scarf that covered his head and hung down his back. There had to be an official name for these things, but she had no idea what they might be.

  He turned, saw her, and froze. His gaze fell from her head to the ground and he took a step back.

  “Do I look okay? I wasn’t sure about the scarf.” She didn’t know how to read his expression; he looked almost surprised.

  “You look… so beautiful. I thought the dress you wore the other night was amazing, but this…” He stepped closer to her and tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It’s perfect. I shall have to thank Shani.”

  “Who is she? Your personal shopper?”

  “Goodness. Never let her hear you say that. She is my sister. One of six.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought you maybe had someone to buy—”

  He waved a ha
nd to stop her. “No worries. She does so much for me, I should pay her, but that’s beside the point. You are perfect.”

  She pulled her lips into a half smile. “I don’t know about that. I’m still the same me underneath.”

  “That part has always been perfect.” He motioned for her to sit down as the plane began to descend. “We will be landing momentarily. You look like a princess in that dress.”

  “Thank you.”

  The plane began to descend more rapidly and Megan moved closer to the window to look out. There was a low, flat building nearby. Part of the airport, maybe. Besides that, she saw sand, sand and more sand. Mountains of it in the distance, smaller peaks close to them. The dominant color was a sandy tan, dotted sparsely throughout with the browns and greens of palm trees.

  The plane made a smooth landing and came to a smooth stop at the end of a short runway. Zaakir took Megan’s hand and led her down the stairs to the pavement, where a waiting attendant in Middle-Eastern garb directed them to a white limousine. Megan barely had time to look around before the door was open and Zaakir motioned for her to get inside.

  “Private jet, limo. You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” Megan said, laughing.

  He shrugged. “That’s just how we do it here. If you think all that was something, wait until you see the palace.”

  “Is it bigger than Manhattan?”

  He laughed. “Not quite.”

  “Good. I still get lost in Manhattan sometimes.”

  She thought of the city and how it all felt so very far away. Her dance studio, her students, her tiny apartment. It seemed even tinier now, compared to the wide open expanse of desert surrounding them. Her possible future child, too, seemed very far away. She hadn’t been focused on the subject as much in the last day or so, and being around Zaakir had shifted her thoughts to the man she longed for.

  It wasn’t a long drive from the airport. Maybe ten minutes later, the car had stopped and someone opened the door for them. Megan stepped out into the brilliant light and heat. The desert landscape stretched out before her, in hills and bumps and waves of gold. Then she turned around and saw the palace.

  Surprisingly, it was the very color of the sand. The palace rose high and wide. In places it was square and flat, but in others, it rounded, as if the room inside was a circle. At several corners, and in many places along the wall, were clusters of two or three palm trees, their green leaves startling amongst so much tan. In the walls were what had to be hundreds of very small windows. Cutouts, really, in the wall, nothing like the glass and metal frames she was used to.

  Aside from its size and daunting presence, the palace was really quite understated. A palace or mansion in the States would be covered in columns, fancy stone and statues. Zaakir’s palace was a wall of sand. The most ornate thing about it was the very top of the walls. There, along every edge, ran a line of small, pointed decorations. Something like small triangles pointing high into the air with tiny arms outreached to either side.

  “Not quite Manhattan,” Zaakir said.

  “No,” Megan whispered. “But I suppose it’ll do.”

  He laughed and took her hand. “Come on. I have the perfect place for us.”

  She didn’t know what he meant, but he led her away from the palace. She was dying to see the inside, but his warm fingers grasping her hand distracted her.

  Zaakir led her through an opening in the wall and into a large courtyard. They were surrounded by walls, which provided a fair amount of shade, and the air was cooler than it had been outside the wall.

  “We can have our final lesson here,” he said.

  “Oh, right.” She’d almost forgotten that’s why they’d come. “Is this where you’ll have your wedding ceremony?”

  “Don’t think of such things,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the center of the courtyard.

  “But we don’t have any music.”

  “Then we’ll have to see how well I can lead to the music in my mind.”

  He took her hand and pulled her close with his hand at her back. It was difficult without the music, but in her mind, Megan heard the beat as Zaakir began to go through the moves she’d taught him. He stepped forward and she stepped back. Their legs brushed together and when he stepped again, bringing his leg in so that her knee was between his, she could feel his strong thigh muscles pressing against hers. He should not be moving this close to her, she thought. This wasn’t how they’d practiced it.

  He shifted again, moving his other leg back as she moved forward. Their torsos were mirrors, only inches apart. If she leaned forward even slightly, the whole of their bodies would be pressed together. She took a deep breath as he moved again, pulling her back so she could swing her leg wide, landing it behind his. Her calf rubbed against his and when he moved it, rather than just slide it away from her, he pressed back first, into her, then moved away so she could follow.

  Megan was almost dizzy with heat. It wasn’t the heat of the desert, but the heat of his body, electric against hers. For a moment Megan thought that if she really was water, he could send her into a wave of sparks with his current, catching her on fire on the sand. He could light her up and lift her high. She wished desperately for music. They didn’t need it to stay on beat—Zaakir was a perfect leader. No, she needed the music to hide the thumping of her heart. Her body yearned for him.

  When they came to the close of the dance and were standing face to face, she saw his eyes were hungry for her.

  Megan leaned into the move, and as she did, he moved his foot against hers. It wasn’t the move he should have done, and it caught her and made her stumble. Her foot slipped as he knocked into her leg and she started to fall, but Zaakir caught her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. Had he meant to do that?

  “Whoops,” he said, with no trace of humor in his voice.

  She looked up at him, seeing now that her face had landed close to his, and if she moved forward only a few inches, their lips would touch. She closed her eyes for an instant, wanting, hoping that he might kiss her. But then she stood up, backing away from him, breaking the tension.

  “You must show me the inside of this gorgeous palace,” she said.

  She rubbed her arms, trying to rid herself of the lustful feelings that had started to smolder inside of her. He’s almost married, she reminded herself. And in a country like this, she might get herself into a good heap of trouble if she were seen here alone with this engaged man, let alone dancing with him. Could she be arrested for such an act? She wished she’d asked more questions about his country and their customs before agreeing to get on the jet with him.

  Zaakir took a long time to respond. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said finally, and walked slowly, almost hesitantly, past her, back to the opening in the wall.

  ELEVEN

  Zaakir led Megan around from the courtyard, up a set of stone steps, and through the front entrance of his palace. If she had thought the building somewhat simple on the outside, the inside more than made up for it. Every inch of it was beautifully decorated with ornate designs and sumptuous fabrics.

  The first room they entered was a large sitting room. Megan walked on floors of ivory marble, shimmering golden veins running the length and width of the room. Thick rugs in brown-lined patterns sat on either side of the room, beneath two seating areas. Each area contained a collection of chairs and sofas, all adorned with delicate, colorful pillows. Several small, intricately-carved wooden tables held ceramic lamps. Large, round pots contained thick bushy plants, adding greens to the room, where the dominant colors were still tan, ivory, and gold, much like the outside world of Al-Sharrabi.

  Even the walls themselves were something to behold. They were dressed in fine wallpapers, subtle textures shimmering in the light. Several rounded alcoves formed recesses in the wall, holding statues or vases under individual spotlights. Carved molding ran to the ceiling, pushing toward the sky until its highest level, which was decorated with a fin
ely sculpted texture. In the center hung a pendulous chandelier, the largest Megan had ever seen, in shards of glowing crystal.

  “What are these statues?” she asked, gesturing to one that looked like a curving cone, in bronze.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Didn’t you pick them out?”

  “I had very little to do with the look and decoration of anything here.”