by Leslie North
Twenty minutes later, he had her hand in his as they strolled along the paved walks amid the gardens that were shaded by trees and cooled by salt-tanged air from the ocean. Malid had bought them both iced lemonades.
Nigella had shed her suit coat and carried it over one arm. She looked far more relaxed now, but the worry had not left her eyes. “Hard to believe that not too far from here lies an inhospitable desert.”
Malid shrugged. “What you deem inhospitable is home to many. Now, come sit and tell me what you wish to speak about?” He led her to a stone bench next to an arbor of jasmine.
Sitting down, Nigella draped her suit jacket next to her and turned to face him, her paper cup of lemonade crumpling in her hand. Malid took the cup from her and set it beside him, and she blurted out, “Your father asked to see me.” Her mouth twisted. “He and my father have much in common.”
He glanced at her. “You met with him.” He made it a statement of fact and not a question. His stomach burned, but he swallowed back the reaction. He would wait and hear what had happened—but if Nimr had done anything to harm Nigella…
The urge to protect her surprised him—both for its heat and possessiveness. He had known her for so short a time. And yet in some ways it seemed as if she had been next to him forever. He didn’t understand it, so he shook his head and frowned. “That cannot be a good thing.”
She started to pleat a fold of her trousers. Malid put his hand over hers. “What troubles you?”
“My father’s flying in. And yours…well, he’s—”
“Impossible to deal with?”
She nodded. “But…well, have you ever wondered why he is?”
“Oh, I know. My father is the opposite of my grandfather—who nearly lost the family everything.”
She wet her lips, and Malid wanted to lean in and kiss her. But she put a hand over his and said, “You mean he’s afraid of the doing the same thing? Afraid even to show what he feels?”
“Are you speaking from your own experience?” Malid asked.
“No. I know my daddy loves me, he just doesn’t think I have what it takes to run his company. He’s trying to hang onto ‘his little girl’ being little.”
Malid shook his head. “You’re not trying to convince me that my father actually cares for me?” Pulling his hand from hers, he touched her cheek. “Do not even attempt to figure out the relationship between my father and me. I have been trying to do that for years with no success.”
“Maybe that’s ‘cause you and your father are too much alike. You ever think what it’d be like to have a son like you? Someone always pushing, always thinking he knows better?”
Malid laughed. “A son…what ideas do you have in mind now?”
She pulled in a breath, and Malid said, “Why do I feel like I’ve just walked into a trap?”
Smiling, she leaned closer, to kiss the corner of his mouth, and trail kisses to his ear. “Will you do one thing for me?” she asked, her mouth pressed against his skin and her breath hot.
Malid closed his eyes. How could he deny her anything? Putting an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. “You are playing unfair.”
“What’s that about love and war? And this is business. I have an idea.”
“I have one as well,” he said, pulling her even closer so her breasts pressed against his chest. He began to wish he had never thought of taking her away from her hotel—had met with her in her room so they could be having this conversation naked.
She pushed both hands against his chest and held him back. “First things first, and the first thing is—you’ve got a couple of brothers right?”
Chapter 11
It took an hour to convince Malid to call his brother Nassir—the one he supposedly wasn’t on the outs with.
They met him in an upscale restaurant that offered sheltered dining alcoves, and traditional low tables with cushioned seats that Nigella learned were called poufs. After they washed hands, the waiters brought the meal out—spicy chicken and grilled vegetables, something called a mezze, a plate with a lot of smaller dishes, including cheese, cubed melon, tabbouleh, mutabbal, and a grilled sausage, hummus, flatbread, and other side dishes that Nigella couldn’t name. Back home, this would have been called a pot luck—but the dishes were far finer and rich. Nigella dug in and listened to the brothers talk.
It seemed that Nassir ran his own company and owned a gym. Like his father and Malid, he had dark hair and olive skin, a strong nose and lean features. But his eyes were a tawny brown, and the lines around his mouth came from an easy smile. Nigella found herself thinking, Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with this Adjalane?
The thought froze her, and she started to choke on an olive. Malid patted her back, she grabbed for water and then stared at Malid.
Love. She was in love—falling, had fallen, was going deeper yet.
No—it couldn’t be.
She stared at Malid, seeing the curve of his ear, how his beard always seemed to come into fast. She was short of breath and her head was buzzing. This couldn’t be. She was a sensible person—she took her time with decisions. And yet…this wasn’t just about business anymore. This wasn’t about the deal. She wanted to see Malid happy—and that meant he needed to patch things up with his father. For his own sake. She wanted him happy because…because she’d done the thing she’d never done. She’d jumped in with both feet with him and she was in love with him.
Great—as if he’d want her to hang around once they got a deal done. She tore off some flatbread and chewed on it, not tasting a thing.
Nassir was telling his brother stories about his gym, and the bothers swapped some gossip. Nigella was glad to see there was at least one easy-going Adjalane around—maybe there was hope for this family after all.
After the meal had been cleared and a dessert of ice cream that tasted like roses was brought out—Nigella figured that had to be an acquired taste—she leaned forward and asked Nassir, “How is your mother?”
He stared at her. Malid cursed and said, “Father hasn’t told you, has he?” Frowning, Nassir shook his head, and Malid said, “Mother is ill.”
Face pale, Nassir shook his head again. “No. It can’t be.”
“Why not?” Malid asked. “You know Father. He tells us what he thinks we need to know—nothing more. When were you last at the palace?”
Nassir shifted his stare away. “I’ve been busy.”
Nigella cut in before an argument could start. “That doesn’t matter. Malid wants to see her—you should, too. And your daddy’s being a butt about this.” Both men stared at her and her cheeks heated. “Sorry, but he is.”
Malid grinned, took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “No, that is the right word.” He glanced back at Nassir. “Well, shall we go see mother?”
Nassir agreed to drive, but he warned Malid, “If Father sees you, he’s going to want an apology.”
Waving off that idea, Malid ushered Nigella into Nassir’s truck. He climbed in after her. It wasn’t exactly a family reunion, but it was a step, Nigella thought. The front seat was big enough to hold three, and she didn’t mind pressing up against Malid—he didn’t seem to mind, either, although he did seem distracted.
Nassir drove like a demon, leaving Nigella clutching Malid’s arm. Nassir’s truck was waved through the gates at the palace without a second glance. He’d barely stopped in the courtyard before Malid was out of the car and through the front doors. Nigella followed, leaving Nassir to deal with his truck, any guards, and possibly Malid’s father.
Following Malid’s echoing footsteps, Nigella headed down a hall and up a set of stairs. The place was huge, even bigger than she’d thought this morning—lord, was that only this morning she’d been here?
Malid threw open a set of double doors and stepped inside, and Nigella peaked in.
An older woman sat in a chair near tall windows that overlooked the garden. She looked comfortably plump, her dark h
air long and worn up, her smile very much the same as Nassir’s—welcoming and kind. To Nigella, Malid’s mother looked healthy and alert. A mix of jasmine and roses scented the air. Glancing up, the woman smiled. “Malid. What a pleasant surprise.” The soft melodic tone of her voice seemed strong to Nigella. If this woman was ill, it wasn’t with anything serious.
Malid stopped as if he’d been hit by a two-by-four. His mouth fell open, worked a moment, and snapped closed. He stiffened, his hands fisting at his sides. “Mother, you’re not…I was told you were ill?”
She smiled and reached for Malid’s hand. “Does your father know you are here? Have you made it up with him? Who is this lovely young lady you have brought to see me?”
Malid spat out his next words. “Father hinted to me that you were dying.”
She let out a sigh. “Ah, Nimr—always trying to manage everyone. It is not me who must see a doctor. It is Nimr. He is refusing to undergo the treatments that might prolong his life.”
Chapter 12
Malid’s skin chilled and his heart seemed to stop. He stared at his mother, the blood pounding in his temples. “Nimr is dying?” The words stuck on his tongue. It seemed impossible.
His mother stood and patted him on the chest. “Please talk with him. You must make it right. It’s not good for a family to be at war with one another—and it is not good for Nimr.”
Malid forced a smile and took his mother’s hand. “As long as you are well, that is all that matters.” He turned and started for the door, and saw Nigella standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. He ought to introduce her. Instead, he waved from Nigella to his mother. “Mother, this is Nigella. Please see she is made welcome.” With that, he left.
He headed for where he thought Nimr must be—in his study. The spider sitting at the heart of his web. It was time they had done with all deceptions.
His father’s study was a room he had come to hate—comfortable leather chairs, books lining one wall, paintings on two of the other walls, French doors that opened into the garden. Malid could only remember the times he had been left standing here, facing his father’s desk, waiting for his father’s disapproval.
Stepping into the room, Malid saw his father look up. Nimr put down a pen he had been writing with and folded his hands, his dark eyebrows lifted. “You have thought better of your words?”
“We had an arrangement.”
Nimr frowned. “I see you still have not thought about anything.”
Malid threw out a hand. “The mighty Nimr Adjalane—don’t you ever tire of acting the puppet master who makes us all dance?”
Standing, Nimr put his hands flat on his desk. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
“And how dare you use my mother as a pawn. She isn’t ill. You are—but I would call it a sickness in the head.” Malid jabbed a finger at his father.
Nimr straightened and slashed a hand though the air. “None of that matters. And our arrangement was for you to negotiate with Opell Oil—once you had a deal, I would give permission for you to visit. I was hoping you would learn more than you have.”
Malid took a step forward. “I worked out an excellent deal. I don’t know what devil drives you, but I will not play your games, and I no longer must live by your rules.”
“From what I can see, you don’t live by any rules. Everything I have tried to do has been for your own good—but you are too blind to see. You are an Adjalane and you belong here to take the family forward. But no…you cannot see that. How did you even get in here?”
“Nassir brought me.”
Nimr frowned and sat down suddenly. He clutched his left arm with his right hand. His skin took on an odd pallor—and fatigue filled his eyes. Malid held still, suspecting yet another ploy—another trick. Nimr was never sick—never. He thought of what Nigella had said—that Nimr could not express what he felt. And his mother had said his father was the one who was ill. Well, it did not matter—nothing did. Malid turned to go—he would not be back.
Before he could, Hassan—Nimr’s servant—came into the room and said, “Gordon Michaels is here to see you.”
Chapter 13
Malid watched as his father tried to pull the cloak of his position around him. He straightened and let go of his arm—but Malid felt as if he’d just seen the first chink in his father’s armor. It made him seem human, something Malid would have sworn would never happen.
Ignoring Malid, Nimr glanced at Hassan. “Show him in.”
Gordon Michaels came in as if he had been lurking right behind Hassan. The man looked rushed, his face slightly reddened, his hair tousled. His suit seemed wrinkled by travel and his tie looked as if it had hurriedly been pushed into place. However, Malid knew this was a man to reckon with. From all he had heard, Gordon Michaels had perfected the look of a country-boy—but his reputation was of a shark. Nigella trailed into the room behind him, and sent a frown and a small shake of her head at Malid, as if she had spoken already to her father to try and avert this and had failed.
Malid narrowed his eyes—he would not sit back and watch Gordon Michaels treat Nigella poorly.
Pushing his hands into his pockets, he watched as Gordon Michaels stalked into the room. “Adjalane, just what game you playin’ at? Are we doing a deal or runnin’ in circles?”
Nimr shrugged. “No game. You want something that is very important to myself and my family. I want something in return.”
Arms crossed, Gordon waited. Malid stepped forward to say something, but Nigella walked between the two older men. “Well, isn’t this just fine. You two can now have a good row that won’t make anyone feel better.” She glanced at Malid. “Malid, you have a chance to mend things here.”
He stiffened. “Nigella, why do you ask that of me?”
She threw out her arms. “For one thing, I’d like y’all to stop using anger and bluster as a reason not to say what you’re feeling. Family is important—to all of us.” She blew out a breath. “You and I, Malid, we have something going. But right now my heart is breaking ‘cause I could never be with a man who would abandon his family.”
Malid stepped back—he felt as if she had slapped him. “You expect me to forgive everything my father has done?”
“What about what you’ve done? Families fight, but at the end of the day, they stick together. Without family, we have nothing.” She turned and stared at her father. “Daddy, I love you, but I’m done with trying to prove myself to you.” She turned to Malid’s father. “Sir, you might have been trying to teach your son a lesson, but it’s about as good as the one of you leavin’ him in the desert—just plain wrong-headed.” Finally, she looked at Malid. “And you…you make a fine third here, just as bull-headed as these two and trying to get your own way and ready to stomp off if you don’t.”
Malid stared at her for a moment, his heart pounding. He glanced at his father and Nigella’s father—the two men looked stunned. Nimr sat back in his chair, one hand pressed to his chest. Gordon lifted a hand and let it drop. “Honey, you’re my little girl.”
“Not any more, Daddy. I’m grown, and if you don’t put me in charge, I’ll find a company that will. Won’t mean I love you any less, and I know you love me.” She propped a hand on her hip and faced Malid. “As for you—well, you need to make a choice here between pride or losing everything worth having. And that might include me since I’m not so sure I can be with a guy who doesn’t know how to say those three very important words?”
“Words? What...I love you?”
“Those are nice, but I’m thinking more of saying, I’m sorry.”
Malid stared at her—how dare she…she…she tell him the truth. He blinked. For the first time in his life, he knew he wanted something more than just to be in the right. The thought of not having Nigella in his life twisted a knot in his guts--.
He took a step toward her and stopped.
What if he said those words she had asked for—offered up an apolo
gy—but his father threw them away? Would Nigella blame him? His father was the hardest man in the world to deal with—and Malid wasn’t certain he could back down here.
He looked from his father to Nigella’s father and nodded. “It seems my father is not well. Until he is fully recovered, I will be acting for him—and we will sign our deal.” Nimr made a sound of protest, but Malid stepped between him and Gordon. “Father, you wished an apology. You do not deserve it. But if what you want is for me to make amends to my brother and his new wife, that I can do. I will do what is necessary to convince you to let me finish these negotiations.” Malid turned to Gordon. “But I will only sign this deal with Nigella Michaels.”
Gordon looked between Malid and his father. “I guess we could do that.”
Nimr started to stand. Before he could, he gave a gasp and fell back in his chair, clutching his chest. Malid moved at once to his father’s side, felt for a pulse in his wrist and found it racing. Yelling for Hassan, he ordered the man to fetch Nassir at once.
Nigella came over and put a hand on Malid’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
Malid shook his head, and Nassir burst into the room. “I think he’s having a heart attack. He needs to get to the hospital immediately.”
Nassir bent down over his father. “Malid, there’s a sandstorm brewing. It won’t be safe.”
Malid shook his head. “It will if I drive. Nigella, will you—?”
“I’m coming with,” she said, her tone flat and final.
Chapter 14
For a moment, Nigella thought Malid would argue with her. His mouth flattened, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes. She knew the danger—sandstorm. The sand could clog the engine—they could be trapped. But Malid gave a nod. Nassir, do you have scarves in your truck? Nassir gave a nod.
