by Ella Brooke
“Your father is a good man, a proud man.”
“And he’s a man who can still ask me for help,” she said. “But just put him on, okay?”
“Thank you, you know. I won’t tell him because he won’t take it, but anything you can spare will help so much, honey.”
“I love you, Mom.”
“Love you too. Now, here’s your father.”
“Peanut!” her dad said, grinning back at her through his owlishly thick glasses and over his thick salt-and-pepper mustache. “You look too thin. Are they feeding you at your hotel?”
“They let us dine on anything extra that week for lunch. I’m doing fine. In fact, I definitely could stand to lose a few,” she said, amazed by her own ability to keep her voice level when she felt like her whole life was falling apart. “How are you?”
Her dad shook his head. “Now don’t you go worrying, Peanut. Your old dad is going to be fine. I lived through being threatened by the best in the Chicago mob for stories I ran. You think that something like this is going to get me? Oh hell no.”
Tiffany laughed, despite everything. Her dad was still her dad, and she was going to do her damnedest to make sure he stayed healthy and safe. “I wouldn’t think that, Dad.”
“Good, so you go on and get a lot of rest tonight and enjoy your weekend. We can talk more about it tomorrow, but I don’t want you to be upset. I’m not. I have a good doctor and a plan, and we’ll beat this, sweetie. I promise.”
She nodded, even though she warned Greta just the day before about what happened when you made promises you couldn’t keep. But that was different. People could reassure each other, but Tiffany was making herself a promise. There was no way that she was going to let her dad down. If she had to get a second job at another hotel in her off time, she would. They would find a way to beat this; he was only in his sixties, far too young.
“Good, I know we will. I’ll go get rest, but only because you ordered it.”
“Hey, I should abuse my powers to get people to do everything I wanted. I’d tell your wild sister, Kendra, to finally get her act together.”
She laughed. That was something they all could relate to no matter what. “You don’t appreciate her groupie lifestyle?”
“Not when she’s twenty-eight. Go on, Peanut,” he said, winking at her. “I’ll be here in the morning.” With that her dad disconnected the call.
Tiffany’s hands were shaking as she set her phone down. Yeah, he said he would be around tomorrow, but what about in six months? Or a year?
Chapter Three
There were staunch rules at The Cambrian. Usually, the pool closed by 9 or 10 p.m. for safety reasons, both because of the cold and because nighttime, alcohol, and an open infinity pool often led to trouble. The staff had seen other hotels with legal issues without that watchdog attitude. But the rules left the area a quiet place to think. Striding out there in her leggings, shirt, and puffy coat, Tiffany started to pace across the veranda. She couldn’t go home yet. Greta was there, and she’d want to comfort her, which was admirable. However, Tiffany was like her father. She needed a plan, not to talk things out. Greta would offer strong arms and hugs, and what she needed was time to get her shit together, to not fall apart.
Pacing across the veranda with the chill air of the Alps sweeping over her was the one thing that kept her grounded, kept her from freaking out. It was what kept her from spinning apart like a collection of leaves in the wind.
“You’re making me dizzy.”
She frowned and suppressed a groan when she saw her least favorite guest sitting in the pool, smoking a cigar. “You know, we have rules about when you can use the pool.”
He shrugged himself out of the heated waters and through the rising vapor and out to the majestic, darkened peaks of the mountains. “I spoke with management and there were exceptions they could make. Ibrahim was tired, but I was wound up.”
“I’m sure you still have time to go to the clubs,” she said, biting her lower lip. There was no reason to be pointed with him. This was her off time, but she was still staff, and if he had the inclination to report on her, then she was toast. “I’m sorry. That was too far.”
“No, I like that bite there, Tiger. Besides, you look like something horrible has happened. What’s wrong?”
“You care?”
“I care that you’re this upset. I’m sorry that I was being cheeky last night.”
“So that’s what you call it? ‘Being cheeky?’ I don’t usually have ‘cheeky’ men grab my hips.”
“Shame, they should,” he said, chomping on his cigar. The sheikh ghosted silently through the water and to the lounge chair Tiffany had just sat in. He reached out and surprised her by grabbing a bottle of champagne and a flute that had been set aside. Taking out his cigar and grinding it on the ground — another infraction, but if you were rich, you could afford it — he poured her a drink. “You look like you could use this.”
She eyed the drink. Part of her wanted to say that she wasn’t able to, that there were rules. Of course there were, but she had also just had an emotional gut punch to end all gut punches, and this was the last thing she could handle alone without alcohol or some other form of courage in her veins. She took the drink and offered the sheikh a hesitant smile.
“Thank you, Sheikh Hakim.”
“At this point, Tiffany, I’d like to think we’re on a first-name basis.”
Shaking her head, she guzzled down the first flute and held her glass out for another round. “Alright, what’s your first name?”
“You don’t know it?”
“I know that you’re my guest and if I was to address you at all it was by your full royal title.”
“Oh, I’ve never been a stickler for those sorts of things. Besides, that’s for my father, all those rules that are so impossible to keep track of. I just figured my reputation preceded me.”
“I don’t spend a lot of time watching E! or reading tabloids,” she said, her voice stiff. “I work.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “I suppose I earned that. I don’t deny that I play hard, but I also run one of the largest oil conglomerates on the planet and take care of my people. Sometimes the pressure gets to be too much, and I need to unwind.”
That actually gave her a bit more perspective on Sirhan, even if his initial so-called joke with her hadn’t gotten them off on the right foot. She was just trying to manage her modest life and now help take care of her father. How would she feel with thousands of people’s salaries on her shoulders? Worse, how badly did she feel now trying to help keep her dad alive? Could she even fathom the pressure of millions of people, all their livelihoods depending on her decisions? It was daunting, and maybe why Sirhan indulged a bit too much on his time off.
“So, I guess you do that with the latest runway sensation?” she asked, curiosity creeping into her tone.
“Sometimes.”
“I don’t see anyone here now.”
And was her tone jealous? Surely it wasn’t. Yes, he was hot as sin, and the sight of his chiseled jaw and deep green eyes still made her stomach flutter, but there was more to life than that. Then again, as the second round of champagne flowed through her veins and he poured her a third, the idea of a release from her tension with him was getting more and more appealing. Still, there was no way that she was that drunk. It was just that Sirhan was gorgeous; any woman with eyeballs would have wanted him.
If they hadn’t dealt with some of his attitude already.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. His voice was soft and polite, completely unlike the man she’d been dealing with until now.
But wasn’t this what she was avoiding? Greta would have peppered her with questions, but Greta was a friend, someone she had to see day after day. Sirhan was like a stranger on a train or a plane. After she shared her sob story to the oddly interested sheikh, he’d go back to his life and she’d never have to put on the happy face for him again or worry about hiding her real pa
in or worry daily at work.
And she needed to let her feelings out, like venting a valve, or else she’d explode.
“My dad is sick.”
Those words somehow felt like they should have been more thunderous. The effect of them was horrible, was shaking the very foundation of her life and her soul. Yet they were just words, almost lost on the cold, Swiss breeze.
A soft hand, just a bit damp, was passing over the champagne bottle. “You’re going to need all of this.”
“Thanks,” she said, winking at him and chugging a bit directly from the neck of the bottle. Her head was swimming, but that was the only way she knew how to get through the painful truth. “He’s always loved his cigarettes, and now he has lung cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded and set the mostly empty bottle down now. Rubbing her shoulders, she continued. “My family doesn’t have the money for his care, and I work fifty-hour weeks here but I’ll have to see if I can take on a second job in order to help pay for it.”
“Surely they can do something?”
“We’re American, actually. There’s not a lot of mercy in the U.S. healthcare system. Mom has insurance, but it can only help so much. Chemotherapy is really expensive.” She shook her head. “You’re actually being really nice to me.”
“I can be a nice guy. I know that might be a shock, but it’s true.”
“Sorry, most ‘nice guys’ don’t goose me.”
“Goose? There were no birds before.”
“I mean grab my butt.”
He brought his hand to his chest in mock indignation. “It was just the hips, and I shouldn’t have.”
“Because now you know I’m a person with thoughts and feelings. Shocking; so are most of us.”
“No, because some people don’t mind, but I upset someone who’s already having a really hard time, and I didn’t mean to add to your troubles.”
“I don’t know if you can solve them. I don’t even understand how you can relate. You can have anything you want.”
He shook his head. “First, you should get in the water with me.”
“What?”
“Keep your leggings and top on. I swear this isn’t a come-on.”
She narrowed her eyes back at the sheikh. “Somehow I don’t know if I trust your honor there.”
“I’m serious. This pool is heated and you’re starting to shiver even with your parka. People pay thousands a night for this view and for these waters, same stuff funneled and chlorinated from the springs. You need something to keep you warm. Besides, did you know that alcohol lowers body temperature?”
“No, but I just… the rules.”
“Would the rules let us talk for this long anyway?”
She frowned. Sheikh Hakim — Sirhan — had a point. If she were truly following the rules, then she wouldn’t have been talking in the first place, and her muscles were sore. One of the guests had a monster suitcase and they were short on bellhops that afternoon with Peter calling out. She tried her best to struggle with it to the room, but she might have wrenched part of her back. The infinity pool did look inviting. Finishing the bottle of champagne, she eased off her boots and socks as well as her parka.
The chill hit her immediately, and it was no longer theoretical if she should get in the pool. Either she did that now or risked freezing to death. The splash was a large one as she jumped into the pool, sending water splashing everywhere. She froze for a second, scared that the sound would bring the staff still on duty. There she was, still as a deer in the headlights, waiting for everything to pass. When it seemed she was in the clear, she refused in the water as far from Sirhan as she could. This was about resting her back and arms, about her pain over her father. It was not about flirting.
No matter how much the alcohol had loosened her up or how desperate heat was now flaring low through her belly.
“You know,” Sirhan said, his tone amused. “I don’t have leprosy. You can be more than a dozen meters from me.”
“Maybe I want to stay here.”
“In the deep end at night while you’re a bit hammered, Tiger?”
“I’m not hammered.”
“You are. You’re three sheets to the wind.” He ducked his head under the water and slid through it with the skill of a shark sliding in for the kill. The sheikh popped up in less than a minute later and wrapped his arms around her waist. She tried to buck him off but he kept behind her. “No, you need to come back to the shallow end. You need to relax, not tempt fate.”
She fumed but let him drag her to the bench carved into the pool’s side at the shallow end. While her plan had been to maintain her distance, that had failed spectacularly. However, Sirhan had a point. While her head was currently swimming, she didn’t feel as if her body could do the same thing. Besides, feeling the strength of Sirhan’s muscular chest behind her, as solid as steel, Tiffany no longer felt like being obstinate. Why fight when he was actually helping her?
Of course, maybe it was both desire and the champagne that prompted her to stay sitting on his lap when they came to the bench. There was plenty of room to spread out, but she didn’t want to, not with the firmness of his body against hers or the strength of his arms wrapped around her waist. To be fair, Sirhan didn’t say anything about her needing to leave the confines of his lap or about her moving over, so Tiffany assumed it was okay.
It was all so nuts, but she just needed to feel something other than the grief threatening to swallow her whole.
“Now,” he said, his voice like a low rumble against her ear. “Tiger, I’m going to tell you something that might make you feel worse and better.”
“Don’t say my dad’s going to be okay and there are lots of advances now and at least they caught it earlier than they could have. I’ve been thinking that, but I also Googled a ton on my phone before I came out here about percentage of survival and other things. The truth is no one can be absolutely sure what’s going to happen to my father or how it’ll turn out. Not like you’re a psychic.”
He chuckled and kissed her cheek. Wait? Had he? She had to be imagining that. There was no way one of the richest men in the world, let alone one as beautiful and powerful as Sheikh Sirhan Hakim was cradling her in his lap. It was completely impossible that he was giving her gentle attention like that. A sophomoric joke was one thing, but she wasn’t his type. Couldn’t be. She was far too plain and average.
What kind of a crazy night was she living through?
“You know, just don’t anticipate me for once. I know that I gave you the wrong impression of me, but there’s a lot to me that you don’t know.”
“So, you’re an onion?”
“Huh?”
“I mean, onions have layers. So if you have layers…” she trailed off. “Maybe it was a bad joke and I’m drunk.”
“You are that, but I see what you mean. It’s just that I know exactly how you feel.”
“You can afford anything you want. I doubt you get it.”
“Tiffany, please turn and look at me.”
She wasn’t sure what made her comply, but there was a genuineness in his tone she had not yet heard. Frowning, she swiveled around on his lap and tried not to pay attention to the fact she could feel his length now straining through the fabric of his swimsuit and up against her rear. Now the heat flaring through her was like a roaring inferno, and she wasn’t sure how to deal with any of it.
“What?”
He put his fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him. God, his fingers were so lithe and long, so very dexterous. She blushed, thinking of all the things they could do, and then she wished maybe she’d had a bit less champagne. She had no right to let her grief and pain and confusion guide her actions, force her to react more carnally than she ever had with a man. Then again, no other man was like Sirhan either.
“Tiger, my mother was fond of the hookah, especially apple flavor. She smoked every day of her life until her diagnosis.”
“What?
”
“She got sick, too, and it didn’t matter how much money or wealth or power we had. She was stage IV before she admitted that there might be a problem and went to get help. There was nothing even doctors at Harvard or Hopkins could do. She was gone in six months.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple seeming to bob with his grief. “I’m not telling you this to scare you. She was far later than your father and she kept trying to sneak the hookah even a few weeks before she died. I’m saying that I understand how you feel more than you know. I know the hopelessness and feeling like you have to be ‘normal’ for everyone else. That’s why Ibrahim and I are such good friends. When I came home from college to deal with all of it, he was the only friend I had who understood when to let me be, that sometimes asking ‘how is she doing’ was the worst possible thing he could ask. People mean well…”
“…but I’m shattering inside and just trying to keep it all together. I don’t even know how to deal with it. It’s so true, and we don’t even have the money for a place like Hopkins.”
He stroked her cheek with one finger and she shuddered at his touch. The flames now flickering through her core. “I do. Let me help you. I couldn’t save my mother, but I might be able to help your father. Believe me. It would be my pleasure to beat this bastard out on a second chance.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He looked into her eyes, and she shrank under his deep, penetrating gaze. “I know that you’re trying so hard, that you need to save your father. That’s all I need to know. The fact you haven’t cried yet floors me — that strength. I seriously underestimated you, Tiger.”
“Did you?” she asked, her voice going husky.
“Definitely. Besides,” he said, kissing the hollow of her throat. Despite herself, she mewled like a kitten and ground against his hardness. “I’ve never had a woman reject me.”
“That sounds so egotistical,” she said even as he reached to the hem of her long-sleeved shirt to remove it. “We shouldn’t.”
