The Sheikh’s Contract Fiancée (Almasi Sheikhs Book 1)

by Leslie North

  “Let’s go. Our reservation is waiting.” He pressed a hand to the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance. Her breath hitched—his mere touch sent lightning through her. This reaction was bad news. Her heels clicked over the granite stones of the outside patio as he led her to the car. He held the door open for her, and she caught his gaze sliding down her chest.

  “Now, now,” she tutted once he was in the car. “This is a business meeting.”

  “What?” he feigned innocence.

  “No looking down your business partner’s dress,” she said, unable to fight the grin. “That’s impolite.”

  He cleared his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket. “You’ll have to excuse me. This business partner is exceptionally gorgeous. Perhaps you’ll understand.”

  She stared out the window, trying to fight the urge to grin from ear to ear and the happiness buzzing inside her. A joke about ogling his future wife seemed exceptionally tacky, especially since she still wasn’t exactly pleased about the arrangement.

  And as his future wife, she had plenty to bring up at tonight’s business meeting. All seduction aside, their pending marriage was only a heartbeat away. She clutched at her handbag, watching as the buildings of downtown Minarak flashed by, all steel and angles. She needed to be smart about the situation, however unsavory.

  Which was why she’d spent the entire afternoon drawing up a prenuptial agreement. It was best to clarify these matters now, before she waded any further into the muck. Because who knew what might happen if she fell under Imaad’s spell?

  She glanced over at him. His gaze was soft and pensive as he watched the world through the windshield. When he swung his head to look at her, butterflies assaulted her belly. Calm emanated from him, begging her to reach out for his hand, to anchor herself alongside him.

  But she’d never do that. She turned back toward the window, squinting at the bright taxis in the flow of traffic, willing herself to forget the memory of his hands scorching their way up her bare hip.

  The restaurant occupied the first level of a squat stucco building, the front sidewalk lit up with spotlights. Imaad led her to the front door with a protective hand on her lower back, something she would normally protest, but with him, she just couldn’t find it in her to say no. She liked the air of protectiveness that emanated from him—or maybe it was pride? Either way, they strutted up to the restaurant like royalty, curious eyes swinging to greet them from the sidewalks, passers-by slowing down to catch a glimpse.

  Inside, Imaad gave his name and the host nodded, pulling out two menus. He said something to Imaad that made him laugh.

  On their way to the tables, Annabelle tugged at his arm. “What was so funny?”

  “He called us Mr. and Mrs. Almasi,” Imaad said, the husky heat of his cologne reaching her. She wobbled a bit and grabbed onto his wrist. As if on autopilot, her hand slid to find his.

  “I told him ‘not yet,’” Imaad said, giving her hand a little squeeze, his dark gaze leaving her speechless.

  The host led them to an intimate table near the back, a simple candelabra in the middle of the table. Annabelle paused before she sat down, hesitant to let go of his hand.

  “This looks lovely,” she said, looking up at him.

  “It’s quite lovely.” A small smile crossed his face, and he nodded toward her seat. “If it passes your test, would you like to sit?”

  She blinked at him a few times, and then yanked her hand out of his grip. His skin was a drug, one that she didn’t respond well too. Or maybe she responded too well to it. Either way, the drug needed to be avoided. She spread the cloth napkin over her lap, hoping the low lighting of the place would mask her flush.

  “This is a pretty fancy place for a business meeting,” Annabelle said, smoothing her dress, looking anywhere but at Imaad’s intensely attractive gaze. God, it would be impossible to think of anything other than those sultry eyes, eating her up from head to toe. It was one thing to be in the presence of a hottie like Imaad; it was entirely different when he didn’t hide how much he was into her, too.

  “My business partner has standards,” Imaad responded coolly, shaking out his napkin before placing it over his lap. “As well as needs.”

  She lifted a brow. Like sexual needs? Damn straight I do. “Well, thank you for anticipating them.” She cleared her throat, squinting out into the restaurant, willing a waiter to appear with drinks or a bottle of wine or a partition that they could fuck behind.

  “This is a celebratory meal,” Imaad clarified, his umber gaze growing darker. “You did an amazing job today. And I think with the merger, both of our companies will survive the current economic conditions.”

  Her heart raced, sensing a doorway. One she should race through, if she had any sense left in her. “Which reminds me of something I wanted to bring up.” She cleared her throat, trying to shake the last dregs of desire out of her head, and reached for her handbag. She revealed a paper she’d folded, smoothing it across the tabletop. The flicker of candlelit cast garish shadows overtop it.

  “What’s this?” He leaned forward, another waft of his cologne reaching her. She let it wash over her before responding.

  “It’s a prenup.” When he arched a brow, she added, “A prenuptial agreement. Obviously, since the smooth passage of this merger means we’ll be getting married soon, I thought it was wise to draw one up.”

  His blank stare prompted her to go on. “It’s totally standard. This is just a rough draft, actually—I wanted you to read it over first. See if you agree with everything. It’s just a way to protect our assets. That way, neither of us will have to deal with any blowback once we annul the marriage.”

  Imaad blinked at the paper, then nodded slowly. “I see.”

  Annabelle studied his face for a moment, trying to discern something from the cloudiness there. “Take it with you. And let me know if you have any questions.”

  He gnawed at the inside of his lip for a moment. A waiter approached, and Imaad snatched the paper from the table, hiding it from view.

  Annabelle could barely focus on the waiter as he introduced himself and the house wine in stilted English. After they settled on a red wine and two glasses of water, Imaad revealed the paper again.

  “Why did you hide it?” She laughed a little. “It’s not like I scrawled bad words all over it.”

  Imaad stiffened, sliding the paper back toward her. “You can keep it. We don’t do things like this in my country.”

  Annabelle stared at the paper being shoved at her, too shocked to respond right away. “Well, that’s why I think we should actually get married in my country.”

  A tense silence settled over the table and Annabelle’s belly tightened. She hadn’t expected this at all. “It would go over fine with your father, I’m sure. I mean, it’s the marriage he’s after. And of course you could play me off as a prissy bride. I’m sure I would be, if I ever get married for real.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll work.”

  She gaped at him, unsure where to take it from here. “I thought you didn’t want to do this either. So what’s the big deal about a prenup?”

  His jaw clenched and he stared at the paper, as if he was choosing his words carefully. After a moment, he folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket.

  “I’ll take a look,” he said in a low voice, eyes on the waiter who returned with a bottle of red wine. He perked up, smiling slightly. “For now, let’s just enjoy dinner.”

  Annabelle couldn’t shake the confusion but stuffed it into the recesses of her mind. She knew better than to pry right now. And Imaad was right—what was the harm in enjoying a delicious, decadent meal staring at one of the hottest men in the known universe?

  Once the wine was poured, they clinked glasses. “Cheers.”

  She’d take what she could get.

  11

  Just as Imaad let himself into his penthouse apartment that night, his brother Omar texted: On my way, some
things to discuss.

  His brother was notorious for disappearing and showing up based solely on his own agenda. Imaad couldn’t be mad about it—he loved Omar’s thought-provoking conversations over whiskey—but tonight, it could have been a close call.

  Not that Annabelle would have come back with you…but she could have. In a perfect world.

  Their dinner had been jovial and tipsy, recovering entirely from the strange tension at the beginning surrounding that agreement. And while they talked plenty about business and even more about non-business, Annabelle made it clear she would be returning to her hotel room at the end of the night. Even though Imaad swore he saw a flicker of doubt cross her face—a split-second desire to take it further, maybe even right back to the dunes in the salt desert.

  But not tonight. And maybe not ever again. Imaad headed for the low, black couches hugging an enormous square coffee table, reclining into the soft leather with a sigh. He tossed the agreement onto the table and loosened his tie. If only you could have brought her back here…

  Thoughts like those wouldn’t help. Not when his blood turned hot whenever she was around, his palms itching to caress her. Thinking of her when he couldn’t have her would only drive him into the shower, and with his brother on the way, he didn’t have time to jack off before he arrived.

  A few moments later, Omar let himself into the penthouse, shouting his greeting from the foyer. Imaad raised his hand to greet him, barely stirring from the couch.

  “You’ve had a long day, I see.” Omar clapped his shoulder on his way to the bar along the back wall. “I’ll help remedy that.”

  Imaad smirked, craning his head to watch his brother pour two tumblers of whiskey. Omar strode toward him, glasses in hand, and passed one to him. They clinked glasses and took a sip.

  “So what brings you here?” Imaad toed his shoes off. They clunked onto the hardwood floor. “It’s pretty late for one of your house calls.”

  “It’s only nine, brother. And it’s Friday, no less.” Omar shook his head, leaning against the back of the couch. “I’m on my way to the city center, to meet with a lady. Your house was perfectly on the way.”

  “A lady.” Imaad chuckled. “There’s a new one every week.”

  “Not so.” He paused. “Every month, maybe.”

  “Close enough.”

  “That brings me to my point—your lady,” Omar said, wiggling his eyebrows. “You lucked out in the arranged-marriage department. I don’t think Zahir or I will fare so well.” He took another sip of his drink. “I’ve caught on to some of the whispers of the board members. And there’s some rumors going around that she’s not going to uphold her end of the deal.”

  Imaad creased a brow. “That’s ludicrous.”

  “I thought you should know. This way, you can address it with her directly, to nip this problem in the bud.” Omar’s problem-solving skills were renowned in the family. As the eldest brother, he’d engineered his way out of trouble during their childhood too many times to count…often at Imaad’s expense. It served him well in the business world. “They don’t trust her. And I think they are ready to latch onto any convenient story.”

  “Hm.” Imaad sipped at his whiskey thoughtfully. “Thank you. This is important to know.” He set his tumbler down, an idea occurring to him. “I’ll be right back. Let me get my laptop.” He pushed up from the couch, feet padding quietly on the wood floors as he headed for his bedroom to find his computer. When he came back out into the living room, Omar was in his spot on the couch, squinting at a paper.

  “What is this?” Omar held the paper up to him as Imaad approached. His belly knotted. Annabelle’s pre-nuptial agreement.

  “It’s…uh…” Words evaporated in his mouth. “Why do you ask?”

  Omar turned to look at him fully, eyebrows knit together. “Has anyone else seen this?”

  “Of course not.” Imaad set his laptop down on the coffee table. The agreement was practically a buzzer screaming “sham marriage.” Annabelle had written their pending divorce into the mix as well. “It’s something we think would be best.”

  “Then you came up with this?” Omar looked over the document again, eyebrows forming a hardline. “Surely she couldn’t have. She has no assets to speak of.”

  “It was her idea. And while I find it a bit…off-putting, it probably is a wise idea.” Imaad snatched the paper from his hands, looking it over again. The only word that stood out to him was divorce. How much had Omar seen?

  “Wise idea to call off the marriage six months after the merger is complete?” Omar laughed bitterly. “You might as well call it off now.”

  Imaad crumpled onto the couch beside him. “This was our idea—together. Not the prenup, I mean, but the…ruse.” He ran a hand through his hair. “We don’t want to get married, but we desperately want this merger. We figured if we got married and played along, we could quietly divorce somewhere down the road without too much issue.” He glanced nervously at his brother, trying to tease a reaction from his stony face.

  Omar was eerily silent as he stared at the leather couch, jaw flexing. “I think this could ruin the merger. Father wouldn’t care if Annabelle’s father had never offered her hand—but he will care very much about reneging on a promise. You know him. He would rather sell off the business or fire more people than do business with someone who can’t keep his word.”

  Imaad buried his face in his hands. His brother was right. No matter how desperately he wished it otherwise. He’d been a fool to get caught up in Annabelle’s wispy escape plan.

  “Aren’t you always telling me to stand up to father, to not ask him ‘how high’ when he tells me to jump?” Imaad shook his head. “And what makes it worse,” he groaned through his fingers, “Is that I think I actually want to be with her.”

  Omar guffawed with laughter, slapping him on the back. “Well that’s the dream, isn’t it? You should be happy.”

  “No. She’ll never be able to see past the fact that her father arranged it in secret.”

  “Well, that’s a little different,” Omar mused.

  “And I’m crazy about her.”

  “Crazy enough to marry her?”

  Imaad sighed, leaning back into the couch. “I don’t know. Who can ever know these things?”

  “At any rate, you cannot tell Father,” Omar said, his voice growing stern. He drained the rest of his whiskey. “Our companies are riding on this merger, you’re right. But the ruse is still a bad idea, though I sympathize with her, now that I know the facts. If I were you, I’d find another solution. And quickly.”

  Imaad flexed his jaw, staring at the creases of the paper in his hands. The easiest solution would be to make sure Annabelle knew exactly how he felt…and how far he was willing to take it.

  Omar squeezed his shoulder, speaking the words in his head. “Perhaps that solution begins with accelerating the situation with Annabelle, don’t you think? Spur that horse forward.”

  Imaad flashed a grin, not allowing himself the indulgence of imagining her smooth skin under his palm or the silkiness of her hair in his fist. Not while Omar was around.

  But those memories wouldn’t stay squashed for long. They, more than anything else, would lead him right back to the intoxicating quagmire of their current situation.

  12

  Annabelle yanked the spiral phone cord again, trying to gain another inch or so as she propped her toes on the bathroom counter. She grunted.

  “Sorry. I thought corded phones died in the early 2000’s, but apparently not in Parsabad.” She steadied herself on one leg, adjusting the receiver between her ear and shoulder.

  “You could call me on your cell phone, you know. Like a regular human being,” Marian mused from across the world.

  “I get better rates this way,” Annabelle said, carefully dipping her nail polish brush back into the bright red lacquer. She should have gotten a pedicure, but the pile of corporate merger documents waiting for her demanded she stay in the room. If
only to feel productive.

  “Well anyway. Go on.”

  “Right.” Annabelle sighed, picking up her story from where she’d left off. “So, men are awful and I can’t get away from them. That’s basically the bottom line.”

  Marian chucked. “No, the story you were telling was significantly different than that.”

  “When I gave Imaad the prenup, he acted like I’d suggested we go on a killing spree. He doesn’t want to get married either, so what’s the big deal? I’m so sick of all these fragile male egos. The second a woman tries to take control, he needs to swoop in and be offended.”

  “Honey, prenups are an American thing. He probably had never seen one.”

  “And above him and me are two more men who are completely conservative assholes trying to rule our lives. Why is this a metaphor for my life? I can never escape my father and his ridiculous scheming. I just want to be left to make my own decisions for once.”

  “Well, what would you decide now if you could?”

  Annabelle straightened, nail polish brush hovering in mid-air. “I’d finish the merger and fuck Imaad every weekend.”

  Marian burst out laughing. “Why only the weekend? That could be every night.”

  “Yeah, but that would be like marriage, which would be the same as accepting what my father forced on me. No thanks.”

  “I don’t think most married people have sex every day. Actually, if you fuck only on the weekends, that would be more like married life.”

  Annabelle got a shiver through her, but she couldn’t for the life of her say why. There was something forbidden about thinking of Imaad as her chosen partner. “Whatever. You get my point.”

  “The point being that you like Imaad.”

  “I don’t like him,” she clarified. “I think he’s hot. There’s a huge difference.”

  “How hot are we talking? Like, melt-me-into-candlewax hot?”

  “I’d say something a little bit hotter than that,” Annabelle said with a sigh, capping her nail polish. Her toes were bright red and only slightly unevenly coated—overall, a win for Parsabad. “Like you could melt the one ring to rule them all, Mount Doom-style hot.”