Has she been drinking?
One of the reporters from a British paper started the Q&A with a simple question about what he hoped to add to the resort as time went on. But then it was Miss Sinclair who had her hand up. Actually, she was practically standing on her tiptoes and waving her arm all over, almost as if she were at a party. It wouldn’t have looked odd for her to have a lit lighter in her hand, like at the encore of a rock concert.
Still, he wanted to hear from her, so he called on her.
“Yes, the reporter from the Washington Sentinel. Ah, Miss Sinclair, I believe.”
“How can you justify the use of your resources to create yet another resort in the outer reaches of the city? There are already a fair share of casinos and luxury hotels around the Formula One racing track, and yet the city’s infrastructure and urban planning are a mess and undermaintained?” She grinned back at him, her expression sharp and feral like a wolf. “Or do I need to break this down into further constituent parts?”
He blinked, realizing that he’d walked right into a trap. She actually wasn’t the first reporter to criticize the creation of the Ali Babba for that reason. Usually, though, the bulk of them were journalists within Abu Dhabi, itself. The locals were angry at some of the ways the old heart of the city had been forgotten in the rush to expand the glittering, outer edge as a tourist attraction. Amir hadn’t expected such a piercing question as this press conference.
He should have based on her attitude earlier this morning.
“To be fair, I would say that creating jobs and helping to increase the tourism industry are a boon for the entire population of Abu Dhabi.”
“But you won’t take, say, a certain percentage of the profits from the casino and then put it back into the infrastructure of your own nation-state, will you? These will go back into your family coffers?”
Clenching his jaw, Amir tried not to pounce on her with any fury. He staunchly believed that building up the tourism in his nation, having it even supersede that of Dubai, would help all his people. It would make America care about the nation’s issues if tourists were using it as a playground. It would put wealth in everyone’s pockets, and most of all, it would give him a way to keep hiring a mostly Abu Dhabian staff.
“We currently employ over two thousand citizens of Abu Dhabi, and as we expand—”
“If you expand,” she countered.
“When,” he chimed out, projecting strength and assurance for everyone else. “When we grow, we’ll bring even more to this city-state and its people. Now, moving on…”
***
After the press conference there was a cocktail party for both investors and members of the press. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for. His intriguing reporter had gone from an alluring curiosity straight to an annoying thorn in his side. While he didn’t mind some spirit in a reporter or a woman, Amir loathed being made into a fool. Miss Sinclair had worked her hardest to essentially call him on the carpet and to catch the attention of the other reporters, to make them also gear their questions towards his plans as sheikh for the rest of his country. He had those plans, but he and his family could only do so much at a time, damn it.
He found her out on the balcony alone, nursing a glass of sparkling water or club soda. Perhaps she really was hungover or drunk already. As he slid next to her, he noticed her eyes seemed less red, but the determination was brimming in them just as steadily as it was at the press conference.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his tone as commanding as it ever was for his staff.
She glared up at him. He was so shocked at the way she held herself with such confidence and poise. The woman was barely five feet tall, and he should have no trouble making her kowtow to him, and yet she was eyeing him as if he were nothing more than just smoke and mirrors. Damn it, he had far more authority than that, and it was time that Miss Sinclair respected him.
“Were you now? Do you have any more specifics on how your wonder resort is going to save your country?”
“I maintain what I say. There’s more than just money involved.”
“Isn’t there always?” she asked, her tone resigned.
“But I like to point out politically, that Americans only care about things on a whim. If we suddenly become the go-to playground for the rich, then any other problems we might have as things destabilize around here will actually get listened to. Don’t mistake the kitschy name and the glitz for something else. I think of my duty, my family, and what the resort can do for everyone constantly, Miss Sinclair,” he finished, feeling his breath coming rapidly as he spoke and his nostrils flaring with his anger.
She considered him and leaned against the railing. “This place really does matter that much to you? You really believe your own hype?”
“I know exactly what I care about and what I love, Miss Sinclair. Do you?”
“What?” she asked, furrowing her brow and wrinkling her nose.
“Do you have things you love besides using journalism to tear good people down?”
She stepped back a bit, as if she’d been slapped. “I do care about others.”
“But not everyone is out there to step on the little guys, Amanda,” he said, lowering the timber of his voice, even as he let his face get closer to hers. Again, his lips were just inches from her ear as he continued, his voice a low, guttural whisper. “I’m not some monster or heartless aristocrat who doesn’t care about his people. They keep me up at night, my responsibility to them. So, when I see someone with such a chip on her shoulder that is determined to do against others, I do have to ask: do you love anything at all?”
She reached back to slap him, but he caught her right hand and restrained her wrist, just as he did the same thing with her left for good measure. Amanda pulled against his grip and cursed at him in a variety of colorful phrases, but he still held her firmly.
“Let me go. I’m not some harem girl that you can just have your way with,” she threatened.
He leaned into her, aware of his hardened manhood. Amir knew the moment she realized that he desired her, because she stilled under his grip and her eyes went wide.
“No, Amanda. You don’t get to insult me and the work I do without getting a fully balanced look at all of it. Tomorrow is the gala opening for the art museum section of the casino. I’d like you to come with me as my honored guest so that you can see everything that we’re offering the people of Abu Dhabi.”
“I…” she started, licking her lips.
It seemed to him that her eyes had dilated as well, that her pupils were just a bit bigger than before.
“Yes, what was that?” he asked.
“You don’t have any right to restrain me like this.”
“You’re the one who tried to strike a CEO and a head of state. I see you here, and I know something far more is going on with you. You’re lucky I’m not my father, or the penalty would have involved severe jail time in Abu Dhabi for such an offense. I’m merely asking you to give me a chance before you pass judgement on everything I’m doing. If you’re going to write a piece that you could have written from Washington, DC, without any view of Abu Dhabi, why not let me show you what I have to offer here? Why not actually do your job?”
“Sure, let’s see if you can convince me that another casino matters to anyone,” she said.
Suddenly, she was lifted up to sit on the balcony and his lips were on hers. He’d been right about her. She tasted vaguely of scotch still, and he relished that taste, just as he relished the softness of her lips and the perfume she wore. It was so fragrant that it reminded him of a forest full of gardenias.
His hands roamed lower, even as she pushed her body closer to him. Reaching farther south, he ran his hands over hips he could hold firmly on to and that separated her from his usual fare, from women like Svetlana who were bony in comparison. Part of him wondered why he’d shied away from a woman with curves as glorious as hers, away from the softness of h
er for so long.
Amanda moaned beside him, and he could feel her legs wrap around him as she leaned into him. Her own hands were sliding up toward his shoulders, reaching as best as they could for his neck. Her tongue slid into his mouth, plundering his own, and he matched the force of her tongue’s strokes with his own, both of those muscles slipping over each other and fighting for dominance.
Finally, as if a spell were broken, or, perhaps, as sobriety burst through her actions, Amanda pulled back and looked up at him, the shock clear from her stiff expression to her wide eyes that were as blue as the ocean.
“I…I never should have done that. I’ve been drinking and…”
“Oh, I can tell that much, my reporter.”
“I’m not your anything,” she said, pushing him away, even as her cheeks flushed red. “I’m not property or something for you to play with. I’m just a journalist about this close to being fired and crossing the last lines I have left.”
There’s a story here. I wonder what else she’s done in her pursuit of the truth, how a ball buster like her ended up in my neck of the woods at all.
Amir chuckled and brought his hand to the underside of her chin. “You might feel that way now, but still come out with me. Let me show you the true depths of what I do. Hell, I dare you to try fighting the attraction that’s surged between us since the first time you walked into my office.”
“I’ll come to the gala, but just because I want a well-rounded piece,” she said. “The least I can do on this pathetic beat is get an exclusive.”
“How generous of you.”
She licked her lips and looked anywhere but at him. “But if you think that anything like this will happen again, then you’re wrong.”
Amir could barely suppress his grin. He knew all about body language, had dated so many women that he knew the signs. From her breathy voice to her refusal to look him in the eye, he knew for sure that she was lying to him, but most of all to herself.
“We’ll see about that.”
Chapter Four
“I think I’m in trouble, Margey,” Amanda said, holding the cold rag to her head, gracious for the casino’s decision to decorate every hotel room with blackout curtains.
When she finally woke up around 10 a.m. that morning, her head had been spinning, her temple throbbing, and her mouth as dry as the desert around her. It was only after she listened over again to her recorder from her coverage of the press conference that everything came flooding back to her—the insults traded back and forth, almost slapping Sheikh Bahan, and then the make-out session. She wanted to believe that all of that was the result of far too many scotches back in her room yesterday afternoon, but even she knew better. Even if her life weren’t in freefall, there was something about Sheikh Bahan that called to her, made heat flare in her belly and her legs become weak like overcooked pasta.
She’d broken all her journalistic standards and kissed someone who was the focus of her story. Granted, it wasn’t hard hitting, but that wasn’t who she was.
Then again, so far, being herself had gotten her exiled to nowhere.
“What’s wrong? You’ve only been there a day and a half! How could you possibly have messed up?” Margey asked, her brown eyes brimming with concern.
“You somehow sound incredulous but hopeful,” Amanda said.
“I’m serious. You’re the most in-charge person I know. How could you have made a mistake?”
“I made a big enough mistake to be here in the first place,” she lamented.
“No, you pissed someone powerful off with the truth. That’s different. What’s wrong? Offload on me.”
“I…well I got pretty drunk yesterday. I shouldn’t have done it, but I tuned to CNN and saw the coverage of Senator Jackson’s handiwork in El Salvador. The guilt was too much and I got pretty blottoed.”
“And you missed the press conference. Well, I’m sure you can cobble something else together for the Style editor later tonight. That’s not a big deal.”
She sighed and rubbed at her temples; God, did they throb. Her usual trick of eating coffee grounds wasn’t doing jack to help eliminate her pain. “Oh, I definitely went.”
“Then I don’t get it.”
“I was so trashed, I made an ass of myself at the press conference—not that my question wasn’t valid, but I could have been more tactful.”
“Well that sounds like you.”
“Ha!” she said, glaring over the shaky Skype connection at her best friend. “But then the sheikh wasn’t pleased and he confronted me out on the balcony. I have no way to explain any of this, but one thing led to another and we started kissing,” Amanda finished that sentence by flinching just a bit.
It was so embarrassing. It was as if she’d thrown all caution to the wind since Harris had called her into his office.
“I see,” Margey said, her tone measured.
“Wait, ‘you see?’ That’s it? Aren’t you going to tell me I have gone nuts and just ruined what’s left of my career?”
“I don’t know if you did. This isn’t the subject of an investigation lasting several months. It’s not even a source for a big piece. Next week, Style will assign you to an opening of something in Milan or Venice and then that will be the subject. I don’t see how having one private slip while tipsy can hurt, especially since only three people know about it.”
“Except,” she added, biting her lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood.
“Except what?” Margery asked, arching her eyebrow.
“I really liked it,” she said, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over her face. Her voice was muffled as she spoke the next part. “I’m so messed up. I seriously have no idea what I’m going to do. He even invited me to be his guest for an extra interview to the art gallery opening tonight. I don’t know if I can do this. I just…he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. I get near him and my higher thought goes out the window.”
“Hmm.”
“And?” she prodded, hoping her best friend would go total drill sergeant on her and kick her ass in a way it needed to be.
Getting her head back in the game was crucial. She couldn’t escape in passion or attraction or even odd fantasies. Damn it. She was Amanda Sinclair, the best reporter that the Metro section of the Washington Sentinel had ever had. So why couldn’t she act like it?
“You don’t need to jump down your own throat all the time,” Margery continued. “If you get an extra article out of it and that’s your reason for going, then that’s great.”
“See, then I should go and make sure we stay professional.”
Margery frowned. “I didn’t exactly say that. I mean, I’m not wrong. Next week he won’t be your assignment. I’ve seen you be a nun for over six months on the trail of that story and working yourself into utter exhaustion. Maybe it’s time you had something for yourself. It was just a kiss. Maybe it’ll lead to something fun. You never know.”
Wait, has my best friend been replaced by a pod person?
“Huh?”
“What? I’m trying to be the best friend, give you the advice you need, and for once, hon, it’s not about your career. You put your career first above everything else, and while that’s truly noble, you also need to take time for yourself. So if your sheikh sets your toes curling, then maybe you need to give it a chance.”
As advice went, that didn’t completely suck.
***
“So you have that American reporter coming as your guest to the gallery opening?” his mother asked.
Amir wanted to groan, but instead he kept his poise and nodded. “Mother, being on the guest list for the grand opening means that I thought you’d stay less underfoot this week. Wouldn’t you like Mafir to take you out to see the shops? Father hasn’t called me to complain yet, so I know you haven’t hit Cartier and Gucci hard enough yet.”
She grinned back at him, her eyes twinkling with mirth. “I have time to abuse the discount I ge
t from you later.”
“That’s an employee discount and I need every inch of revenue I can get,” he corrected. “So what if I’ve asked her to come with me for a longer interview. What business is it of yours?”
“Well she was far from kind to you at the press conference. I don’t want you to feel she’s setting you up for an expose you can’t recover from,” his mother said.
“I don’t, and I’ll control things better one on one.”
“I do hope so. I thought your father and I had prepared you better,” she said, clicking her tongue a bit.
“You did. I’ve been as prepared to lead and rule as any sheikh in history. I just had a bad response. It happens.”
His mother’s smile widened and she chuckled to herself. That was a response quirky enough to have all his senses on high alert. Overall, his mother was not a giggler. She was more the type who reveled in schadenfreude or, sometimes, in knowing gossip that no one else did.
“What? I feel as if the Sword of Damocles is about to drop on me,” he said.
“It’s just I saw the exchange. It seemed so familiar.”
“I can’t imagine how. I usually do better at press conferences.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I naturally started to wonder what was throwing you off your stride so badly this time. The girl is beautiful. She’s a bit curvier, but she’s an American after all. They do tend to run large.”
“Mother!”
“Still, I’ve seen those types of sparks before. When I first met your father, we were an arranged marriage, as was far more customary in those days. I started out our first dinner together by insulting his cologne, and he said my makeup made it seem as if a parrot had, and I quote, ‘exploded on my face.’ By the end of the night, we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other.”
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