Trusting A Sheikh (Playgrounds of Power 1)

by Rosie Pike

  He stood up, walking out of his cabin into the seating area, hunting for a couple of aspirin. As he walked by, the air hostess he'd last seen draped over Omar's leg passed in the other direction with a guilty look on her face, messily holding her dress around her to stave off her nakedness.

  Tariq almost let her pass without a word, but his head hurt too much and he decided that preserving her modesty was of less importance than getting hold of some painkillers.

  He tapped her on her shoulder as she passed. "Could you ask one of your colleagues to send me a couple of aspirin and a Bloody Mary when you're… more composed?" he said, maintaining an entirely straight face, in spite of the fact that the girl's expression was one of complete horror that the boss had seen her in the state. She nodded furiously, then practically ran away, leaving him chuckling to himself in the corridor.

  "Good night then, Omar?" he joked, walking into the main cabin to see Omar languidly pulling up the wool pants of his Air Force uniform.

  "You know it, Tariq. You didn't get involved? That brunette was giving you all sorts of eyes – I'm surprised you didn't jump her then and there."

  "Wasn't in the mood," Tariq replied.

  "That's unlike you. Are you changing on me, brother? Don’t want to risk getting caught sleeping around by your father?"

  "My father?" Tariq laughed. "Like he’s one to talk."

  "You haven't got the clap, have you?" Omar asked doubtfully. "It's just, I've never seen you willingly turn down sex before…"

  "Must be the nerves," Tariq joked, betraying exactly that.

  "Nerves? What have you got to be nervous about?" Omar scoffed.

  The attractive brunette entered the room silently, carrying a Bloody Mary and two white pills on her trademark silver tray, the look she was giving the tall, handsome young Prince leaving neither of the men in the room under any illusions that she would be anything other than happy to attend to Tariq if he so required.

  "Thank you," Tariq said to her, his eyes lingering on her ass as she sashayed out of the room, now wearing a form-fitting red silk dress.

  "Shame," Omar said, doing the same.

  Tariq threw the two pills onto his tongue and chucked his head back, draining a third of the deliciously spicy Bloody Mary in one gulp. "Oh, that's good," he said in relief, the fragrant drink quenching his hungover thirst.

  "This is your captain speaking, we will be landing in approximately eleven minutes. The weather on the ground is cold, crisp and dry and the local time upon landing will be exactly midday. Please secure yourselves for landing."

  Tariq ignored Omar's jibes at his failure to bed, or even to try to sleep with the air stewardess. "Where are the other two?"

  "Khalid went off in a mood last night. I haven't seen him since. I don't know about Abdul. I guess he's probably passed out?"

  * * *

  THE SUN GLINTED off the winged angel hood ornaments on the three identical Rolls-Royce Phantoms as they sped down the taxiway, escorted front and back by police cars, flashing sirens on.

  The green and gold 747 had barely come to a halt before sets of stairs were swiftly maneuvered to the front and aft doors of the jet, and the doors were quickly opened.

  From overhead, it would have looked as though the Prime Minister was coming to greet Prince Tariq, but this greeting party was nothing quite that elaborate, just Chloe accompanied by three drivers.

  Chloe, all dressed in black and wearing large sunglasses to ward off the weak, late November sunshine, had deliberately chosen to power dress. Sitting nervously in the car, she hoped the effect would be convincing, because she knew this was a pivotal moment – meeting not only her first solo client, but also a representative of the family that had done so much to change the course of her own family's life.

  "Are you all right, miss?" the kindly, white-haired driver asked, peering with concern over his shoulder.

  "Yes, thank you Alfred. A little nervous, that's all."

  "Someone important is it?" he asked in a broad East End accent.

  "A Saudi prince."

  "Oh, I wouldn't worry, miss, that lot have hundreds of princes, thousands even. I read an article…"

  "Thank you, Alfred – that helps." The light-hearted moment had actually helped take her mind off the thought that occupied her mind for the entire journey – was she ready for her first solo client? The Kingsland Group obviously thought so, but did she?

  The three impossibly shiny Rolls-Royce cars sat sandwiched between the police units in a straight line at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the plane, the winter sunshine glinting off their chrome detailing. Chloe gulped, then opened the door.

  Above her, three men in somewhat ruffled military uniforms were making their way down the stairs, walking a couple of steps behind a tall, undeniably handsome young man in the full ceremonial gold-trimmed white robes of a Saudi prince – only the lack of traditional abaya headgear differentiating the sight from television broadcasts of Tariq's uncle, the King, disembarking exactly the same plane. The optics weren't lost on Chloe, reinforcing once more how important it was that she didn't mess this all up.

  Shit! Should I be wearing some kind of headscarf? The thought hadn't even occurred to Chloe back at the hotel, and as she stood at the bottom of the plane she was furious with herself for not thinking of it. That was basic.

  "Prince Tariq, how was your flight?" she called in a friendly voice as he reached the last few stairs. It was hard to tell what kind of body type he had, since he was swathed in the voluminous white robes, but his jawline was undeniably strong, his face attractive, chiseled and fit.

  The Prince took her hand wordlessly and kissed it.

  "Whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?" he asked, staring directly at Chloe's deep, startlingly green eyes. "The distinct pleasure," he added, making the butterflies in Chloe's stomach do backflips.

  "Uh," she stammered, "Chloe Rouhani – I'll be looking after you during your stay in London."

  "Well, that is marvelous news. After you." He gestured to Chloe, who hesitated a second before realizing he was ready to leave.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like a car of your own?" she asked, hoping he would agree – she needed the time to sort out her emotions. All thought of remaining entirely professional with her new client had gone out of the window as soon as she'd seen him. Chloe was struggling to even form coherent thoughts – not good for someone in the hospitality industry. She needed a few moments to compose herself, and to come to terms with the way her mind and body were betraying her. Of all the men in London who were chasing her, why was he – of all people – the one she felt an unstoppable attraction to? But she wasn't going to get that time.

  "I'll ride with you." Tariq smiled. "I've not been to London in a long time. It'll be good for someone to fill me in on the latest." He turned to his companions, and Chloe noticed his demeanor change, becoming colder as he addressed the man who'd brought up the rear of the procession down the flight stairs.

  "Khalid – you'll ride on your own. Omar, Abdul – you’re together. I'll ride with the beautiful Miss Rouhani."

  If the obstreperous Mr. Dance had said something like that, Chloe would have chided him – she wasn't a bra burning feminist, but she certainly wanted to be known for the quality of her work rather than her good looks. As it was, Chloe spent most of the hour long car journey back into central London in an emotional torment. It wasn't just that he'd commented on her looks, it was her brain's response – that flush of attraction she felt that she couldn't deny. More than that, it was her family's connection to this man that troubled her.

  If her father could see her right now, she knew, he'd be ashamed of her. He would have got out of the car the moment the Prince had stepped in it; or maybe he'd have refused the client on principle.

  But Chloe couldn't do that. She'd worked too hard to get to this position, sacrificed too much to give it up just as she was beginning to make herself a success. Would she, willingly at least, tell her father what
she was doing?

  No.

  But that wasn't to say she would let this speed bump stand in her way. Chloe was going to do her job as she had been trained, get through this fortnight, and hopefully never have to deal with the handsome Prince Tariq again. It was only a fortnight, after all – surely she would be able to resist the man for that long?

  "So, Miss Rouhani, tell me," the Prince asked, shining a winning smile on her, "where are you from?"

  "I'm English," Chloe replied shortly, attempting to deflect the question on to safer ground.

  "With skin like that?"

  "I have a little Persian in me," Chloe allowed, attempting to muddy the waters. "My father was a diplomat."

  What Chloe didn't say was that though her father had indeed been a diplomat, he hadn't been a Western one who’d fallen in love having being stationed in the Middle East – quite the opposite.

  "Aha! I thought so," Tariq said triumphantly. "You're a lucky girl."

  "I know," Chloe agreed, for quite different reasons.

  5

  "But you must know who has him!" the young mother wailed, tears streaking through the makeup on her cheeks as she sobbed into the scrunched up material of a ruined scarf.

  The little girl hid halfway up the staircase, desperate to listen in, but fearful of getting caught. She couldn't see the man sitting on the sofa opposite her mom, but the voice sounded familiar, as though she'd once heard it in a dream.

  "I have… an inkling," the familiar voice replied slowly.

  "You have to do something!"

  "What can I do? The only sensible thing to do is wait. They won't kill him –."

  At this, the tall, young blonde woman collapsed in floods of tears into the upholstery of the sofa. "Kill him? What the hell would they do that for?"

  "That's what I'm trying to say," the older man said reassuringly. "This kind of thing happens where we come from. Not often, I'll grant you that, but it's not uncommon."

  "But they won't tell me anything. I've gone to the embassy, and the girl at the front desk didn't say a word. She just looked at me, sympathetically, but she didn't say a word." Chloe's mom wailed, the slightest hint of Scandinavian roots now creeping into her accent. "Should I ring some people back home? My father – he has some connections in the government, or at least he did…"

  There was a brief pause as the unknown man considered what she'd just said. "That –." He paused again, tentatively, as though unsure what the correct response was. "That might not be the worst idea, but don't do it yet. Hold off, use it as a last resort."

  "And do what in the meantime – just wait while he is locked up in some prison on the other side of the world?"

  "Yes," the man said sadly. "That's the only thing you can do."

  "I told him he should never have taken that flight back home – I told him just to resign…" She broke off, once again, into sobs.

  "I know, I know," the old man said reassuringly. "You'll get him back."

  "When?"

  "That," the man's hands came into view, and Chloe watched through the banisters as he spread them in a gesture that suggested he had no idea, "I can't tell you."

  Chloe's stomach sank; it was the last thing she wanted to hear. All she cared about was when her father was coming home. It had been a week of walking around on eggshells, desperately wanting to ask her mother what was really going on, but chickening out at the last moment when she saw her mother's eyes red-ringed with sadness. Without being consciously aware of her actions, Chloe stood up and started padding downstairs, simply lost in her desire to know the truth. She had a right to know where her father was, and the explanation of a sudden ‘business trip’ had long ago worn thin.

  "Then why shouldn't I ask my father's friends to do what they can now?" her mother asked the man desperately.

  "You can."

  "But you think I shouldn't…"

  "I do."

  "Why? What makes you think that doing nothing is the right response? What if they lock him up forever – what then? How am I going to care for Chloe alone without her father?"

  "You won't be alone, Marte, I promise you that. My wife and I will do everything we can to support you – and you have family, too."

  "It's not money I'm worried about," she cried angrily. "It's my daughter being raised without her father around. Can you imagine what effect that will have?"

  "I –."

  She interrupted his response immediately. "Anyway, now you're saying that he might be gone for the long-term?"

  "Marte – we don't know anything yet. He's been gone a week, but he might turn up on the next flight from Riyadh, or he might come back in a month's time. But you shouldn't panic, that won't help –."

  "My husband's in some Saudi jail, and you're telling me not to panic?" Chloe's mom screamed at her houseguest at the precise moment Chloe herself ran into the living room.

  "What do you mean, Dad's in jail?" Chloe whimpered. "You told me he was on a business trip – you lied!" Standin half the room away from her mother, Chloe raised an accusatory finger.

  "Chloe…" her mother began, shocked at the sudden entrance of her daughter, who she'd thought was sleeping. "Chloe, I didn't mean you to hear that."

  "So it's true? Dad's in jail?"

  "Chloe, sit down," her grandfather – Chloe suddenly realized what the source of that familiar voice was – said solemnly. Overawed by the tone of command in his powerful, deep voice, she did as she was bid.

  "We don't know anything," the Middle Eastern man with the salt-and-pepper beard said sadly. "But it was wrong of us to hide the truth from you."

  Chloe's mom looked at him gratefully, as though he'd said the words she had been unable to. "That's right, Chloe, I'm sorry…" She broke off, the stricken look on her face appealing to her daughter for understanding.

  "But when's he coming back?" Chloe asked, terrified all of a sudden that she might never see her father again. "What's he done?"

  Chloe's mother knelt down so she was at the same height as her young daughter and hugged her hard, as though the dam that had been holding back a torrent of emotions for the past week was now suddenly bursting. She held on tight, and Chloe felt the warmth of hot tears trickling down her cheek.

  "Your father, Chloe, is the most honorable man I've ever met. Never, not even for a second, think that he would ever do anything wrong – do you understand?"

  Chloe had never seen her mother like this, never seen this kind of emotion course through the usually stoic Norwegian woman. "I don't, Mom. I know him."

  "I know you do," her mother replied, running her hands through Chloe's soft, silky brown hair. "I know."

  6

  "Ah, Chloe, thanks for coming over so quickly."

  She could hear Tariq's voice, but not see where it was coming from as she gently pushed the door to the quiet Presidential Suite closed.

  "No problem. Um – where are you?"

  "Oh, sorry. I'm in the cocktail bar shining my shoes – wanted to do it on the marble so I didn't get any polish on the carpet," Tariq called, slightly sheepishly.

  "Oh my God, why didn't you call me? You shouldn't be doing this kind of thing!" Chloe called, aghast, as she walked briskly towards the source of Tariq's voice. "Here," she said as she rounded the corner to see her employer sitting on the ground with a black-stained white rag in his hand, "let me call someone from downstairs to do this for you." She raised her phone to her ear.

  "Nonsense," Tariq replied chuckling, a broad grin on his face. "If I'd wanted someone to do it for me, then I'd have called downstairs."

  "If you're sure?" Chloe said doubtfully, a wrinkled grimace extending all the way up to her nose.

  "Besides, I don't like the shine I get back when some hotel worker I don't know does them." Tariq laughed, the joke going straight over Chloe's head.

  Immediately on the defensive, Chloe fired back. The last thing she wanted was to mess up her first big gig, no matter what she thought of her client personally – and i
f the Kingsland Group were to hear that one of her clients was sitting on the floor of his suite polishing his own shoes because he thought that the hotel would ruin them, then she'd probably be out of a job…

  "Well… Of course we wouldn't have done inside the hotel. We're only a mile or so away from Jermyn Street – have you heard of it?"

  "Have I heard of Jermyn Street?" Tariq asked, a smile playing on the corner of his lips as he played with his assistant. "Why do you think I flew to London instead of New York or Sydney?"

  "So – do you want me to send them down?" Chloe asked, flummoxed. "It's the best street for men's shoes in England, and probably the rest of Europe, too, you know."

  "I know." Tariq smiled as he carefully applied the tiniest amount of black polish with a small horsehair brush into the welt of the black leather boot he held in his hands. "Honestly, don't bother. I love doing this, it's one of those things that gives me a sense of normalcy."

  Chloe looked at him more carefully, calming down now as she realized he was serious – he enjoyed this, and noticed how impossibly well-dressed he was for such a mundane task. It looked almost like a GQ fashion shoot – his fitted white shirt, which was so tight as to show off the outline of every muscle underneath, was rolled up to the elbows, revealing a brown leather-strapped Breitling aviator watch on his wrist. The shirt was tucked into a pair of immaculately pressed grey woolen suit trousers that rode high on his ankle.

  "Okay then," Chloe smiled, "if that's the way you want it…"

  "It is." Tariq smiled back with a thousand-watt grin. "Now, talk me through what you've got."

  "Did you get the binder I sent up?" Chloe asked, setting her own copy down on a low coffee table.

  "I did. Very interesting – I love the locations you've chosen."

  "Do you need me to get it from somewhere? It's no problem."

  "No, no," Tariq said, waving his hand. "I'll remember. Tell me what you've come up with."

  Chloe found the entire situation utterly bizarre – she was briefing a man who looked like he should be the face of a magazine fragrance advert while he was finishing up his Sunday evening chores. But ever the professional, she began.