One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  My knickers.

  ‘You bastard,’ I say without conviction. ‘You’ve buggered them!’

  His chest rumbles against mine. ‘I’m not that big of a deviant.’ Pulling me briefly against him, he lowers my feet to the floor. ‘Consider them ruined for a fucking good cause?’

  I’m not sure about charitable works, as he takes my hand, but I think I may just have discovered how the term banging came about.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I shield my eyes from the sun blazing in through the uncovered windows, piercing both my eyelids and my tentative conscious state. I’m in Kai’s bed and I’m alone, though I can hear a muted conversation coming from beyond the double doors. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn and settle back into the pillow. But something isn’t right, the niggling sensation that I’m missing something, other than underwear this time.

  Christ on a bike!

  My heart begins to beat like runaway hooves. I’m late, probably very late. And I’m not even home. His white shirt hangs from the bedroom chair, a quicker choice than hunting for my discarded dress. Didn’t he undress me out in the hallway? Still buttoning the shirt, I hurry out through the door.

  My pace slows as I come across Kai sitting at a circular maple-wood dining table, his hand resting over a doll-sized white cup. Head lowered and engrossed in a newspaper, the sun on his hair echoes the wood’s buttery tones. Unsure in my footing now, I feel naked despite Kai’s shirt hitting mid-thigh.

  I clear my throat and Kai raises his head, lit by a wide mega-watt smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ he murmurs, eyes travelling my legs. ‘Or at least it was when I woke.’

  Long legs in dark pants peek from under the table, his French cuffed shirt pinned with silver-coloured cufflinks. He looks so stylish and proper and I wonder fleetingly if he’d mind me untucking his shirt, ruffling him up a bit, maybe running my hands over those taut stomach muscles, just as a start. And then I remember why I was hurrying, hands flying to my cheeks, much like that kid in the movie—the one who gets left home alone on Christmas day.

  ‘I’m bloody late! I didn’t mean to stay last night!’ I lower my hands, realising how lifting them rides the shirt up. ‘I haven’t got my stuff—I’ve got no clothes. Christ, I’m in so much shi—trouble! What kind of teacher turns up after the kids?’

  ‘Relax. It’s all taken care of.’ He leans back in his chair as I look on, confused. ‘I called ahead and said you’d be late,’ he answers, now shaking the newspaper open.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Told Arwa you were in my bed.’ An eyebrow quirks over the top of the page before he sets it down. ‘Give me some credit, would you? I didn’t call the school, just HR. Had you booked in for your visa paperwork. Fortuitous that they hadn’t booked your appointments yet. And you looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you.’ The paper rustles as he raises it, shaking it once before it’s brought before his face. ‘A driver from the office will collect you from your apartment at ten. I should imagine your classes will be covered until then.’

  ‘Is that even . . . normal?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ He sets the paper down. ‘And a necessary part of your visa requirements. I imagine you’ll need to apply for a driver’s license today. Are you going to sit down?’ He gestures to a chair. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Well, I think.’ I park my butt on the gold cushioned seat next to him as he tilts his head to one side, a long index finger tapping his bottom lip as though full of wicked thoughts. I lick my own in response, wicked thoughts of last night causing me to blush.

  ‘Though it was kind of disturbed.’

  ‘You look remarkably fresh-faced for an insomniac.’ Somehow he makes the last word sound like sex-maniac, or maybe that’s just me. Leaning toward me, he slides a finger into the open neck of the shirt, hooking it around the first fastened button. ‘This looks good on you.’ He draws back, threading a finger through his tiny cup.

  ‘You look pretty spunky yourself.’ He’s a visual treat; dark, slightly damp hair curls at his collar, contrasting delectably against the white of his shirt.

  ‘Spunky!’ he splutters, through a mouthful of espresso, cup hovering between the table and his mouth. Placing the ridiculously small receptacle back on its saucer, he grabs a white linen napkin, coughing furiously.

  ‘What? I was paying you a compliment. You’re spunky . . . spiffy. You know, pretty hot.’

  ‘Australians.’ His voice is hoarse as he shakes his head, composure regained. ‘Your language is very through the looking glass.’

  ‘You mean weird.’ Jabberwocky or Alice, which one am I?

  ‘Colourful, maybe.’ He attempts to repress a tugging smile, in the efforts of diplomacy, I guess. ‘Much more so than seminal fluid.’ Okay, maybe more mischief, then. ‘Which car service are you using?’ he asks in a swift change of topic.

  ‘I’ve been using taxis.’

  ‘The beige perils? Tell me you’ve been using a limo service, at least.’

  I laugh because that sounds about right. Driving in Dubai is going to be an experience. Much like travelling by cab. The eight-lane highways seem to be rule-free as far as signalling and changing lanes, but I’m told it’s improved over the last few years. I dread to think what it was like before. ‘I’ve survived so far, just about. If I keep my eyes closed I’m totally fine.’

  ‘Then you’ve been lucky. I’m sure they’re held together by chewing gum and prayer. You’ll get a car as part of your employment?’

  ‘I’m a teacher, why would they offer me a car? I suppose I’ll lease a little run-around eventually. It’s too hot for the metro and humidity isn’t a good look with my hair.’ I pull at a lock and stare at it. It probably resembles a haystack this morning.

  ‘You have beautiful hair.’ His gaze glides away and he clears his throat again. ‘Some breakfast?’

  ‘Fruit?’

  I’m so not a morning person or a great fan of breakfast in general, but someone has gone to the effort of ordering enough food for a large family. So my mouth says fruit while my stomach acknowledges the basket of pastries set in the table’s centre.

  ‘Rashid.’ Kai addresses a man just entering the room, switching to Arabic and rattling off words I don’t understand. Moments later, a small dish is placed before me, laden with berries and three colours of melon; it looks like something you’d get on a flight. And not economy.

  ‘Qahwa law samaht.’ Kai speaks without looking up and a cup is placed in front of me.

  ‘Coffee,’ the strange looking waiter murmurs, placing the cup down, to which Kai responds,

  ‘Shukran.’

  ‘Is that how you order coffee?’ Kai nods. ‘How do you say non-fat venté cappuccino with no foam?’ He chuckles and I tell him I’ll get him to write it down as I bring the cup to my lips, anticipating the much-needed caffeine hit. ‘Who’s the guy?’ I add, keeping my voice low.

  Kai’s eyes reflect surprise for a beat before he speaks. ‘Of course, forgive me. Rashid, please come and meet my friend.’

  I don’t think this is the usual order of things.

  Rashid has a soldier’s build and carriage; a ramrod-straight back under his pale cotton shirt. Skin the colour of the coffee I’m drinking shows the beginnings of fine lines around dark, shrewd eyes. He looks decidedly unlike a waiter and more like a bodyguard. Obviously I have an overactive imagination.

  ‘Rashid, this is Kate Saunders. Kate, Rashid. My driver and right-hand man.’

  ‘Sabah al khair. Good morning, madam.’ His voice is as deep as it is heavily accented.

  Returning his greeting, I keep my hands around the cup. It’s clear from his body language—and the hands held at his back—that he has no intention of shaking my hand. I think it’s a cultural thing, not touching women you’re unrelated to. Kai doesn’t seem to hold to that. At all.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No. Thank you. Take the Escalade. I’ll meet you at the office later this afterno
on.’

  Kai’s attention returns to his abandoned newspaper as Rashid leaves and silence descends. I wonder where he’d materialised from, and more to the point, how long he’s been here in the suite.

  ‘Rashid must work long hours,’ I comment circuitously, my not so iron will caving as I reach for a croissant. I’m pleased Matt didn’t vomit in his car or meeting Rashid would’ve been more awkward still.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘He’s here pretty early. Drives you around late at night . . .’

  ‘The suite has staff quarters.’

  He answers without raising his head, which is just as well as I’ve just about swallowed my tongue. Staff quarters? The things he could have stumbled in on—heard!

  ‘I . . . I saw you speaking to him last night at the bar, before your dad arrived.’

  The soft skin between Kai’s eyes furrow, his gaze now level with mine. ‘My father came to the suite first, my phone was switched off. Rashid came to let me know.’ Exhaling a harsh breath, his eyes move to a point over my left shoulder. ‘Like I said, it’s complicated.’

  ‘He makes you angry.’ I keep my tone neutral, my fingers curling around the handle of the cup.

  ‘That’s the general effect.’ His brow furrows further.

  ‘But won’t he find out where I’m working? Considering where I work, or am I to hide in plain sight; buy a fake moustache? Hang on, that won’t work because—’

  ‘I don’t intend you hide at all. As he has little to do with the school, it’s unlikely he’ll see you there.’ His gaze, dark and astute, never moves from my own. ‘And as for lying, necessary I think. If he decides to pursue you, he’ll find it very difficult.’

  ‘Pursue me?’ I squeak, cup clattering against the saucer.

  ‘It would be less about you and more about me,’ he says raising a casual hand. ‘If I’d told him you worked at Al Mishael, he could make it an issue, give him leverage.’

  ‘L—what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I should imagine in Australian English it means the same. My father likes to assert what he sees as his parental right. Don’t be fooled by the velvet veneer, his attitude hasn’t moved on much from living in a goat hair tent. Parochial doesn’t begin to cover it. He likes to be in control.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ I mumble to no one in particular. ‘Sounds like a piece of . . . of . . . work.’

  One sardonic eyebrow rises. I lower my gaze to the croissant, no longer hungry.

  ‘But he and your mum are divorced?’

  The newspaper rustles a protest in his grip. With a withering expression, he begins to speak. ‘Faris has married three times. He currently has two wives and one is my mother. No divorce, but it’s a marriage in little more than name. They no longer live together and lead quite separate lives.’

  ‘He’s got two wives?’ I fail to keep the incredulous squeak from my voice. And he thinks I live on the weird side of the looking glass? ‘I thought polygamy was a thing of the past. I mean, I’d heard it’s still permitted out here but I didn’t think it was, you know?’

  His shoulder rises in what seems an uncomfortable motion. ‘Practised? In this culture, it’s acceptable for a man to take up to four wives, providing he can treat each wife equally. My father has the financial means to treat his wives fairly. Beyond that, it’s a matter of opinion. Just try to stay away from him if you can,’ he adds.

  Tense jawed and amber-eyed in the morning light, he seems to consider speaking further before lifting the battle-worn newspaper, signalling the end of our conversation. And physically shutting me out.

  Mouth agape, I stare at the unfamiliar print as the croissant crumbles between my fingers. Stay away from him; no wucking furries, mate.

  ‘Close your mouth or eat your breakfast. We have to leave quite soon.’ The pages crinkle as he turns them. How can he be so composed? He and his father have some serious issues; they make my lot look positively normal. Not to mention his dad sounds like a right royal douche. What the hell was all that about leverage?

  ‘Dads, eh?’ I mumble. ‘Is he the same with your sisters?’ Circuitous, indeed.

  ‘Who told you I had sisters? he asks from behind the pages.’

  ‘You did. Sort of. You mentioned you were an only son.’

  He doesn’t expand. Meanwhile, I practically itch with dozens of unasked questions.

  Then, as he turns the page, he sighs like a long-suffering spouse, following it with a single, aggrieved word. ‘One.’

  ‘One what?’

  ‘Sister. Noor, she’s fifteen and the daughter of his second wife. Satisfied?’

  I nod. But not even close.

  ‘Remember what curiosity did to the cat.’ Caution fills his tone.

  And while I know full well what it did to the cat, it’s also bugging the shit out of me.

  ‘I can almost hear cogs turning.’ And he doesn’t sound happy about it. ‘Do you always fidget when you’re being nosey?’

  ‘No, I mean, I am not. Fidgeting, or . . . look, it’s all just so different, is it any wonder I . . . wonder?’

  ‘About what specifically now?’ His hands fall to the table, the newspaper discarded in a heap.

  ‘Well, your parents are still married?’

  ‘Yes.’ One word. One sound. Weary.

  ‘And your mum is English?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Then I don’t get it. I mean, I would imagine women not born to think of multiple marriages as . . . as . . . normal would have a hard time being wife number whatever. Last I heard, the UK was still a one marriage at a time kind of place.’

  ‘Why my mother is still married is a matter for her.’ Frighteningly quiet, his voice is also hard-edged. ‘And she is his first wife.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’ If I’m honest, I totally do, but I am sorry I’ve touched a raw nerve. I cringe inwardly at my combat boot of cultural finesse. Maybe there’s some kind of pecking order in the wives department I know nothing about.

  His previously smooth hair stands to attention as he runs a hand through it.

  ‘If you’re determined to know, they were young and eloped, to the horror of both families, barely a few months into university. My mother’s flight from gentlemen farmer types, I suppose Faris must’ve looked like an exotic escape. He, smitten, went against his family’s desires, including their choice of wife. He married my mother without their blessing. I was born shortly after and my mother was rendered infertile due to a difficult birth. Not that it’s required, but in my father’s culture such circumstances are grounds for taking another wife. It was probably just a matter of time after that.

  ‘We lived in the UK, and at some point he moved back to Dubai and took another wife. Why they didn’t divorce is a matter only for them but I suspect supreme stubbornness may have something to do with it. For both of them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Sometimes I should remember it’s really not good to pry. I reach to cover his hand with mine by way of an apology. This is uncomfortable for him, that much is obvious. I’m touched that he would tell me.

  His eyes are unseeing as he gazes out the window at his side.

  ‘What’s habibti?’ I ask, drawing his attention back.

  ‘A term of affection, I suppose.’ Standing, he pushes back the chair. ‘You’ll hear it used on a daily basis, used and abused. Now, if you’re to get to work at all today, I suggest you dress.’ He smiles then, a flicker of suggestion alight in his eyes. ‘I can help if you’d like.’

  ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

  ‘Yes, but where’s the fun in that?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Such a sour puss.’

  Despite being dripping wet from the shower, Kai pulls me into his arms.

  ‘I’m just wondering what mischief has been done to my knickers now.’

  ‘You make it sound like a perversion. I’ll have you know I just have very efficient staff.’ His hand reaches out, brushing the wet locks
from my shoulder. ‘And there are certain advantages to being without.’ His voice is husky as he strokes a finger down my chest, dipping it into the towel and tugging. I allow myself to be pulled forward in small increments as he moves backwards, heading for the bed.

  Much like my resolve, my voice trembles as I whisper, ‘Be good.’

  ‘I’m always good,’ he answers, mouth dangerously close to my ear. Fingers slide from the shirt to my shoulders before he pushes me against the bed, laughing softly. ‘But heaven forbid I should distract you.’

  Stepping away, he leaves my body vibrating and my mind momentarily confused. He opens the door to a large, ornate cabinet, removing a dry cleaning bag, which has a gift bag looped around the hanger

  ‘Thongs, not for your feet,’ he says, placing the items on the bed next to me. ‘Unmolested, obviously.’

  I frown at the clearly expensive undies, the second set in a row. I wonder if he’s stockpiled them in there, knickers for floozies for all sizes and occasions. Shaking away the ridiculous thoughts, I wave the tiny scraps of lace at him.

  ‘There are names for people like you, you know.’

  ‘Blame the laundry service,’ he says, throwing his hands up in defence. ‘Though I quite like the thought of you wearing something of mine. My shirt, my underwear . . .’

  ‘These would never fit you,’ I say giggling. ‘I might not be a size—’

  ‘You’re perfect.’ A sudden jolt of pleasure shoots through my limbs as he pushes me down against the bed, climbing over me, his knees either side of my hips.

  ‘I was thinking about you yesterday, waiting for you to arrive. Wondering what you’d be wearing.’ Running his hands over my shoulders, he watches my face carefully. ‘Will she be wearing a skirt or a dress cinched in at the waist? Can I guess what colour her underwear will be? And heels, fuck me, it’s always about the heels.’ I giggle as his eyes flare comically. ‘But then, there you were. In front of me; a little flustered, but so pretty. And all I could think about, despite my best efforts, was ruining the perfection. Running my hands all over you. Defiling you. But, honestly? Buying you underwear is quite the opposite.’