The Sheikh's Redemption

by Olivia Gates

  One thing stopped him. Knowing Rashid wouldn’t explain, not even if he beat him to a pulp. Not that he could. Not without being pulped back. Which wasn’t a bad idea. They could just rip each other to shreds, get the bitterness exorcised and get it over with. Maybe even get back to the way they’d once been.

  According to Rashid, that would require a time machine.

  But for the present, the opening round was over. Rashid had pulled back to his corner, expecting Haidar to crush his peace offering underfoot as he stomped to his. Instead, he would get informed. He needed knowledge to convince Rashid to call off the fight. Now that he knew Rashid believed he had somehow been party to whatever had happened to him, he would pay any price to learn the truth.

  Until then, he had other struggles to handle.

  Roxanne. Jalal. Azmahar and its empty throne. Business conflicts with Rashid at their core…ya Ullah, Rashid…

  He hadn’t thought anything could be worse than what had happened with Roxanne. Or Jalal. Or their mother. This was. This won the category of heart-wrenching developments, hands down.

  He found himself entering the ballroom. Seemed he’d continued his path on Auto. The expansive space, decked like an Arabian Nights bazaar, only peripherally registered in his awareness.

  Then something sharpened his focus. A decrease in the overlapping voices and clinking utensils, the cessation of melancholy Azmaharian music. He zeroed in on the cause.

  Roxanne.

  She was walking up the stage. Straight, brisk, no shadow of hesitation or self-consciousness, no hint of a sway or curves to distract from her purpose or undermine her efficiency. She was dressed sedately, the flame of her hair subdued in a twist at her nape, her face made up in neutral colors that downplayed her vivacious coloring and the sensuality of her features. How different from the mass of passionate fire he’d lost his mind over eight years ago. Or the bathrobe-decked firebrand he’d done the same with a couple of days ago. This facet of her still aroused the hell out of him.

  Seemed she dialed the password to his libido no matter what.

  It was incredible for someone of her youth and looks to be taken this seriously in a patriarchal society where chauvinistic tendencies survived to this day. Here it remained accepted that certain roles were male exclusive or dominated, with women like Roxanne being exceptions.

  And what an exceptional rarity she was. He luxuriated in her every nuance as she took the podium, addressed the now pin-dropping-silent crowd, cordial, confident, in control. Something thrilled inside his chest. Admiration, pride…

  He gritted his teeth. He didn’t have to like or appreciate her to give in to his hunger for her. Those sentiments could actually dampen his lust, hamper his plans to satisfy it. This insidious softening had to be curbed. Starting right this second.

  He moved out of the shadows. Instead of keeping to the periphery, he cut right through the tables. Might as well get all the staring and exclamations out of the way en masse.

  Sure enough, his passage caused a wildfire of buzzing and bustling to sweep through the ballroom.

  His progress was unimpeded until he passed by a table populated by his recruiters. Elation replaced their surprise too soon. They pounced on him, eager to show everyone that he was on their coalition’s side. He answered them by insisting he was here to perform independent research, impatience rising as opposing brands of passion and compulsion burned into him. Rashid’s from the entrance, Roxanne’s at the podium.

  People rushed to make a place for him at the table closest to her, flipping rabid curiosity between them as if watching an unfolding candid-camera show. She waited in seeming calmness for the disturbance to die down and for him to take his seat. But he sensed her fury.

  He would have relished it if he wasn’t too raw to enjoy more hostility, even one fueled by a hunger as vast as his.

  He had to deal with it. Just as she had to with his presence.

  She did, glossed over the disruption he’d caused, resumed her opening address before turning over the mic to the first speaker.

  He watched her descend the stage, walk to the end of the ballroom. She took a seat aligned with his view of Rashid, who stood alone at the entrance like a demon guarding the mouth of hell. Very symbolic.

  He cast each a look, was hurled back a hail of antipathy.

  All he needed now was for Jalal to walk in, and the triad of wrath and rejection would be complete.

  He exhaled, tried to focus on the proceedings. Though what he hoped to achieve here, he no longer knew.

  The people who had mattered most to him hated his guts. He didn’t think his transgressions against each warranted that level of acrimony. Seemed just being himself was enough to earn it.

  And he thought a whole nation would want him?

  Another major point was they—even Rashid with his scars and transformation—were prospering with him gone from their lives.

  Maybe that should tell him something. That there was no escaping his mother’s legacy. That all he could ever be was a malignant influence. That redemption was out of the question and the best thing he could do for Azmahar was stay the hell away.

  He turned one last time to the two who thought that was a given. At the confirmation in their eyes, a conviction took root.

  He turned around, giving them his back, one thing settled.

  He’d prove them and everyone, starting with himself, wrong.

  * * *

  Three hours of moderating the self-important, conflicting, anachronistically tribal so-called elite would have been enough. But to do it while being subjected to Haidar’s burning focus had shot Roxanne’s nerves.

  She and her team had worked hard to get all major movers and shakers in the kingdom together, find out their positions and see how they’d mix. She was supposed to come out with a firm idea of who could be part of the solution, and who’d better be sidelined.

  Then Rashid Aal Munsoori had walked in.

  She’d thought the introduction of that superpower this early would disrupt a balance that hadn’t yet been found. The man seemed like such a force of…darkness; he’d swayed people just by showing up. And scared them. She’d thought he was the worst thing that could have happened. Then, enter Haidar.

  It had been his presence that had polarized reactions, incited passions and generally disturbed everything.

  Seemed his effect on people was universally consistent. And that when he’d only sat there silently watching.

  She’d barely stopped the situation from devolving into a mess.

  Avoiding eye contact with anyone, she strode to get out before people could corner her with questions she couldn’t or wouldn’t satisfy. Before Rashid could cut his way through his detainers to her. Most important, before…

  “So the question is—what was the point of all that?”

  And she’d almost made it!

  She just stopped herself from stomping her foot and screeching a chagrined no. From running the hell out of there. Right after taking off her high heels and hurling them at Haidar.

  Unable to give their audience any indication of how much she’d like his head on a stick, she slowly turned. And almost toppled over.

  He’d looked stunning from afar. It was far worse up close. If possible, he looked better than he had two days ago. In a steel-gray suit the exact color of his eyes that worshipped his every inch and flaunted his proportions, he looked like a sun god. Eyes gleaming in the soft-toned ambience, skin glowing like heated copper, hair shimmering like a black panther’s coat.

  All in all, a divine masterpiece of masculinity. And born to exist in backdrops of such opulence, created to justify their extravagance, which showcased his grandeur.

  To make it worse, that voice of darkest wine and velvet cascaded over her again. “Was that a drive for the up-for-grab
s court? There are enough wannabes to turn the strongest stomach.”

  Her teeth ground together as he left barely enough distance between them for public decorum, his scent and virility cocooning her senses, triggering desire and distress.

  Somehow she found enough discipline to pretend an impersonal smile for their now-avid audience. “A king doesn’t a royal system make. It was agreed that we have to fill the lower slots in the hierarchy before the top is filled.”

  “So you want the new king to come to a ready-made government. All I can say is, good luck getting Jalal or Rashid to return your calls once you reveal your figurehead intentions.”

  If she made him think that was what was on offer, it would send him out of Azmahar within the hour.

  Too damn bad she was too professional. “It will be a transitional government until a king sits on the throne.”

  “Then said king will be free to toss whatever pieces he doesn’t approve of back in the box?”

  “I don’t think such unilateral decisions would be welcome anymore in Azmahar.”

  “You think any of the candidates will even consider such a deficient position? Such limitation of power? Such an upside-down process? You think I would?”

  “We’re just trying to learn from the mistakes of the past.”

  “Even in democracies, presidents pick their deputies. You expect a king in our region not to pick his trusted people?”

  “As long as they are picked through merit, not nepotism.”

  “That isn’t even an issue in my case, or Jalal’s or Rashid’s, for that matter. We were headhunted because we proved in the big bad world of business and politics that we know who to pick to help us run our multibillion-dollar enterprises. We’re not about to become tribal, blood-blinded throwbacks if we sit on a throne.”

  His eyes were all gotcha when she had no ready answer.

  Before she could regain ground, he changed direction. “So I understand why my uncle’s slew of successors was bypassed for the king’s position. Any reason they are now for all other positions?”

  That she had an answer for. “For the same reasons you say you understand. Just as the clans’ council that formed after the king’s abdication refused to let his sons and brothers succeed him, they wouldn’t let them assume any significant roles. It was agreed the sons are too inexperienced and the brothers too same-school, and all are guided by the same entourage that damaged Azmahar.”

  “And you think the bozos present here today are any better?”

  “They’re here today so we can weed out the bozos.”

  His lips spread. “It would be far easier to leave those in, and pick out the non-bozo types. Want my advice on how to do it?”

  “No. But you’re going to blight me with it, anyway.”

  His grin grew wider. “Play back the evening’s taped hoopla. Eliminate anyone who spoke out of turn or lost his temper. You’ll be left with five out of five hundred. I counted. Those are the only people I’d have in my cabinet.”

  That was exactly what she’d thought, too. Damn him.

  She wasn’t about to tell him that. “You’re founding a new kingdom and recruiting ministers for it?”

  “Cute. But if you don’t heed my advice, just have a raffle. Anyone but those five would be equally disastrous, after all.”

  “Thanks for the gems of wisdom. But we won’t do anything until we’re in possession of enough data.”

  “And what else are ‘we’ going to do?”

  “We won’t do anything. While I have to go.”

  “Good. I’ll tag along.”

  Yeah. Right. She’d sooner have a lion in tow. One just released after a month of captive starvation.

  “Why don’t you stay and complete the chaos?”

  His eyebrows shot up in what must be simulated surprise. “Chaos?”

  Her genial expression didn’t waver even as her hiss attempted to disembowel him. “I planned this to be a relaxed event, even a bit festive—”

  “That explains it. I thought you were trying to start a new tradition—Azmaharian Halloween.”

  She sharpened her tone. “I wanted to put the attendees in the most cooperative frame of mind, to alleviate the mood of doom and gloom that permeates the kingdom. So thanks so much for spoiling everything.”

  “Me? What did I do?” Those mile-long lashes swept up and down.

  She almost felt their swoosh, certainly felt it fan her fire. “You have the superpower of discord sowing. And you have it on constantly, exercise it at will, actively or passively.”

  She waited for him to volley back something inflammatory and incontrovertible. Lightness only drained, leaving his face bleak.

  Then it got worse. Agony flitted through his eyes as they tore away. She followed their trajectory to the most disturbing presence around. Rashid.

  As if feeling his gaze, Rashid half turned. And if looks could dismember, Haidar would have been in pieces.

  She shuddered at the force that blasted between the two men. Surprisingly, the viciousness felt one-way. What emanated from Haidar was as intense, but different in texture. Something she’d never thought to feel from him. Despondency.

  Haidar returned his gaze to her. “Rejoice, Roxanne. I’m taking my disruptive presence away from inhabited areas.”

  Then he turned and strode out of the ballroom.

  Roxanne stared at Haidar’s receding back for the second time in as many days. Then she found herself rushing after him.

  She had to pour on speed to catch up with him. In a deserted corridor that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

  It was only when she caught him back that her actions sank in.

  What the hell was she doing?

  He turned to her, something like…hurt filling his eyes, and she blurted out, “What’s wrong?”

  She almost kicked herself. What did she care if anything—if everything—was wrong with Haidar Aal Shalaan?

  It seemed he wouldn’t answer. Then he exhaled. “A lot, evidently. Probably everything.”

  She should say something borderline civil, get the hell away.

  Instead she asked, “So what did I say that triggered your sudden retreat?” At his surprise, she rushed to add, “I’m asking only so I can replicate my success in the future.”

  She expected him to slam her with something bedeviling. He didn’t.

  “You…confirmed something Rashid said to me earlier. It wasn’t the only time I’ve noted your corresponding opinions of me.”

  “We have more in common where you’re concerned. I heard you were friends once. Now you’re relentless enemies.”

  She expected him to say they weren’t enemies, just no longer lovers. A state of affairs he had no problem reinstating.

  Again, he thwarted her expectations, nodded, his eyes returning to the deadness, the defeat, that so disturbed her. “I somehow thought our enmity wasn’t such common knowledge.”

  “Are you kidding? Even if my job didn’t revolve around keeping track of the honchos of economy, it would have been kinda hard to miss the two most meteorically rising players in the tech world butting heads. You’ve been giving Clash of the Titans a run for its money for the past two years.”

  “It might be hard for you to believe, but I didn’t start it.”

  “I believe you.”

  He frowned. “You do?”

  “You never ‘start’ anything. You drive people to the point where they want to take you apart. When they try, you retaliate, viciously, and to the world it seems it’s only legitimate for you to do so.”

  His laugh was bitter. “Of course, that’s what you believe. And you might even be right. But not in Rashid’s case.”

  “He is too powerful for even you to decimate and assimilate.”


  “I meant I didn’t drive him to it. And since you asked, that’s what’s wrong—being unsure what did. And the…conversation we had.”

  “It shed light on his motivations?”

  “More like caused an avalanche that buried them totally.”

  She hated feeling dismayed on his behalf, glared at him. “It’s not possible you don’t know.”

  “I thought I knew. That it was another escalating, self-perpetuating train accident of a mess, which the sweeping majority of my relationships have turned into.”

  Good thing to be reminded of that salient point.

  He might be unable to connect his actions to the mess he made of people’s lives. Didn’t make him innocent of the crime.

  Hackles rising, she smirked. “Why wonder if it’s your M.O.?”

  “Because once I saw him again, it ripped me out of the depersonalized war we’ve been waging on each other and back to the realm of the personal. And none of it made sense anymore.”

  A knot formed in her throat at his disconsolate tone. “Did you retrace incidents to what could have started this?”

  His gaze clouded, as if he had plunged into his memories, before he said, “We were twenty, he was twenty-one.” Her chest tightened more when he said we, as if he and Jalal were one indivisible unit. “Rashid and I were taking the same courses, already starting up our tech-development projects. Then his guardian died. He hadn’t truly needed a guardian beyond early childhood—he’d been earning his own living since his early teens. But his guardian left a mess of debts. And Rashid took it upon himself to repay them. That was our first fight.

  “I was angry that he’d take on the debts of someone who hadn’t taken him in willingly to start with. A man whose sons were living in the luxury their father’s debts had provided them with. It was they who should repay that money, not Rashid, whom they’d never treated like family and would have mistreated if not for his closeness to us. But Rashid would sit there and take my anger, and after I exhausted every argument, he would just say the same thing again. His honor demanded it.”

  “But what did he think he could do? At twenty-one, without a college degree or capital, I can understand he could support himself, but pay off massive debts…?”