The Sheikh's Online Bride - A Modern Mail Order Romance

by Holly Rayner

  The bartender was more than happy to make Zelda a refill, and she took her fresh cocktail to one of the railings to look out over the glittering ocean. Even with the back-breaking work, this actually isn’t a bad life, she thought, watching the wake behind the enormous yacht.

  She took a slow breath and sipped her cocktail, deliberately not thinking about what the next four hours would bring. If she could get through with just her passport, then that would be okay—she would figure something out once she got off of the ship and collected her pay.

  In the back of her mind, however, Zelda had a sensation like when she was on a rollercoaster, right as it climbed to the top of the first hill: the lurch in her stomach, the feeling that instead of a controlled descent, she was about to plunge headlong into chaos and disaster. Stop thinking about it. Enjoy your drink and go back to your cabin. You can’t change anything now.

  “Careful, Sahar, or Ali will dunk you into the pool with your phone in hand,” Zelda heard someone saying.

  She looked around and saw the handsome Middle-Eastern man she could never quite tear her eyes off, walking towards the bar and grinning at one of his friends.

  Zelda finished her drink and made her way through the bowels of the ship towards her quarters. In theory, she should have at least two thousand dollars to her name—pay from the work she’d done the past two weeks—to figure out what she was going to do with herself once the yacht docked. That was assuming that she could get through with a minimum of fuss—something that she still wasn’t certain of, but had to hope.

  She began packing up her things, making sure she didn’t forget any of the meager possessions she’d brought with her on the spur-of-the-moment trip, for she didn’t intend to be on the boat ever again.

  As she prepared for the ship’s arrival, Zelda tried to think of how she could manage a quick, seamless departure without alerting anyone. She reasoned to herself that with so many guests and such a large crew all being processed at the same time, it shouldn’t be that difficult for her to slip past the guards; after all, she’d managed to get into the marina and onto the yacht two weeks before without arousing any suspicion.

  Zelda smiled to herself, giving herself a mental pat on the back for the quick thinking that had turned her from a stowaway into a member of the crew, accepted and valued for her contributions.

  “It really wasn’t that bad,” she mused out loud to herself, checking and rechecking the drawers in her room. She’d left culinary school because she’d thought that she’d end up working as a line cook in some kitchen, a grunt and a cog in the machinery of someone else’s plan, never actually achieving the goal she wanted. But the skills she’d drilled on so many times—the very work that had made her want to leave the culinary school—had come in handy when she’d least expected it.

  The announcement came over the intercom that the ship was pulling into port, and Zelda made one final pass around her cabin, making sure she had everything. The alcohol from the cocktails had more or less worn off, and she tried to tell herself that she was fine, not anxious at all, and ready to go through with her plan. She had decided that she would find a particularly dense clump of people leaving the yacht and follow them, waiting until the security agent attending was distracted enough not to notice her slip past. It was a trick that had worked for her in the past, and Zelda thought—hoped—that it would work for her again.

  THREE

  Zelda went up to the main deck of the ship and milled around with the others as the captain made the last-minute adjustments. She looked around, trying to look calm and collected like always; the crew had self-segregated from the guests, and Zelda decided it would be safest to stick with the people who at least partially knew her.

  She felt the slight tremble through the yacht as it made its mooring smoothly, and then watched as the guests began to debark the ship. The crew waited behind, and Zelda frowned slightly as she realized that she couldn’t see the gorgeous man who’d taken her fancy amongst the rest of the wealthy and glamorous guests leaving the boat. Ah, well. You’ll never see him again anyway.

  She followed the kitchen crew down the ramp and immediately saw that there wasn’t going to be any easy way to slip past the security: roughly a dozen officials stood around, ready to check documentation; the crew all had not just their passports, but working permits, visas—more paperwork than Zelda could feign having misplaced. She pressed her lips together, looking for an exit, for a way to slip past the uniformed people smiling but looking serious all at the same time. Her heart began to pound in her chest as it became more and more obvious that she was trapped.

  “Ma’am, your papers please?”

  Zelda swallowed against the lump forming in her throat and extended her passport towards the man in the uniform.

  “Where are your other papers? Visa, work permit, certificate of immunizations?” the official barked.

  “I don’t have them,” Zelda said quietly.

  Babette, apparently sensing something going wrong, came towards them. “What’s going on?”

  “This woman has none of the documentation required for entering the country,” the official said, shaking his head.

  Babette frowned more deeply and looked at Zelda. “You made sure that you got your paperwork before boarding the ship, didn’t you?”

  Zelda opened her mouth and closed it without saying anything.

  “Did you lose your visa or something? You should have told us.”

  “Attempting to enter Murindhi without paperwork is a class three felony,” the official said, his face falling into stern lines. “Punishable by immediate deportation, as well as a lifelong ban from the country.”

  “That’s impossible,” Babette insisted. “All of the crew have their paperwork. Why didn’t you say something if you’d lost your papers?”

  Zelda felt her eyes stinging as the consequences of her spur-of-the-moment decision began to weigh on her with their full force.

  “Please step aside, so we can process the rest of the crew,” the security official said. He raised a hand to flag one of the other guards, and Zelda’s heart leaped into her throat as the guard approached, obviously intent on arresting her.

  “Excuse me,” someone said, and Zelda looked around, on the point of tears, only to see the gorgeous Middle-Eastern man who she had missed during the docking. “I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding. Babette, you can go on ahead.”

  “A misunderstanding?” the security officials looked more respectful of the wealthy man as he approached, and Zelda felt her heart slow down just a little bit.

  “Yes—you see, this beautiful lady and I met very recently,” the man told the officials. “I’m afraid I was not as careful with my preparations for the trip as I should have been.” The man moved closer to Zelda.

  “What do you mean?” one of the officials asked.

  “You know who I am, correct?” The man raised one well-groomed eyebrow and the security official hesitated only a moment before nodding.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” the man said. He looked at the second officer. “You are Sheikh Zayed El-Sharabi, owner of this vessel.”

  Zelda’s breath caught in her throat.

  “In that case, if you could please process my paperwork,” the Sheikh said, handing a few items, including a Murindhi passport, to the second guard. “This beautiful creature is a guest of mine.”

  “If she’s a guest of yours, why didn’t she come through with the guests?”

  Sheikh Zayed smiled slightly. “She was waiting for me, but I’m afraid we got separated,” he said. “Last-minute matters to attend to on board, you understand.”

  The second official was looking through the paperwork the man had supplied, and seemed satisfied.

  “Getting back to the issue: my apologies for not notifying ahead, but I made the decision to invite this woman—my fiancée—with me at the last minute.” The Sheikh took her arm and Zelda let him.

  “Is this true?” The official turned
a stern look on her.

  Zelda, not quite trusting her voice, nodded.

  The official looked doubtful still, glancing from her passport to her face, to the Sheikh. “I’m not certain I can excuse this,” the man said.

  “Please, I promise you that she will have her paperwork within the next fourteen days,” the Sheikh said, his hand slipping into a pocket on his tailored blazer. “You know from my reputation that I am an impulsive man, but also a generous man, yes?”

  The two officials looked at each other; the rest of the uniformed guards were busy processing the last few members of crew, including the captain of the yacht.

  “I understand your concern, but you know that there’s no reason for me to lie, right?”

  Before Zelda’s shocked eyes, the man who’d claimed to be her fiancé performed some strange sleight of hand, tucking brightly colored bills into the two officials’ hands, all the while keeping the polite smile on his face.

  “I’m not sure about this,” the first official said, glancing briefly at the bribe.

  “Come on,” Zayed said, his smile increasing slightly. “You know how it is when you see a beautiful woman you just have to have. I apologize for my indiscretion in not waiting for her paperwork, but now that I am here I can have it expedited much more effectively. She will be completely legal before the month is even over, and until then…” he winked. “It’s not as though she’ll be running around the country on her own, you know.”

  The officials didn’t seem exactly pleased, but nor did they look as though they were willing to give back the bribe on principle. One of the men—the second one—tucked the bills into a pocket. Zelda didn’t know the exchange rate, but she saw at least two zeros on the denomination mark.

  “You can go ahead,” the first official said, handing Zelda back her passport. “But be aware that if you are not legally documented in the next fourteen days, you’re likely to be arrested and sent back to the United States.” The guard looked at Zayed. “And of course, money and status cannot always buy one’s way out of tight corners.”

  “I appreciate your thoughtful concern,” Zayed said, inclining his head towards the men slightly. “We’ll be on our way. Come, my dear; we need to get you home.”

  FOUR

  The Sheikh guided Zelda by the hand, past the security checkpoint and through the gates at the harbor.

  She let herself be led, still reeling from the shock of his timely rescue. She’d heard more than one crew member talking about the owner of the yacht, Sheikh Zayed El-Sharabi, but she never would have guessed that the man who had taken her fancy was the one in question; she’d never really considered the question of who the owner of the yacht even was.

  Zayed didn’t say anything as he led her into the commercial area surrounding the harbor, and Zelda didn’t attempt to engage him. She was too busy taking in the sights and sounds: hawkers singing out in a variety of languages, trying to attract people to their stalls, brightly colored spices, flowers, fabrics, and people in unfamiliar garbs browsing and bustling around. It was so unlike Miami that for a moment Zelda wondered if she was in some bizarre kind of dream.

  Zayed came to a stop in front of a cafe, glancing at Zelda. “Let’s stop here; we need to have a serious conversation.”

  “I see,” Zelda said, coming out of her bemused shock into a cold kind of dread.

  The Sheikh guided her into the little shop, and Zelda breathed in the scent of rich coffee, buttery pastries, savory cooking, and a bitter edge of tobacco smoke. She saw the probable owners of the cafe look up and acknowledge Zayed, smiling at him and gesturing for him to take any table he wanted. The Sheikh conducted her to one farther away from the rest, and Zelda’s sense of apprehension increased.

  “Please, have a seat,” Zayed said in his lightly accented voice, gesturing to one of the low chairs at the table.

  Zelda took a quick, deep breath and sat down, swallowing against the dry feeling in her throat. This is where he demands that I become his slave or something like that, she thought worriedly.

  The Sheikh called out to the owners of the shop in a language that Zelda didn’t understand, and they nodded, getting to work on whatever it was he’d called for.

  He sat down and for a moment just looked at her, his eyes not quite impertinent, but appraising. “You could have been in very serious trouble back there,” the Sheikh said finally.

  “I know,” Zelda said.

  The Sheikh smiled. “I rather thought it was interesting—seeing you amongst the crew.”

  Zelda raised an eyebrow, confused at that comment. “Interesting?”

  Zayed nodded, just as the owner of the cafe came to them, approaching the table with an ornate coffee carafe and a small platter of pastries. Zelda thought that both savory and sweet options were present, though she couldn’t be sure.

  “Help yourself,” Zayed said, as the cafe owner set the pastries down and poured coffee into two small, beautiful cups, placing one in front of Zelda and the other in front of the Sheikh.

  Zelda didn’t feel particularly hungry—her stomach felt as though it had twisted itself into an enormous knot—but she obediently plucked one of the pastries from the platter, choosing one folded around an orangey yellow filling that she thought might be citrus.

  The owner left the table and once more Zayed was silent, watching her.

  Zelda took a sip of her coffee—it was strong, thicker than she expected, and strangely sweet—and a bite of her pastry, under the Sheikh’s watchful gaze. She decided the filling was apricot, but it was also heavily spiced with something she couldn’t quite identify, but which thrilled her palate. “You said something about it being interesting to see me amongst the crew?”

  “Interesting because I personally interview every member of the crew who works on my yacht,” Zayed told her, smiling slightly. He lifted his coffee cup with deft fingers and brought it to his lips, inhaling the steam for a moment before taking a sip. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I never interviewed you for the job. So it was interesting.”

  “You mean…. You knew all along that I was…” Zelda swallowed another bite of pastry with difficulty; her throat was sandpapery once again.

  “I knew that you had somehow managed to sneak aboard my ship,” the Sheikh finished with a shrug. “Wise of you to pretend to be a member of the crew rather than a guest.”

  “That kind of just...happened,” Zelda admitted. “When I sneaked on, I didn’t know where the yacht was going, how far.”

  “I gathered as much,” Zayed said, his bright eyes glinting with amusement. He set his coffee cup down and plucked a pastry off of the platter between them, eating it in a few quick, neat bites. “But it does present you with a very grave problem.”

  “Grave problem?” Zelda chose another pastry: one she thought would be savory, based on the reddish-brown color of the filling and the simpler folding of the dough.

  “Indeed,” the Sheikh said. “It probably hasn’t escaped your notice that the government here is not exactly fond of illegal immigrants.”

  “But I didn’t—don’t—intend to be an immigrant,” Zelda protested, and then looked around; she took a bite of the second pastry to cover for her discomposure. It was savory and sweet all at once, with meat, spices and some kind of fruit. She took another sip of coffee, trying to work her mind around the strangely appealing flavor. “I would be happy to leave anytime.”

  “If you’re caught by the officials while you’re lining up a way to get back, you may find that you are not be able to leave,” Zayed said. “The best-case scenario would be that you leave immediately. The more common scenario would be that they imprison you for at least a year—up to five—for entering the country illegally, before sending you home and banning you from the country for the rest of your life.”

  Zelda stared at him. “Five years in prison!? Just for not having my papers?”

  Zayed nodded. “We are a wealthy country, and we take our status seriously,” he said with a smile.
“As an American, you would likely be made an example of.”

  “So what do I do?” Zelda finished the second pastry off in one bite, leaning closer toward him over the wooden table.

  “You’re safe for a few days at least,” the Sheikh said. “They won’t think to look for you right away; the officials at the harbor will keep their mouths shut. But as soon as any hotel in the city sees that all you have is a passport, they will demand a huge fee for not reporting you. That would make it very difficult for you to get out—and of course, you won’t be able to work in the country to get money for a ticket.” He shook his head. “You’re in a very sticky situation.”