Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

by Teresa Morgan

  No, she told the tired-looking version of herself in the mirror. None of that. No feeling sorry for yourself. Such a useless emotion. The situation had advantages. She just needed to figure them out, to concentrate on them to get through, just like she had with Ghassan.

  He would take care of her, and she would have sex with him. She wouldn't ask about the apartment again. The rent would be handled. He said the agreement was the same. Ghassan had always paid for the apartment (after he had kicked her out of the palace for getting too close to Amin), and so would Amin.

  Her brother would keep his job. Her nieces, their chance at a future they wouldn't get if she refused Amin. Refused him anything.

  She called on her experience tiptoeing past a sleeping Ghassan to attempt escape, slinking past Amin’s bed with her high heels in one hand. Her heart gave an odd squeeze as she caught sight of him spotlighted in the blue light of a shaft of moonlight. He'd sprawled across the bed, taking up the lion's share.

  In sleep, his face softened, taking away the fixed harshness of his mouth. The overlong nose, the wide-set eyes. He looked unfairly attractive in his sated state. The slight part of them made those lips a hundred times more tempting. Should she crawl on top of him and…

  No. She shoved the idea aside. Concentrated on getting out of the room before he woke.

  She almost made it, too. But she found her wrist caught in his grip.

  His eyelids opened halfway, as if with great effort. And yet the light in them told her he'd only need another fifteen minutes before he'd be ready again. Which, wow, she'd never considered. But yes, a younger man would be more… athletic.

  He pulled on her wrist, drawing down to him until she had to sit next to him on the bed. He slid his other hand up the side of her neck, cupping the back of her skull. She closed her eyes in anticipation of one of his mind-altering kisses.

  It didn't come.

  "If the agreement included other clients, it no longer does." Amin's voice scraped like a driving wind full of desert sand. "Do you understand me?"

  When she nodded, he released her hand and rolled away from her.

  She understood him very well. She belonged to him now, like she'd belonged to Ghassan. Her jailer might be more attractive, but the shackles were the same.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In every woman’s life, there comes a moment when she has to face her greatest nemesis.

  For Rania, that moment came every time she came nose to nose with Ghassan’s monstrous behemoth. The thing sat in terrifying quiet, seemingly peaceful, at rest. Just waiting. Lingering, anticipating the beginning of another nightmare.

  The white dragon’s prow knifed sharp as a blade as it bobbed in place. Her heart raced in fear of getting close to the predator, of jumping on it again.

  She’d done this a hundred times, so why wouldn’t the throbbing in her chest die? Why did her closing throat threaten to choke her every single time? Why did creepy tingles continue to crawl under her skin as if she’d never been in this spot before?

  More importantly, why did other people like this?

  “Mistress,” called a joyful voice from the pale dragon’s back. “Miss Rania! Welcome, it is good to see you. Welcome on board. Come up, come up.”

  “Cassius.” She returned the tanned man’s happy wave, relying on her floppy hat to shade the fear-sweat on her forehead, and her nearly black sunglasses to cover the terror in her eyes.

  The yacht wasn’t so bad, she reminded herself. The yacht actually kept you out of the water.

  The water. The real danger. The endless blue depth sloshing beneath the boat, tossing the craft like a paper toy destined for fatal, sucking disaster.

  She took a deep breath, trying to put some steel into herself to face the worst part—walking up the gangplank. Didn’t help. The air itself was tainted with the salt tang of the disgustoso ocean and every putrid thing that lived in it.

  Ghassan had bought the Nasim, or “breeze,” ten years ago, right after the two of them had been invited on a journey in Mohammed Yefren’s boat. Also right after she’d been accidentally knocked overboard and nearly drowned. The massive 151-footer (three feet bigger than Yefren’s, of course) had four cabins, as well as a tricked-out kitchen (Francisco’s domain), a hot tub, two decks for lounging, and bunks for three crew members. Essential, since Ghassan couldn’t be bothered to learn to drive the thing. In addition to Francisco the chef and Cassius the man-of-all-work, Naveed the captain lived on board.

  She shuddered at the thought. Imagine living on the horrible thing. All the time. The constant fear of the terrible infinite depths waiting just below your feet for you to screw up and plunge into the gaping, dark mouth.

  But she had to get on the boat. Had to. She couldn’t stay here forever, petrified on the wharf of the yacht club, a statue for all the rich folks coming and going to gawk at.

  Sometimes closing her eyes helped. She tried it now, only to feel a flicker of recognition in the tiny hairs where the nape of her neck met her shoulders. A breeze wafted first a chill, then heat, over her skin.

  She looked up to the boat’s cabin, to see a flash of black hair as a tall, slim man disappeared out of view.

  Amin. Amin was on the boat. Of course. It had been Ghassan’s boat, now it was Amin’s. Lightness filled her. She’d seen him last in the palace, in the apartment that had been his guardian’s. Looking sexy and tousled and satisfied… yet exuding the sensual promise of more to come.

  And she’d left him.

  That night. It had been horrible and great. Sexy. And a disaster.

  Followed by two days of silence, until she’d received a call from an unlisted number, to hear a certain Scottish brogue on the other end, inviting her here.

  Amin was every dirty thought she’d ever had, come to life. Except he didn’t want her, he wanted, well, basically a cazzo toy, just like Ghassan had. And he was willing to put her through hell to make her into a doll that he could take out and play with whenever he wanted.

  Not an actual person with hopes and dreams and a life of her own.

  If he’d just asked her if she wanted to have a relationship with him… The answer would have been yes. She’d be a cretina to turn him down. He wasn’t conventionally handsome. Calvin Klein wasn’t going to be calling him to model their underwear anytime soon. But they should. He had smolder in spades.

  But thinking about him asking her, what, on a date? Was that what she imagined? Amin phoning her up to take her out for a soda, bringing flowers and chocolate. The idea made her laugh to herself, while cringing at the same time.

  A relationship wasn’t what he wanted. Not with her, anyway.

  “Cara mia.” A husky male voice broke into her thoughts. A familiar voice. “Piccola testoro, dammi un bacio.”

  She blinked twice.

  She wasn’t on the dock anymore. She’d made it up the gangplank and onto the deck. While she stood stunned at the miracle that had happened without her even realizing it, Cassius reappeared, made a little nod to her, and took the small hard-sided suitcase she’d rolled up the plank so effortlessly.

  She hadn’t made it onto the Nasim with so little terrified misery since the first time she’d come aboard. She’d walked onto the yacht without even being aware she moved her feet.

  Because she wanted to see Amin again.

  “Shafa, I’m delighted to see you. What a pleasure.” It was, truly. She’d never been so happy to see anyone.

  Shafa, all Old World elegance, hung his completely-for-decoration cane on in the crook of his elbow, tipped back his straw fedora hat, and kissed her on either cheek, in the Italian style. She’d bonded with Shafa on their third trip together, when Shafa had realized that she wasn’t another one of Ghassan’s passing fancies, and she’d recognized in him an outsider who would never be accepted in the society they both moved through. In his unbleached linen suit, the hat covering his receding hairline, he looked every inch the faded star living off the residuals from black-and-white art films
the critics called masterpieces and no one but movie nerds ever watched.

  Her old friend took her hand and placed a gallant kiss on her palm. “You did not realize I would be here? How strange.”

  “We’re going to have so much fun,” she told him.

  “Now that you are free from—” Shafa broke off the sentence in the middle. He grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Ah, our host. You can introduce us.”

  Amin strode toward them, a man sure of himself, even at sea. Not that they’d cast off yet.

  His loose jeans, a comfortable faded blue, slung low on his hips. His collared white shirt had a few buttons undone at the top, with sleeves rolled up to nearly his elbows. Muscled forearms protruded from the shirt, dusted with masculine black hairs.

  For some reason, he was barefoot.

  A sea breeze mussed his hair, which fell back into place flawlessly. A little much, she thought.

  “You snuck on board without being introduced?” She shot mock outrage at her friend. “What a jerk. Amin, please meet the worst man on earth, Shafaqat Al Zouhour.”

  “I am pleased you could join us.” Despite the hand he extended to Shafa for a Western-style shake, Amin didn’t sound pleased.

  “I am overwhelmed by your hospitality.” Shafa gave Amin’s hand a limp shake.

  “Did Ghassan never invite you on his yacht?” asked Amin.

  “Many times.” Shafa patted her hand, still wrapped around his arm. “I believe he enjoyed torturing the lovely Miss Santoro-Al Haifa.”

  Her back shot straight, but her mind wasn’t fast enough to get in and change the subject from her fear.

  “With your presence?” Amin’s eyebrows slammed together.

  Shafa laughed. “And with her phobia of—” Shafa completed the phrase with a yelp of pain, as her hundred-dollar manicure clawed into his arm.

  “Did you bring a companion?” Rania asked, way too loud. “Of course you did. Are they lovely?”

  “My niece.” Shafa gulped, trying to breathe through his pain. Finally getting the signal that her terror of the water was off limits as a conversation subject. “Of course.”

  “And have I met this niece?”

  Shafa tipped his hat forward and managed to blush, just a little. “Long-lost niece. Nairi.”

  As if she’d heard her name, a truly lovely woman in her early twenties stepped onto the deck, all long limbs and sun-kissed skin. She tossed her head, and waves of the most natural honey-blonde hair that money could buy slid over her naked shoulders. Her white bikini seemed to be held up with a few dangling strings and sheer force of will.

  Speaking of will, it took everything Rania had in her not to look down at her clearly outclassed boobs and suddenly too-wide hips.

  The gorgeous Nairi stepped to Amin’s side—as was her purpose in life—and pressed herself into his shoulder.

  “Nairi, welcome. Any niece of Shafa is a friend here. I’m Rania.” She indicated Amin, even though Nairi didn’t seem to need any help identifying him. “And this is Amin. We’re glad you could join us.”

  Nairi blinked at Rania, as if confused about who had spoken. Then she turned to her host. “Hello, Amin,” she purred. “I’m so very grateful for the invitation.”

  Rania stared straight ahead in a heroic effort to keep her eyes from rolling.

  “My niece is very friendly,” pointed out Shafa, in case any of them were blind and also deaf.

  “I see that,” stated Amin blandly.

  In just a few words, Nairi had made herself seem very… young. But the age difference between Amin and Nairi was less than the age difference between him and herself.

  “You have renamed the yacht,” Shafa noted. “Miizaan. Balance. What do you wish to balance?”

  “All things,” Amin replied. “I do not care for extremes.”

  She’d noticed the name change herself, and the addition of Amin’s family’s crest, the hawk carrying an olive branch, to the hull of the yacht.

  Shafa laughed. “Sometimes extremes are where life is at its best. Do you not agree, Rania?”

  After seventeen years of Ghassan’s unpredictable moods and sudden decisions, she felt she’d been through a lifetime of extremes already. Balance sounded like heaven to her.

  For now, she had to balance the opinions of her master and the opinions of his guest.

  She offered a smile. “Some extremes are beyond our control and we have to face them. But I know this for sure—if I had my way, all boats would be balanced at all times. I can’t think of a better name for a yacht.”

  Shafa repeated his clear, bright laugh. Amin nodded.

  “Now,” she said, “I should check in with Francisco to make sure he has the menu I emailed to him.”

  When she removed her fingers from Shafa’s forearm and started to move toward the stairs leading to the lower deck, Amin reached for her and caught her wrist.

  “There is no need. It is taken care of.”

  “But I always—”

  Shafa’s quick laugh sounded again. “Seems you are a guest now, Rania. Amin acts as his own hostess.”

  “I am not Ghassan,” Amin answered Shafa, but it was Rania’s gaze he held.

  I know that, she didn’t snap at him. “Well, I’ll have to get used to being spoiled,” she joked.

  “Perhaps,” Amin suggested, a hint of light in his eyes.

  She summoned all her willpower to keep herself from biting the inside of her cheek. Sure, being a guest was nice, but acting as hostess for Ghassan had given her purpose, a distraction from having to be charming for guests all the time, an excuse to step away from the crowd and get a quiet moment to regroup.

  With effort, she forced a gratified smile for Amin.

  Now, it was just her, a group of people she had to entertain, and her crippling fear of the ocean threatening to swallow them up on every side.

  An hour later, the Miizaan cruised in the deeply blue Mediterranean, farther from shore than any person could swim, even if she knew how. The trip was to be three days. Shafa and the lovely Nairi would be on board until tomorrow morning, when the pair would be dropped off at the Port of Hurghada, Shafa’s native country.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear. Come up, come up,” Shafa called to her.

  As she emerged from the hold in her swimwear, she saw her friend on deck, his straw hat pulled down on his forehead against the sun, the jacket of his linen suit hanging over the back of the chair he sat in, one knee draped over the other. At his left hand was a little table that held a sweating bottle of German beer and Shafa’s favorite macadamia nuts.

  Amin sat stiff at his left hand. The sea breeze plastered his white shirt against his hard chest. Dark sunglasses concealed his eyes, but she thought she saw one of his eyebrows go up when she approached.

  Nairi was nowhere to be seen. Good. Rania had nothing against the girl, but she couldn’t help thinking of her as competition. And after seeing Nairi in her bikini, she had to admit that it was a competition the younger woman would win.

  But she wasn’t so bad. Maybe her boobs weren’t as perky as Nairi’s, but they filled out her red flowered bikini top pretty well, even if there was a little extra padding in hers, and she did enough yoga to keep her abdomen flat. Her high-heeled sandals did their job, too, lengthening her calves and jutting out her butt.

  “Rania, come join us,” invited Shafa. “We were about to talk business.”

  Business. Interesting. She could only think of one item of business that Shafa might want to approach, now that Ghassan was out of the picture.

  “Is that something you do? I thought you were just a pretty face,” she teased Shafa as she approached.

  Amin nodded at Cassius, who hustled a chair into place for her, then pulled a champagne bottle out of an ice-filled metal bucket.

  She had a soft spot for champagne, her one expensive vice. The bubbles always settled her tummy when at sea, she told herself as she accepted the flute.

  “Pretty face? I think you confu
se me with Amin here. He certainly doesn’t take after his uncle,” Shafa retorted.

  “Ghassan was my guardian, not my uncle.” Amin’s voice had a low note of warning in it. “Please. Proceed with the business you wish to discuss.”

  Shafa’s light tone disappeared as he slipped into entrepreneur mode. “Adhra Tel has wished to expand into Qena for some time now.”

  Adhra Tel, the telecom company Shafa had started, had expanded into three other countries, a true power in the area. Shafa, for his aging roue routine, had always been a savvy competitor. Being the third son of a minor nobleman had been a crappy hand for him to be dealt. His father’s expectations that Shafaqat would toe the line and selflessly support his older heirs had been way off the mark. Shafa wasn’t the kind of guy to fit in anywhere. In a way, though, his sense of rebellion, the fantastic education he got, and the connections he’d inherited due to his family status had been better gifts for him than any amount of money would have been.

  Shafa had been kicked out of his father’s house… And started the most successful company his father’s country had ever seen.

  Now Shafa wanted from Amin what Ghassan had never given him.

  Amin took a sip of the golden liquid in his glass. But she noticed that the level of drink didn’t go down. “I take it my guardian blocked the expansion. I wonder why.”

  “He had hopes of starting a competing telecom.” The words came out of Rania’s mouth before she could stop them.

  Mannaggia tua. She should stay out of this. She knew tons about it from talking to both Ghassan and Shafa, but how would Amin react? It would have been best to keep her trap shut and let him do things without interference.

  “Were his hopes realistic?” he asked her.

  Asked her. He’d turned to her, without any hesitation. He hadn’t told her to shut up or shot her a dirty look. He hadn’t paused a second before getting her input.

  Feeling bold, she shrugged. “It could be done.”

  “She means it could be done by someone who wasn’t Ghassan,” offered Shafa.

  Perhaps by someone who had a large interest in a venture capital firm and a lot of connections in the area. By someone who basically owned an existing company. Like, say… Al Nawaz.