Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

by Teresa Morgan

  “You.” His raw tone struck her. Whatever she’d done, she had fucked up hugely. “You will not do that again.”

  “Do? I didn’t do—”

  He stood, abruptly, putting distance between them. He towered over her, naked, sweaty, and muscled, and practically vibrating with something that he held back.

  “I am not a green teenager either, Rania. Do not make the mistake of treating me as if I am one.”

  What was he talking about? “Amin, I’m so confused. Please, what have I done? Whatever it is, am so sorry.”

  “Why did I expect any sincerity from you?” he asked himself. “Why did I think there could be something real between us?”

  I don’t know. She clamped her jaw to keep the words back. Why did you think blackmailing someone for her body earned you the right to her soul?

  “Even now, you wish to say something to me and you hold it back. Do not pretend it is not so, I can see it on your face.”

  She scrambled to her feet, needing to be on an equal footing with him. For once. “Tell me what I’ve done wrong and I’ll do what I can to make it right. That, Amin, is the way this works, and is as genuine as it gets.”

  He shook his head, and looked to the sand between his feet. “I need you to stop treating me as you would Ghassan.”

  “Then stop acting like him.”

  The world paralyzed around them. The waves themselves seemed to stop in time, the palms fossilized in place. The air around them superheated, too blistering to draw into her lungs.

  Oh God. What had she just said? Told Amin that he was like her former lover, that’s what. And talked to him like a maiden aunt.

  But it was true. And she had zero desire to be yelled at right after sex for some crime that was either in his head or maybe even a mistake. Something Ghassan had excelled at. She’d always been apologizing for something with him.

  So, she didn’t say she was sorry. Instead, she raised her chin and folded her arms across her bare chest.

  A slow smile twisted his face. “Very well.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him, inviting him to go on.

  “Do not fake your orgasm again. My ego does not need stroking.”

  “Yes. I did that.” Her throat threatened to close, but she wasn’t about to back down here. And she wasn’t about to tell him she’d done it out of her own selfish need to get the act over. “I won’t again. I understand.”

  “We just spoke of this, Rania.”

  “True,” she said. But having an argument with sex sweat on her, outdoors, in the nude, made her more than slightly embarrassed. “I told you there was a learning curve for me.”

  He nodded. “I suppose. And I have learned some things today as well.”

  Her stomach clenched. Was that good or bad? Had she just doomed herself? He said he wanted honesty, but no way was he prepared for the real truths that she lived with every day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seven days later, Amin had not called her. Which made her nervous. Had she pissed him off somehow?

  Was it because of what had happened to her while they had sex? Screw Ghassan anyway. The thoughts, memories of him had invaded her mind and her body. Not even Amin’s amazing attention could drive him out.

  The memory shuddered through her. Would she ever be able to get Ghassan out of her head? Maybe his claws were in her so deep that they stayed in her flesh even after his death.

  Maybe she’d never be free.

  She shook off that thought before she crumbled underneath its weight. And slathered on a smile, even if no one was watching.

  Amin was probably just busy. Or enjoying the fact that a mistress was someone you didn’t have to call the morning after.

  But then she opened her door to MacIntyre, along with Amin's personal credit card. To refresh her wardrobe, the guard said. Or anything else she wanted.

  Ghassan had never sent his credit card. Positive sign.

  She hadn’t wanted anything. But she'd thrown on her blue and green striped BCBG maxi-dress and draped a white scarf over her hair. A huge pair of Hollywood starlet sunglasses completed a perfect outfit for her and MacIntyre to spend the afternoon redistributing some of Amin's wealth to people they thought needed it. After a three-course lunch at the best French bistro in town (and she'd have to spend some time on her treadmill after the lobster bisque at Le Petit Coq), where she'd tried, and failed, to get more information about MacIntyre's past from the enigmatic bodyguard, they moved on to doing some real damage with the plastic.

  On the whole, she felt pretty good about her new life as she twisted the key in the lock of her apartment, loaded down with expensive purchases. It was either be satisfied with her life or be disappointed, and sitting around sobbing wasn't her way. So she concentrated on being grateful for what she had, instead of regretful for what she didn't.

  The positive attitude worked right up until she saw the mysterious parcel on her kitchen table. Her heart clenched, threatening to collapse her ribcage as she realized what it was. And what it meant.

  Someone had been in her apartment. Someone was sabotaging her.

  Someone wanted her gone.

  She had to fight back the only way she could. Fingers vibrating as she tapped the numbers, she called a taxi to take her to Amin's office.

  "You don't understand," Rania repeated to the secretary, for what seemed like the millionth time. "I need to see him right now."

  "Miss Santoro-Al Haifa," the mocha-skinned secretary in the scarlet pencil skirt said, defending the gate as if Amin were a virgin princess locked in a tower. "I will have Mr. Al Nawaz call you as soon as he is able. He is in an important meeting with an important stockholder right now."

  "There are no important stockholders," she spat at the woman. Really, did she have to be so dannatamente good at her job?

  "Miss Santoro-Al Haifa," she said, with infinite patience. "I can get that parcel to Mr. Al Nawaz for you."

  "No! Stay away." She doubled over the parcel under her arm, protecting it from reaching arms. Some far-off part of herself knew she sounded like someone who had doubled the dose of her crazy pills today.

  "Please calm yourself, Miss Santoro-Al Haifa."

  "I'm calm. I'm perfectly calm. Who said I wasn't calm? Look at me, I'm calm." The words spewed out of her, leaving her short of breath.

  Her blood rushed like a Ferrari through her veins, and a well-tuned engine hummed in her ears, blocking out rational thought. If Amin hadn't emerged from his office at that exact second, she might have ended up rocking back and forth in the corner calling the parcel her precious.

  Amin wasted zero time in ushering her into his office. She wasted zero time admiring how he'd changed it in the few days since Ghassan's death. Though some subconscious part of her felt like he'd put his own stamp on the décor with a few subtle changes.

  "Please explain yourself, Rania." No prologue. No niceties. Just calling her to account. But giving her a chance to defend her actions.

  She dropped to the floor. Well, to the modern plush carpet. Easy on her silk-stocking-covered knees. A good thing. She might be down here for a while, like the people of Qena had kneeled in front of his family for centuries.

  "Your Highness," she said, using the archaic term. It came out muffled, since she'd face-planted into the carpet. "There has been a mist—"

  She felt herself hauled upward by the armpits, drawn up to look Amin in his eyes. "What nonsense is this? Have some dignity."

  "I lost my dignity a long time ago." The words squirted out of her like ketchup from a crusty squeeze bottle. "If someone has told you lies about me, don't believe them."

  His grip on her biceps relaxed. If only some of her desperation would melt, too. "Calm yourself, Rania. There is no need for this emotion. Tell me what has happened."

  "Someone is framing me. You have to believe me. I'd never steal from you."

  His eyebrows pinched together over his noble nose. "I know of no theft."

  The parcel. Madonna, where w
as the parcel? Had the secretary taken it? Had the real thief taken it from her in some complicated movie-style heist?

  Oh, wait. It was on the carpet.

  Amin saw the package the same time she did, and bent down to get it. "That's yours," she declared as fast as the words could come out. "I brought it back to you. Why would I do that if I'd stolen it? Someone is trying to stab me in the back. And anyplace else they can stab me."

  His lips flattened. A complex map of creases appeared in his forehead. Like he'd never seen her before and couldn't figure out exactly what was in front of him.

  She took a shallow breath, the only kind she'd managed since seeing the parcel. "I found it on my kitchen table when I got back from shopping with MacIntyre." A box. Just a plain box. But it meant so much. First, that someone had been in her apartment. And then, what was inside…

  "It is not a bomb?" he asked.

  "Not to you. It is to me."

  He raised the flaps, just like she'd done. Except without poking it first to see if it hissed. Also without the tongs she'd used to give her a few extra inches. In case the snake inside hadn't felt like hissing just then.

  He showed no surprise as he lifted out a round, velvet-covered case. And flipped it open one-handed, with the box under the other arm.

  She imagined the jewels sparking at him from their silk-lined case. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of rubies and diamonds nestled in a platinum setting. The necklace had always felt cold on her throat. An iron collar shackling her to Ghassan.

  He glanced into the box, where four more velvet cases sat. And, worst of all, her passport.

  Whoever had done this had busted their culo to make it look like she had stolen the necklaces and was headed for Europe. As if she would do that and leave him to take it out on her family.

  "Why should these not be in your home?" he asked. "Do they not belong to you?"

  "Of course not," she bit out. Was this some kind of trick?

  "Do not lie to play on my sympathy." She felt every word like a gunshot through her flesh. "My guardian gave them to you in return for—"

  In return for having you in bed, he didn’t have to say.

  "He told me of the things he had given you," Amin finished.

  She couldn't control her snort. Amin would probably kick her to the curb and fire her brother now anyway. "Ghassan loved talking about things he had done, and promise things he'd do later. You're right, I wore these. Ghassan loved people to see me wearing them. But when he wanted me in jewels, he sent the box he wanted to see me in, and took it back at the end of the night."

  Sometimes I had to wear them in bed, she didn't add.

  Amin pressed his lips together, but his eyes softened. "These gifts were not part of your compensation."

  "No. And I didn't steal them."

  He seemed to be paralyzed in a time-stopped moment. The parcel under one arm. The other holding the jewelry case, one thumb propped against the open lid. He stared down at the necklace. Only his mouth moved. "What was your compensation, then?"

  "My apartment. The rent on it." After she'd been kicked out of an apartment in the palace, of course. "And I submitted my living expenses to the office. The forms should be on file."

  "What of your clothing?"

  "Ghassan picked out my clothes, mostly." The shiny stuff. The gowns. The skirts. If he'd had his way, she would have worn sequins in the marketplace. "What I bought myself, I submitted expenses for." She'd once spent $150 on a pair of jeans. He'd freaked out on her, red rising up his neck until she thought his blood would start leaking out his ears. Hoped it, anyway. He'd bought her a $3000 designer gown the week before without blinking an eye.

  But the biggest part of her payment hadn't been for her. "And your guardian sent my brother to university."

  "He is a mid-level manager at ANI, I believe." Amin finally closed the jewelry case and placed it in the dull brown box without looking at her.

  He said the sentence without threat. Ghassan had never, never mentioned her brother's job at Al Nawaz Industries without it sounding like blackmail. Like a sword on the back of her throat that he could swing at any time.

  Amin had been clear that her agreement with him was the same as her agreement with Ghassan. But did he know the agreement included her brother keeping his job? Or was Amin just being subtle?

  Of course, it would take superhero effort to be less subtle than Ghassan.

  "And my father was a VP before him." She tried for a casual tone.

  "Which brought you to Ghassan's attention in the first place." As he said this, he stepped to his desk and set the box down. Which put his back to her, giving her no opportunity to read his face.

  "In a way," she said. But not really. Being handed ANI in trust for Amin just gave Ghassan an opportunity to hold her father's job hostage. "Ghassan was in love with my mother when they were in university. She married my father instead."

  When Amin turned back to her, he held a familiar rectangle of burgundy in his hand. Her Italian passport. Regret twinged through her.

  There'd been a moment in the cab on her way to the palace. A beautiful, terrifying moment. She'd held on her lap close to a million dollars of jewels. And her passport. Everything she'd needed to get to… anywhere.

  Somewhere Ghassan could never find her.

  No. Not Ghassan. Amin. Where Amin could never find her.

  For a second, she'd let herself have the fantasy of telling the cab to turn around, take her to the airport. Living out her life in peace and solitude on a white sand beach, in a country with a flexible attitude toward banking laws.

  But she wasn't the only person in this. Amin would fire Farid, just like Ghassan had threatened so many times. And then her precious nieces, six-year-old twin angels she watched from afar, would suffer.

  So the moment had ended. And she told the cabbie to drive faster. Amin had the passport back now. All was well.

  Yep, just peachy.

  "So, this was never about you," Amin stated. "In fact, Ghassan's interest was in your mother."

  Nothing has ever been about me, she swallowed back. "That is true," she offered instead. "But my mother died when I was five."

  "And when my parents died, your father found himself working for his rival in love.” Amin leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. "Shortly after, you began working for Ghassan as well. Earlier, you spoke of your apartment and expenses being covered, and complained of the lack of gifts.”

  She sucked her lips between her teeth and clamped down, the only way she could let that comment pass without exploding in sarcasm.

  "Tell me, what were you paid in salary?"

  The half-lidded, lazy look he faked didn't hide the interested glitter of his eye. Trick question, his expression seemed to warn. I already know this answer.

  But if he knew it, how could the truth trap her?

  "Nothing. I received some cash for expenses."

  "That," he said, "is not true. I am aware of your generous salary. After all, I am the one paying it now. You will have to learn, in our relationship, that lying to me is counterproductive, Miss Santoro-Al Haifa."

  So it was Miss Santoro-Al Haifa when he was making threats. "I didn't get a generous salary, Amin." Some rebellious streak in her couldn't help adding his name. After all, it was the name she'd been crying out the other night…

  "I dislike liars. They remind me of my guardian. You will end this."

  "I don't know who told you I got a salar—" Dots connected themselves in her head. "Yes, I do know. It was the person who left this box in my apartment. We figure that out, we've got the person behind everything."

  A tiny vee of concern appeared above Amin's patrician nose, as if she'd just announced she would like to apply for the job of hosting Qena’s Got Talent.

  "I know how crazy I sound," she said.

  "I do not believe that you do."

  "But," she continued, probably sounding more annoyed than she should. More annoyed than she'd
ever let herself be in front of Ghassan. "Someone is trying to drive a wedge between us. I don't know why, but I'm not going to let it happen."

  "Because you like the money."

  "Because I like you." Her throat shut tight after the word. Couldn't have done that a second earlier, huh? Stupid throat.

  He'd narrowed one eye at her skeptically, and she couldn't blame him. There might have been a time to tell Amin that she liked him for himself. This wasn't that time.

  Oh well. Might as well roll with it.

  "I do like you, Amin. I always have. Since you were a kid and offered to rescue me. I think your life has made you grow a hard shell, but I hope that inside it, you've still got that kind heart you showed me back then." Since he didn’t react, she powered through. "I know I have crap timing. Maybe you think I'll say anything to please you right now. If you were Ghassan, I would. I'd do anything to avoid the fallout from that dumb box. But you're the same person now as that brave, selfless little boy who wanted to save me from Ghassan. So, yes, I like you. And I want to be friends with you. I would want that even if we didn't have… If we weren't…"

  If you weren't paying me to sleep with you. She cringed at the thought of saying those words out loud.

  She didn’t have to. Without warning, Amin's arms were around her. He lifted her to her tiptoes to align their mouths. His hand, cupping her jaw line, was both gentle and demanding.

  She tipped in, slanting against his lean, strong body. He kissed her, warm and thorough. Nothing in her world mattered but his strength, his tongue, his savory taste.

  A long time later, he broke the kiss, trailing his lips along her cheek. His chest moved against hers, with each breath, with each heartbeat.

  "Then why”—the words, whispered pain and anger against her earlobe, sounded like a heartache—“did you send me away?"

  For a long time, she forgot how to blink, how to inhale. The neurons in her brain refused to fire. She stood paralyzed, Amin stepping away to read her face, the cells in her body crying out for oxygen, until a pounding at the door jump-started her motor functions.