The Sheikh's Forbidden Mistress

by Brooke, Jessica

  Hell, she could barely remember the last terrible blind date that her roommate, Maggie, set her up on.

  And yet, here she was and, for once in her life, June wasn’t sure what to say. Normally, she rambled on nervously, “prattled” as her aunts would have said. But this was different. She wasn’t sure when her life made a wild left turn toward becoming Pretty Woman. Maybe it was this complete incredulity that made her come in the first place. This had to be a dream or some weird hallucination. She’d started her night fighting with a sheikh—no, slapping him—but now she was trying to figure out what to say, how to act, and why she was even this nuts for trusting Sheikh Akmal.

  “You’re very quiet, songbird,” he said, frowning back at her.

  She sighed and looked back to the lights over the bridge. Traffic was predictably crawling, not that she’d know much about that. Usually, it was the subway at best. Getting to take a cab was a luxury she reserved for a very good busking week or if it was too cold to wait down in the stations.

  “I don’t really know what you want me to say.”

  Akmal shook his head. “I don’t want you to have a script. If I wanted someone predictable, I’d be out at a club. You’re different, you have a raw honesty I can’t quite place. It interests me.”

  “So you’re saying you like me because I can’t keep my mouth shut,” she said, grinning a little bit as she pulled out a bottle of Perrier. There was no way she was touching alcohol. She needed her wits about her tonight. “That’s not a ringing endorsement.”

  “I don’t get a lot of honesty.”

  “I guess that happens when most people around you are on your dime,” she said, taking a long sip.

  “You’re not going to forget about what happened at the restaurant anytime soon?” he asked, reaching out and touching her knee.

  She stilled but felt that flush of heat flow through her again. Looking into such soulful eyes, it was easier to forgive him than it probably should have been. He’d basically just raised her income by fifty percent each month, considering how big a chunk of it came from Sal’s. Besides, she’d sung at nice clubs before and, frankly, seen her share of things from the other side of the window in Los Angeles, back when she’d been someone. A lot of guys were asses, both the Wall Street types and the Hollywood elite. She’d never known one who not only made it right, but would rush out in the cold to apologize in person. It didn’t mean she wasn’t half expecting him to still turn out to be an ass overall, but there was something different here.

  I just hope it’s enough.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, pressing her again.

  “I guess I just don’t know what to make of any of this. I’m not sure where you’re taking me. Maybe I won’t like it,” she said, winking at him and leaning in a little closer. “Maybe this isn’t much more than a come on.”

  “Well, I think I can show you a part of New York you never imagined.”

  “I’ve been here for almost a decade. I’ve performed at clubs and restaurants in all the parts you can think of. There’s nothing you can show me that I don’t know like the back of my hand. Besides, how often do you even visit from Dubai or Yemen or whatever?” she asked, as they arrived in Manhattan proper and started edging toward Rockefeller Center.

  Hmm, maybe we’re going ice skating.

  “I’m from Labin. It’s close to Dubai, but its own nation.”

  “And,” she said, craning her neck to see the skyscrapers and guess which particular place they were stopping at. “You must be an oil baron.”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “And you have a harem and are full heir to the throne.”

  “I don’t believe in harems. However, my brother is younger than I am so, unfortunately, I will have to take over from my father. I love my country, but even I know I don’t have the temperament to run it.”

  She grinned at that and patted his hand on her knee. “You mean that even you can tell that a guy playing poker and getting thrown out of restaurants isn’t made to be a diplomat.”

  “Mostly, but some of your American politicians might be right at home with that behavior. It’s just that I never fancied being behind the throne. Maybe I could help with Halabi Oil Conglomerate, but the thought of a whole nation depending on my every decision…well, my father always seemed more gifted at that.”

  “And no harem?”

  “Father keeps one. The girls are still allowed on the palace’s grounds. He no longer consorts but, I suppose, you can think of the girls as having a retirement plan. They were plucked from their families so they have nowhere else to go. It’s just that my brother, Ibrahim, and I have never been huge on some of the older customs.”

  “Definitely, if you’re a drinker,” she said. “Not that I’m judging. I don’t mind a bit here or there — my biggest vice was smoking. Everyone ragged on me for years to quit. I know that’s not exactly saintly, but I thought adherent Muslims couldn’t drink.”

  “How do you know I’m not Coptic or some orthodoxy in there?” he asked, his tone stiff.

  Shit, did I finally manage to really insult him?

  “Oh, I just assumed…”

  “I am Muslim, but I don’t practice as strictly as my father. Funny that. He complains that Ibrahim and I are too soft, a bit too modern for his tastes, but he sent us away. I went to Oxford and my brother was at Wharton.”

  “That definitely explains the accent.” She snapped her fingers and then cursed when the water spilled all over her lap. “Great, not even an hour into a ride around town with a sheikh and I’m ruining your ride.”

  “You didn’t. Besides, I’ve had my wild youth. I’ve stained things far worse. Red wine and Scotch won’t come out of anything.”

  “I thought you didn’t sound Middle Eastern but there was just this hint of London there. I’m pretty obsessed with BBC shows and went to Scotland once to see a great aunt. How long were you there?”

  “A while, even after school. I take as many trips as I can to England. I’ve always liked it. Maybe it’s because they have seasons and cold, and that still fascinates me. Maybe it’s because it’s far enough away from the pressures of everything.”

  “Of being rich and powerful?” she asked, honestly baffled. “It sounds great. I always feel like I’m behind on rent, trying to figure everything out. It’d be amazing not to get down to the end of the month and still be nervous about rent.”

  “It has its perks,” he agreed as they stopped in front of a building.

  Her eyes widened. “This is 30 Rockefeller Center! This is where they tape Saturday Night Live, Seth Meyers and Jimmy Fallon, just all of it. It’s also a Friday and nighttime. They’ve all filmed by now, so what gives? You want to go ice skating?”

  He smirked. “It’s cute that you think I’d do that. I enjoy seasons, but I do not enjoy falling on my ass on ice.”

  June chuckled as she watched him slide to his door and open it. “It’s a nice ass though, maybe you’re right and you shouldn’t bruise it.”

  “Touché,” he countered, slipping around to her door and opening it. “Now there’s that sharp tongue I was hoping for.”

  “Sure, so we can go stand in front of an empty building,” she countered as he offered her his hand. June thought she must have imagined it, that her mind had been polluted by too many romantic comedies, but it did feel like maybe—just maybe—there was something more between them, a touch that sizzled. “It’s a nice building. Glad I came an hour away for it.”

  “No, I’ve cleared a special tour of the studios, so come along.”

  * * *

  June stood on the famous stage in Studio 8H. It was like a dream, some surreal fondest wish made reality in a way she’d never seen coming. Her life was all about entertainment. As a kid, watching old reruns of I Love Lucy with her mom, June had thought she’d be a comedienne. Maybe it was because as a “ginger,” she’d always been made fun of. Watching and laughing at the colorized old episodes was really the first time June had
realized she mattered. Lucy wasn’t picked on or called horrible names at recess by Jenny Farmer. No, she was hilarious.

  So she’d practiced her own comedy, her own pratfalls and stand-up.

  That was until the middle school musical auditions when she’d tried out for Annie. June figured her natural red curls would give her a leg up for once. It was then everyone realized she could sing, really belt it out. It had begun her love affair with music. Either of those paths, if she’d really been lucky, if she’d ever really hit it big, would have led her here. That’s what she’d always wished, even back in L.A., when the brass ring seemed ready to grab—to be on this stage.

  Of course, in the fantasy—and that’s all it was now—she’d been the headliner. At least this was a chance to stand on the stage, to see the view she’d never have a chance to if she lived a million years. It was an off-week, no episode being prepped, which gave her and Akmal free rein to explore everything. Well, it gave them that since she was with a sheikh. Still, as she looked out into the rows and rows of the crowd, June started to sing, to let out the lines of a song she’d been writing for years. The final lines were never right, and no one ever wanted to hear anything from her besides the old swing standards or Frank Sinatra classics, but it was her song, and she’d never get to sing it like this again.

  She finished, holding the note for a long time as she gazed out into the darkened crowd section and yipped when Akmal came toward her clapping.

  “That was better than at the restaurant.”

  “Oh, I thought you and the stage manager were looking at all the framed cast pictures in the hall. I didn’t mean to, uh, get caught,” she floundered, pushing a stray red bang out of her face. “I didn’t think anyone would see and I just got caught up in the moment.”

  Akmal nodded and stroked his chin. “No, that was lovely. I didn’t recognize the song. Is that an American tune I’m just not familiar with?”

  “No, it’s mine. I tinker with original things from time to time. I just never get asked to sing them at a place like Sal’s. People pay for ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’ a million times or ‘Someone to Watch over Me’, but they’re not huge on original recipes.”

  “It was gorgeous.”

  She nodded and stepped back a bit, the spell broken. She was just June, and just June had to busk tomorrow even if it was ass-cold outside, and then sing for a senior center later that evening. Maybe if she played her cards right, they’d save her some Jell-O cups. Such was her real life, not this strange set of walking contradictions that was Sheikh Akmal Halabi. He could be cutting and cruel in one breath, and yet he worked so hard to set it all right in the next. Who was he really—the cavalier poker player, the joker or the sweet, beguiling man she had with her now?

  Was he all three?

  Will he break my heart? Are we even going to get to a point where he can?

  “Are you all right? I wouldn’t lie. It really was an excellent song, and I enjoyed it. I wouldn’t joke about that,” he said, drawing closer to her and setting one large hand on her cheek. She blushed and felt that heat racing through her body, not just the warmth of a small bit of kindling, but a fire ignited.

  What’s happening here?

  “I…” she said, her voice even lower than its usual alto register. Husky, that was the word. All because he’d gotten her vaguely bothered. No, he’d riled her, that was it. “Is that the end of the tour?”

  “So far, yes, but I can take you anywhere you want. Name a place in the city you’ve never been allowed access to before, and I can show you what you’ve been missing.”

  June looked down at her watch. After all the drama and travel and everything in between, it was still not yet eleven o’clock. It figured that would happen when she had the early shift at Sartorio’s. But that was a good thing.

  “Actually, it’s my turn. Tit for tat and all that, and I have an idea of my own.”

  * * *

  “Felix! How are you?” she asked, giving the artist before her a big hug.

  Even on a night as cold as this one, her favorite street painter in Central Park worked long hours. She’d picked singing near him when he’d first painted her for free. Since he stayed latest, he often still had customers lined up as the sun was setting and into the night. It easily turned into a tag-team where both of them ended up feeding clients or, in her case, donation givers to one another.

  The short African-American man grinned and gave her a hug. Seriously, Felix was one of the only people she knew under her own 5’3”.

  “June, girl, it is too cold tonight. Even I’m giving it up. The tourists are leaving and that means my cold butt goes, too.”

  She bit her lip and looked between her friend and Akmal. “I know, but I wanted to show my friend here the best artist in New York. You think you can sketch us real fast? Not even paint, I promise.”

  Felix regarded Akmal and grinned. “You didn’t tell me that you were having a date night. That’s fairly interesting. You need to keep me up on your ins and outs. I told you about the great ups and downs with me and Juan.”

  “Well, this is more of a surprise. Akmal kind of picked me up at my gig.”

  Felix’s grin widened, and he shook Akmal’s proffered hand. “So, you’re taking good care of my girl. That’s a good thing, but you better spring for a hot cocoa after all of this is over. She’s freezing everything off for you.”

  Akmal smiled, his teeth a glittering white contrast against his olive skin. “She dragged me out here, mate, an idea of hers. I hope it’s a fast sketch, too.”

  “Nice accent,” Felix said, sitting down to draw with his charcoal pencils. “Since we’re all freezing our butts off, I’ll keep it a quick and classic caricature. I can do something more Renoir later. Have a seat, and let’s jam on this before we turn into popsicles.”

  She nodded and sat down on the stool. At first, June expected Akmal to sit on the stool next to her, but instead he stood behind her, his hands planted firmly on her shoulders. June shuddered just a little at his grasp—firm and commanding. For the first time, she noticed his aftershave, a heavy musk that smelled of cinnamon. Relaxed, June leaned back and smiled a bit as he worked to unknot her tight shoulders. His fingers moved with notable dexterity over every twist of muscle, every tightened and strained bump, and relief radiated through her. Standing for hours on end in her 40s-style pumps was exhausting, and it left her sore in so many ways. After a tough week of restaurants and busking, she’d usually make due with a hot shower and then total surrender to her heating pad. But this was better.

  Felix talked, and she was vaguely aware of Akmal making conversation cheerfully enough, as smooth and charming as any trained leader or future prince had to be. He’d probably gone to charm school among other things in order to be ready for interviews, even on the street and impromptu like this.

  But she was lost in her own spell, the comfort of this man’s hands, and the release of being coddled and cared about for once. The spell still hung over her as she thought of being on that fabled Studio 8H stage at least once in her life. All of it was swirling around her in a moving and musky cinnamon haze. It was so powerful a state, she didn’t even notice how much time had truly passed. Even though it felt as if she’d just sat down, Felix was already setting his pencil down and beaming back at them both.

  “Voíla. It’s done, and if I do say so myself, this is one of my best works, at least in the cartoony way,” he added, giving them both a wink. “So what do you think, kids?” he asked, swinging his easel around so that they could both get a view of it.

  June grinned and felt that familiar flush creep up her neck. Damn her pale British heritage that mixed with her overactive French side. She was always a blush away from embarrassment and as easy to read as a kaleidoscopic riot of colors. The picture was cute, highlighted by her caricature’s riotous curls and curvy hips and the cartoon Akmal’s razor-sharp cheekbones, intense enough in the drawing to cut through anything. Even his caricature was striking, and she was
so plain.

  She couldn’t even think about what they looked like side by side in reality. Maybe he was just curious about the novelty of having a curvier girl to hang around with. Maybe he wanted to know what the other half was like, since a man of his means and with access to a real harem was more than likely to have any size two he wanted in his bed.

  Still, Akmal beamed at Felix’s work as if it was Klimt’s The Kiss, something beautiful and haunting through the ages. He took a few bills from his wallet and handed them to Felix. “I’d like to keep that instead of June, if you can roll that up for me.”

  Felix eyed the bills as so did she. It was a head trip to spend time with someone who threw hundred-dollar bills around like they were ones. What a life the sheikh led. “Yes, sir. I wish I had bows.”

  “You can ease it down a notch,” June said, recovering and laughing a little. Turning to Akmal, she looked up into those beguiling chestnut eyes. Again, she felt the draw to him, that raging fire in her body, through to her core, just like on the stage. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’d want to keep it.” As she spoke, snow began to fall, covering her shoulders and cascading in front of her eyes. She groaned a little and wiped at her wet cheeks. “I guess I really know how to pick an evening activity. I’m so sorry. I…”

  She stuttered to a stop as his arms went around her shoulders and his lips descended over hers. His strong hands gripped her back and hair, and she let herself be lost in him. It was like the tales her grandmother had told her of Brigadoon. If this was only going to last the night, like the Irish city from folklore, then she wanted to experience all of it, to feel whatever Akmal had to give.