The Sheikh's Borrowed Baby

by Holly Rayner

  Amity shrugged her shoulders and rose to her feet, nodding to the secretary and Charlie. She brought her hand out and shook his, grinning. His skin felt like sandpaper. “It’s been quite a pleasure today, indeed,” she affirmed. “And I suppose I’ll see you when I return?”

  “Oh yes. And we’ll discuss the potentiality of opening a New York office upon your return. I promise.” He winked at her, then.

  It was then that Amity realized: if she brought her A-game for this project, if she truly elevated the status of this man in Al-Mabbar, she would have her way in the future of the firm. Potentially, she could find her way to this office, to sitting in Charlie Campbell’s seat. Of course, that was years away. But still possible.

  She thanked Charlie once more, nodding to both the Taylor brothers, before tapping to the elevator and whizzing to the bottom floor.

  Outside, she stood in the Santa Monica sunlight, facing the water. This was the moment in her career that everyone spoke about—the moment when everything was going to change. Every step and decision, every sacrifice she’d made had been leading up to now.

  But now—before she could travel halfway across the world—she had some work to do. She ruffled her fingers through her hair and rushed upstairs to nab her purse and grab a few essential work supplies from her desk. God, all the years she’d spent there, hoping beyond anything else that she could escape.

  As she passed Flora’s desk, she saw tears gleaming down the intern’s cheeks. Flora wouldn’t look at her.

  Amity paused, bobbing her weight from left to right. Should she say something?

  “Um. Flora?” Amity began, her voice hesitant. “Did you get the news?”

  Flora blinked up at her, whipping her blond hair behind her shoulders. “I knew you hated me, Amity, but why are you making me go?” Her eyes swept toward Mark, whose back was toward them. She quivered.

  Amity kept her eye roll to herself. She leaned toward the girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, and pressed her palms flat on the wooden desk. “Flora,” she began. “I know it seems dark right now. Especially given whatever’s going on with Mark—”

  Flora frowned, her eyebrows joining in the center of her face. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m sorry,” Amity said, sighing. “Listen. We won’t be gone long, I promise. This sheikh—he won’t know what hit him. We’ll be in and out of the country in a jiffy. And maybe you’ll learn something while we’re there. Who knows?” She gave the girl a subtle grin.

  Flora struggled as she inhaled, exhaled. She nodded. “I’m sorry. It was just sudden.” She cleared her throat, taking on that faux professionalism once more. “I’ll clear your schedule. You go on home and pack. I’ll do the same when I’m done here.”

  Amity gave Flora a genuine smile, warmth flooding through her. “Thank you,” she breathed, before standing and exiting the office, not stopping to wish anyone else goodbye. She had a long journey in front of her. She didn’t have time to dwell.

  And this was very much her way. She didn’t dwell on the past, on any regrets she had about her life. She was centered on the here and now—and how this here and now could advance her future. First this gig, then New York.

  In the back of her mind, she questioned when she’d have time to meet “the one” in all of that; when she’d have time to go on a single date, even. But she brushed her wavy brown hair to the side and charged toward her little red car. She’d always done better on her own.

  She stretched her manicured fingers over the steering wheel, listening to the engine purr, and reminded herself that a life fulfilled with a career, with the possibility of travel, was much better and stronger than any life of love. Love was volatile; love could ruin you. And, as a PR agent, she knew better than to put herself in danger.

  Chapter 3

  Amity lined up her suitcases outside of her apartment door and checked her purse for her passport, which she thumbed through lightly. She had only one stamp—London, from that time, nearly nine years ago, when she’d journeyed with her mother. That felt like a lifetime ago: standing on the banks of the Thames, wondering at the life she would create for herself. Her mother, a child of divorce, and herself divorced from Amity’s father, had explained to her then that she must pursue her own destiny, without mixing it with the destiny of others.

  “No wonder I’m so cynical,” Amity breathed, grabbing her suitcase and ensuring the door was locked once more. She had a taxi waiting for her to head to the airport, and she was already mentally saying goodbye to L.A.

  She’d called her friends the evening before, explaining in ecstatic tones that she was heading off on a “near impossible” assignment in the Middle East. Her friends had seemed vaguely interested, but had soon diverted the conversation to talk of their beauty regimes and shopping habits. Amity had sat demurely, waiting for a chance to scamper from the phone and finish packing. She should have known better.

  She swept into the taxi as the driver lifted her luggage into the trunk. “You’ve got a lot here. You moving away?” he asked her, winking.

  “Just on assignment,” she replied, giving him a shy grin. Secretly, she was bursting with anticipation. What would meet her on the other side of the world? And would her work brain kick in immediately, despite the change of scene? Could she trust herself to focus on the task at hand?

  The taxi lurched through traffic, edging this way and that, and Amity made her peace with the city she’d called home for so many years. She cracked the window and inhaled the polluted air; she caught a glimpse of the Pacific and longed to run on the sand just one more time.

  But she’d done all she could do. She felt like the memory of it was running from her mind, like that same sand through her fingers. L.A. had never quite fulfilled its prophecy, and yet, she had to be okay with it. She was going to search for something else.

  Amity entered the airport terminal nearly an hour later. She hated the smell of sweating bodies mixed with airport food, and she rubbed a bit of lotion on her fingers and hands, making a face.

  As she reached the other side of security, she caught sight of Flora, sat cross-legged against a wall, her carry-on pressed up against her. Her blond hair swam in curls around her shoulders.

  Amity lifted her fingers into a wave and crossed the room toward her assistant. Flora got to her feet and yanked a notebook out of her pocket, donning her professional face. “Miss Winters. So good to see you. I have our itinerary here—”

  But Amity shook her head. “We’ll save the work for when we get there,” she said, her voice kind. “Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we?”

  Flora looked relieved. She fell back to the ground and crossed her legs once more, tapping the carpet beside her. “Want to sit?”

  “Sure.”

  Flora popped a piece of gum in her mouth and started smacking loudly. “I told Mark I couldn’t see him,” she said then, her eyes distant. “I knew he would find someone else while I was gone, so I thought I might as well end things first. He’s kind of a jerk anyway.”

  “Mark from the office?” Amity asked, not knowing what else to say.

  Flora gave her a “come on” eye roll. “Of course,” she shrugged. “I mean. You see him every day, don’t you? He’s hot. Even though he’s younger than you, you have to admit that.”

  “He’s actually older than me,” Amity said quietly, her eyebrows high. She’d hired Mark three years before, when she’d moved up in the company, but he hadn’t been promoted since.

  But Flora just chewed on. “He wasn’t going to make it in PR anyway, and this is my dream. My dream.” She tapped her chest emphatically. “You know he just wants to be an actor. Just another one of those.”

  “I see.” Again, Amity didn’t have any advice. She peered down at her fingers. “Well. I guess good riddance. You’re advancing your career while he’s—”

  But at this moment, she noticed a single tear diving down Flora’s supple cheek. How wretched men were, she thought then. T
oying with this girl’s heart, without any plans of keeping it.

  Luckily, the plane began boarding then, the stewards calling their tickets and directing them down the long corridor to the plane itself. The interior was noisy, cramped—but their first-class seats were luxurious, offering wide cushions and a footrest. Amity collapsed into hers, having been unable to sleep the night before. Flora sat beside her and immediately buried her nose into a magazine—an article entitled “How to Get Him Back.” Amity pretended not to see.

  The pilot’s voice crackled over the speakers. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His voice was smooth, yet powerful—trustworthy and ready to carry them across the ocean. “Welcome to Flight 345, from Los Angeles to sunny Al-Mabbar City. The time there is 11 hours ahead, meaning they’re living in the future right now, if you can believe that.”

  A few of the passengers chuckled, throwing the pilot a bone. Beside Amity, Flora sighed heavily. For her part, Amity just wanted the plane to rev down that runway and disappear into the clouds. She was done with L.A.—at least for a while—and ready to escape.

  Moments later, the jet engines screamed into life. Suddenly, the plane was taking that mad race down the runway, and Amity’s hands were clinging to the armrests. Her heart made a final skip before the plane erupted into the air, and then cratered into the clouds.

  Amity sighed, her heart rate slowing slightly. She had to focus; in a few hours’ time, she would land in the Middle East for the first time in her life. And, despite deep knowledge of the PR world, she had next to no information about Al-Mabbar.

  “Have you ever been to a different country?” Amity asked Flora about twenty minutes after takeoff.

  Flora looked annoyed, turning her attention from her magazine. “Um. No. Why?”

  “I’ve only been to London,” Amity answered, choosing her words carefully. “Never the Middle East. Feeling a little bit nervous about it, I have to admit.”

  Flora scoffed lightly. “Sure. I knew you would be.”

  Amity didn’t answer. She watched as Flora flipped her hair and turned her attention back toward the magazine. Beside her, a stewardess was asking passengers if they wanted champagne, so she lifted her finger, requesting one. She sniffed the bubbles up her nose and felt the tickle in her throat. She drank enough to relax into a deep, over-the-ocean slumber.

  She awoke a while later to see sun blistering through the windows. They were still far above the clouds, and checking her watch she saw that they were still eight hours away from their destination. Amity looked toward Flora and found that she, too, had fallen asleep. A trickle of drool skidded from her mouth, but Amity resisted the urge to wake her and tell her, knowing that above all, Flora just needed her rest. Not that she would be any easier to deal with after that, she thought with a smirk.

  A meal was served, although no one was quite sure if it was lunch or dinnertime. Amity took delicate bites of her sandwich, always conscious of what she put in her body. Flora gobbled hers quickly, safe from the slowing metabolism waiting for her at the end of this twenty-something line. Amity remembered those years well—though hers had centered around late nights at the office; craving a professional future.

  When she was twenty-three, Amity had had a chance at love. She had been out at a bar with two girlfriends, both of whom were now married and tucked away with growing families and part-time careers. A man had approached her—a tall, broad man with dark hair and penetrating, mad eyes. He’d leaned against the bar beside her and lifted his chin, assessing her.

  “I don’t suppose you want a drink?” he’d asked.

  “I don’t suppose you want to buy me one?” she’d replied, surprised at how confident she sounded. She hadn’t flirted with anyone since she’d graduated from college.

  The man had introduced himself as Brian—a graduate from UCLA, like herself. They’d chatted together for hours. Amity had even gone so far as to send her friends home when they’d grown impatient—telling them she’d call them when she returned home. But she’d followed Brian back to his place, clinging to his hand as they marched to his car. She was tipsy, sure—but not drunk. And she’d allowed herself to go there, to feel things for this man.

  But she hadn’t allowed it to go on. No. She’d woken up the next morning feeling mortified, certain that she’d mussed her future. She hadn’t been able to concentrate properly for days afterwards. She’d sat at her desk at work, tickling her fingers over the keyboard. In a meeting with her then boss, Kristina, she hadn’t made a single proposition.

  In a word, she’d felt lost. Lost with the prospect of love, of marriage, of even casual dating. And so, she’d given it up.

  Needless to say, Brian hadn’t called her back.

  Chapter 4

  The plane landed on time, just over sixteen hours after taking off. As the wheels struck the ground, Amity’s heart began to race again. She laced her fingers through her seatbelt, blinking around her. An older gentleman across the aisle still slept on, his chin grazing his chest. He wore a turban. Would the men in Al-Mabbar wear turbans, she wondered. Would she stick out, with her pale skin and her long, brown hair? Would she be so distinctly Midwestern—with that edge of California culture?

  She couldn’t think about it now.

  She nudged Flora, who grumbled as she awoke. She scratched at her eyes, at her neck. “Are we almost there?” she said hazily.

  “Look,” Amity breathed, pointing out the window.

  Sure enough, there outside the window was the capital of Al-Mabbar; a gorgeous city surrounded by desert, with skyscrapers that rushed into the sky from the sand.

  “Is it a mirage?” Flora asked, her voice still sticky with sleep.

  “It’s our temporary home,” Amity laughed. She unbuckled her seatbelt and waited impatiently for the plane to taxi, her brain buzzing. Around her, the world was coming to life. She was back on land.

  “Hello, and good morning,” the captain began from the front. His voice held none of the exhaustion of Flora and Amity’s. “We’ve reached Al-Mabbar City. The local time is six-thirty, and as you can see, the sun has begun to rise over the desert. It’s not hot, right now—a local temperature of just 75 degrees Fahrenheit. But the high today will be 90 degrees, so prepare yourselves. I know I will be.”

  The captain continued speaking, but then the stewards opened the doors, and Amity erupted from her seat, reaching overhead for her luggage. She felt the jet-lag ringing through her, despite having slept for a few hours earlier. Because she traveled so infrequently, she didn’t expect to handle the time change well. Mentally, she prepared to take a nap later, wherever she’d stay that evening. She’d asked Emery, Charlie’s secretary, about their accommodations—and she’d simply been told that “the client will take care of it.” Whatever that meant.

  The two women exited the airplane into a chaotic and brightly lit airport terminal. The floor-to-ceiling windows on either side gave a stunning view of the desert and of the distant sea, which was a glimmer of turquoise on the horizon. The sun was burning oranges and yellows into the city’s buildings.

  “It’s way more beautiful than L.A.,” Flora said then, incredulous. “I was expecting a few shacks in the desert.”

  Amity rolled her eyes but gave an appreciative laugh. “All right, monkey. Let’s get our luggage and head out of here.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  Amity didn’t answer. She frowned and followed the signs toward the baggage claim, where she saw her bright red suitcases circling. She swept her arm through the straps and tugged them both to the ground, breathing heavily. She watched as Flora did the same, with expert finesse, drawing the small bag over her thin shoulders. She smiled brightly, clearly overcoming any sense of jet lag.

  Amity turned her head toward the exit, where a long line of taxi drivers were waving large signs—each with large letters spelling out American and Middle-Eastern last names. All at once, Amity’s eyes landed upon a shorter driver, wearing a dark
suit and a chauffeur cap, holding a crooked sign with the word “WINTERS.”

  Relieved, she exhaled, and began to move forward. Scuttling on her heels, she led Flora toward the exit, waving at the man with her free hand. The man’s eyes met with hers, but his expression didn’t change. Slowly, Amity’s smile faltered—she wasn’t yet accustomed to the business culture of Al-Mabbar. Give it time, she thought.

  “Hello,” she said demurely. She gestured to the sign. “I’m Amity Winters. This is my colleague, Flora.”

  The man drew out his arms and took their suitcases. He balked, nearly falling backwards with the weight of them, before righting himself like nothing had happened. Black and graying hairs whizzed out from beneath his hat.

  “Shall we go?” he asked in a thick accent. Before allowing her to answer, he spun around and marched toward the door, leaving Flora and Amity to exchange panicked glances.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Amity murmured, shrugging.

  They walked behind the man, who bobbed left and right with the weight of the bags. The great glass doors opened for them, blasting their faces with desert heat. The morning sun was even brighter than in Los Angeles. It blasted against the dark limousine, waiting at the entrance.

  “This will be our ride,” the man called out. He tipped the trunk open and flung the bags inside, before rushing to the back door and opening it for them both. “Go—go—” he said, waving his hand toward the dark interior, which exhaled too-cold air conditioning.

  Amity followed his wave into the chilly limo and tapped the seat beside her, watching as Flora folded herself easily beside her. The driver slammed the door, making the vehicle quiver back and forth, before he entered the driver’s seat and revved the engine, quickly lurching from the airport terminal and speeding out onto a highway.

  The highway was an exposed nerve beneath a hot, wide-open sky. When Amity peered up ahead, she saw those classic mirages miles before her—the pools of water that appeared when too much sun and brightness buckled against the black tar. Around them, orange dunes swept up and down, demonstrating a classic image of Middle-Eastern desert.