“Oh.”
***
At the end of the meeting, Clarice was relieved. She h ad been thoroughly flustered during the entire thing thanks to the sudden and inexplicable appearance of Farhid Kanaan, the dashingly handsome man she had met the other night at the charity function. She had thought that he was likely gone already, returned to Qatar with his lovely wife.
But his wife was nowhere to be seen and though Farhid made a point of paying attention to the meeting—admittedly he did a better job than Clarice did at that—he also found the time to catch her eye from across the table. His eyes were as dark as she remembered and they still sparked with that heat, that fire.
It made her clumsy, causing her to drop her pen which rolled across the table to the floor at her feet. It made her body warm, causing her cheeks to flush. And it reminded her that at the end of the charity function that night they had first met, she had wondered what it might be like for his lips to press solidly against hers.
But now the meeting was over and Clarice said good bye to several of the members, insisting that she could not stay for the brunch that they often went to afterwards.
She just needed to get out of there.
Clarice made it out the door and into the elevator while everyone else was still mingling, making her think that she had made it out smoothly. But then a smooth, tanned hand caught the elevator door before it could close and shucked it open again.
In walked Farhid Kanaan.
Clarice’s heart jumped even as she cursed her luck. How had he managed to catch her so easily? Which was a ridiculous thought. He probably just didn’t want to stay for brunch and was trying to leave as quickly as she was. It likely had nothing to do with her at all.
“Clarice, I was hoping that I might catch you,” he told her in a rich voice with a smile playing at his lips.
Or not.
Internally, Clarice cursed. He’d been trying to find her deliberately, she realized, and it made her wonder why. She had felt a strange connection to him the other night, but as soon as she realized he was married—and she remembered that she was married—all thoughts of that connection had fled.
Or at least, she’d forced them aside.
Now, she had to face them again and it was doing strange things to her body. Heat flooded her, making her cheeks grow rosy and her breathing become slightly heavy.
“Mr. Kanaan, it has been a very unexpected surprise,” Clarice managed to tell him, staring at the reflective doors rather than into his eyes which seemed incredibly dangerous at the moment. “I would have thought you had returned home already.”
“I had intended to, yes,” he admitted. She could feel his eyes locked onto her, but she refused to meet them. Dangerous, she reminded herself. “But I changed my plans. I decided I wanted to see more.”
Focusing on keeping her breathing even, she asked, “Of the city?”
“Of you.”
Okay, this has to stop, Clarice thought, realizing that this was most definitely not a coincidence. He had found her deliberately, tracked her down—not that difficult given that she’d explained to him how involved she was with the charity—and then followed her when she left.
“Mr. Kanaan—”
“Please, Farhid,” he interrupted.
She ignored his insistence. “Mr. Kanaan, while I am very flattered for the attention, I must insist that we… um, stop this. Whatever it might be.” She finished awkwardly, because she realized midsentence that he hadn’t expressed a romantic desire to get to know her. Although she had felt a strong connection on her side, perhaps it was merely a polite interest on his end.
She didn’t think so, but it was possible.
His smile stretched further across his face, forcing dimples onto either of his cheeks. “Clarice, I am asking only for a little of your time,” he told her gently. The softness in his words forced her to finally face him, and her breath caught immediately at the bright intensity in his dark eyes. “Perhaps we might talk?”
She bit her lip. This seemed like a dangerous idea. The connection that surged through her was consuming, it brought with it a twisting in her stomach, an urge within her body, and a fluttering of her heart. She wanted something from him, but it wasn’t talking.
Forcing these feelings down, she took a deep breath and finally nodded. “Alright. Certainly.”
They took the elevator down and instead of heading home, Clarice walked around the building towards the back where there was an enclosed courtyard with trees and benches. It was lovely and felt secluded though she could still hear the cars that passed on just the other side of the building, and she knew there were windows that looked down onto the little area.
As they walked, Farhid asked a few questions. “You are from New York?”
Clarice shook her head. “Iowa. Dalton, Iowa.”
“Is it lovely there?” he asked, genuinely interested in the place where she had grown up.
She smiled ruefully at him and shook her head. “No. It’s terrible. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”
He laughed a little at that. “Then I am grateful you are no longer there.”
“Me, too. What about you?” she asked as they found a bench beneath a tree to sit at. “You mentioned you’re from Qatar. Is it beautiful?”
“It is,” he answered easily. “It is a wonderful mixture of tradition and the modern. Gardens are cultivated for their pleasing beauty and the buildings are constructed with appeal as well as practicality in mind. I am very fond of my home.”
“Then why haven’t you returned yet?” Clarice asked, though he had already told her the answer, at least partially. He’d claimed it was to see more of her that he’d lingered, but was that all?
He hesitated for a moment, considering his words carefully before he replied. “Qatar is lovely and it is home. But in it, I have many responsibilities. My father is grooming me for the future and I must admit that I tire of it sometimes.”
She felt like there was more to what he was saying. The responsibilities and the grooming—what were they for really?
“I have to assume you’re a pretty important family in Qatar,” Clarice told him. “Otherwise you probably wouldn’t have attended the charity function the other night.”
He smiled at her and she noticed again his full lips and those dimples. He really was quite handsome. It felt nice to have a man smile at her like that again.
“You are right,” he conceded and for a moment he looked like he might laugh. But he didn’t, he simply said, “A very important family. You see, my father is the Sheikh.”
It wasn’t the reaction he’d likely been expecting, but she couldn’t help it. She laughed. She didn’t claim to be an expert on Arabic culture or on Qatar culture for that matter, but she was pretty sure that a Sheikh was a king. A king.
“Does that still even happen?” she asked. She couldn’t tell if she was legitimately incredulous or if she was teasing him. Probably, her words were incredibly insulting and offensive, but she couldn’t help them. What did that make him? A prince? Was she talking to a prince?
“Indeed, it does,” he assured her. He didn’t seem offended. In fact, he seemed to appreciate her laughter, though maybe more for the mere sound of it rather than the reason for it. “Since my father is the ruler, than makes me next in line to become Sheikh after him. But that is many, many years off. My father is in excellent health and is a good ruler.”
Ruler. She was trying to take a moment and really believe it seriously, but it was difficult. Thinking of countries still having kings—or Sheikhs—was so foreign to her. It was naïve and a little egocentric of her to think that all cultures outside of the United States would follow the same model, but she had just never really considered it until now.
“I’m talking to a prince,” she said aloud, shaking her head a little in disbelief. “I wouldn’t have believed it if you’d told me two years ago.”
“No? Do you not often dine with royalty?” he asked and she cou
ld hear a slight teasing in his voice.
She laughed again. “No, not really. I’ll admit it, I don’t really belong with all this… money. I’m just a small town girl who got swept up in dreams too big for her own good.” She shook her head a little, her smile dropping as she thought of home and her husband and how she had had such big plans once upon a time. Plans to change the world, to really do something with her life. And now that she had money—granted, her husband’s money—what was she doing with it? Going to the gym and talking with a charity committee?
What a waste.
“They must have been very beautiful dreams,” Farhid told her, his tone soft and sweet. “Would you share them with me?”
Clarice looked at him in surprise. He wanted to know about them? She tried to remember the last time anyone had asked her about her dreams, her hopes. Had Donald ever asked about them?
She didn’t think so. She was pretty sure that he could care less about her hopes or feelings or anything at all to do with her.
“Why would you want to know a silly woman’s silly dreams?” she asked, her voice coming out in barely a whisper.
“Because they are yours, Clarice, and I want to know everything about you.”
He was leaning closer to her, had been doing so for long moments now, and Clarice didn’t really think about what he was doing until he was inches from her. His lips were full and slightly parted, so close to her own that if she took too large of a breath they would press together, sealed in a heated, passion filled kiss.
And she wanted it. More than just about anything, she craved to have his lips on hers.
But she can’t. Her hand reached out to lay palm flat against his chest, discovering that beneath his loose, white shirt he had a muscular physique. It made her cheeks burn as she wondered what the rest of him beneath those clothes might look like.
“We can’t,” she said breathlessly.
His brow furrowed, his dark eyes filled with heat even as the corners of his mouth tugged down in a frown. “Why not?” he asked, and his voice was rich like dark chocolate.
For a moment, her mind blanked. She couldn’t think of the reasons for why she shouldn’t be doing this, because her senses were too full of Farhid. His dark eyes, his full lips, his soft skin and his hard body, his rich, deep voice… It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating.
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus. “Because I am married,” she managed to get out, her voice unsteady, but growing firmer. Yes, that was the reason. The little gold band around her ring finger was the reason that this was wrong. “Because you’re married, too. So we can’t.”
Clarice stood from the bench, dusting herself off and smoothing her slacks, though there was nothing to fix. Her clothes were fine, but she was flustered and flushed still. Farhid stood as well, placing himself so close to her that she could still feel his heat.
“Please, Clarice,” he pleaded. He must have realized that she was going to leave, that she had to leave, before something happened.
She couldn’t let something happen.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry Prince Kanaan, but I have to—”
Suddenly, he grabbed her shoulders, jerking her tightly against him and she could feel just how hard his body was. And how warm he was. Her breath left her all in a rush, her heart beating so fast that surely he could feel it, maybe even hear it.
“It doesn’t matter,” he told her fiercely, his dark eyes flashing with fire. “I do not love her, Clarice. And I think maybe you do not love your husband either.”
Before Clarice could respond, before she could say yes or no, lie or be honest, his mouth was on hers, hot and forceful. His lips were soft, pliant, but insistent. She couldn’t stop her eyes from fluttering closed or her shoulders from slumping as she melted against him. Everything inside of her screamed to continue the kiss, to let him do whatever he wanted in that moment, without protest, without complaint. In fact, she wanted to urge him to do more.
But she couldn’t.
With every last ounce of will she had left, she planted her palms flat against her chest and shoved, hard. If he didn’t want to, he wouldn’t have had to, but he released her. She stumbled back away from him, shaking her head.
“I can’t, I’m sorry.”
With that, she turned and ran, as fast and as far as she could. From somewhere behind her, she could hear him call her name, but she wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t.
Chapter Six
Their first meeting had not gone as well Farhid had planned. But he had gotten a kiss. It had been wonderful, filled with passion and heat that he had not yet experienced in his life. In that single kiss he had felt more desire for Clarice than he had during any of the so called lovemaking with his wife Djamila.
She had pushed him away, but it was too late. The fire was lit. He could not let her go, not now. He had to have her.
At the charity committee meeting Farhid had been smart enough to acquire Clarice’s number. All members of the committee had it and it was easy enough for Farhid to come by it as well. All he had to tell them was that he wanted to make himself useful and be farther involved, something he thought would be made easier by Clarice since she was the first person he’d met at the charity.
Farhid had given Clarice twenty-four hours to calm down and to consider him—he knew she had to be, just as he was rolling thoughts of her around in his own head—then determined that he would call her. He had to call her.
Using the phone in the apartment, he dialed out and waited as the phone rang. It rang just three times before she picked up. He could hear her sweet, warm voice on the other end and immediately his heart pounded.
He wanted her, so much more than anything else he’d ever wanted in his entire existence.
“I must see you,” he said to her, his voice coming out lower and deeper than he had intended, but he simply could not help it. Desire burned slow and deep within him now and there was no stopping it, no hiding it.
There was a pause, then, “Who is this?” she demanded.
“It is me, my love.” The endearment slipped between his lips before he could think better of it, but even as it hung in the silent air between them, he could not make himself wish to take it back. It belonged to her.
“Farhid?”
She recognized him. “Yes. Clarice, you must meet with me.”
“No, Prince Kanaan, I can’t, you know I can’t.” Her words told him no, but he could hear the breathlessness in them. She was pleased he had called her, no matter what she said.
“I need to see you.” The force and intensity of his voice was probably unnerving, but he didn’t care. His words were just a step above begging, something he could not quite bring himself to do. He was the son of the Sheikh. One day, he would become the ruler of Qatar and he refused to stoop so low as to beg, not for anything.
But Clarice brought him close.
“We can’t do this,” she breathed, but he thought perhaps he was weakening her resolve. Did he sense a break in her walls? Did she remember the kiss as fondly—as heatedly—as he did? Would one more push bring her tumbling into her arms?
He thought so. “Coffee. Just coffee, Clarice.”
“Please, don’t call me again.”
Before Farhid could say anything more, plead his case further to her, the line went dead. She’d hung up. Most would have taken this rejection harshly, but Farhid saw the silver lining in it. Clarice had hung up on him, it was true, but it was the reason she had done so that convinced him he still had a chance.
She hung up because she was afraid he might convince her. There was still a chance.
He made a call to the front desk next. “I need to find someone. I’m afraid I have her name and her number, but not her address. You need not give it to me, but I need it for the purposes of sending her something. Flowers.”
The man at the desk seemed uncertain, but when Farhid assured him that he didn’t need the actual address of the person for his personal knowledg
e, the attendant relented. Farhid was fairly certain that the attendants at the hotel had all been given very specific instructions to do their utmost to keep the prince happy. Normally, this would be unnecessary, but these were extenuating circumstances and Farhid would take full advantage of the situation.
“Send her a hundred roses. I want them to arrive today.”
When the attendant assured him that it would be done, Farhid thanked him and hung up the phone. Then he waited.
He didn’t have to wait long. It was only several hours later when the roses arrived. He knew that because just after that, he received a phone call. It was from Clarice. She said only one phrase and then hung up, but it told the Prince that he had most definitely won.
“Meet me at Rosie’s Coffee Pot in twenty minutes.”
Chapter Seven
Rosie’s Coffee Pot was a new little shop that was down the road from the massive apartment building where Clarice lived. It was lively and quirky with mismatched furniture, beat up old tables, and a variety of available coffees and drinks that suited anyone who might venture in. The lighting was soft and dimmed, giving the place a warm, quiet feel to it. The overall impression was extremely calm. Clarice had chosen the location in the hopes that it would keep her calm, but it didn’t.
Her leg bounced beneath the square table as she waited. Her body was flooded with nervousness and she had spent the last twenty minutes trying to convince herself that it was merely because she was concerned about the roses.
It wasn’t, though. She was giddy, thrilled to be meeting with Farhid, though she knew this was something that couldn’t be happening.
They were both married and regardless of whether or not Farhid loved his wife or whether Clarice still loved her husband, things between them couldn’t happen. Just because she was in a loveless marriage didn’t mean that she had free reign to do as she pleased.
No, she had to stop this and fast.
Earlier that afternoon, about twenty minutes ago as a matter of fact, Farhid Kanaan, Prince of Qatar had sent her a hundred red roses. They were beautiful and must have cost him a fortune, but he didn’t seem to have minded. They filled the foyer of her apartment with gorgeous, perfectly silky petals and trimmed stems, until she wasn’t even sure what to do with them. They were beautiful and she wanted to keep them, but how would she explain them to her husband?
ROMANCE: Sleeping With The Sheikh (Billionaire Alpha Male Sheikh Romance) (New Adult Forbidden Series Short Stories) Page 4
