by Tara Pammi
Letting her go, Zayn laughed. Now, all he had to remember was that Amalia was still a wild card, the wildest bet he had ever made in his life.
He didn’t doubt for a minute that she would leak the entire story to a rapt news reporter in the future if she thought it to her advantage, if this whole issue of her brother’s case was not resolved to her satisfaction.
The threat she represented was enough to douse Zayn’s interest like a dip in that cold pool. He would have to ensure that she didn’t remain a threat to his reputation, or Mirah’s happiness, even Khaleej’s stability.
“I think I should tell Massi the truth.”
“What have you told him so far?”
“I emailed him that certain things were going out of my control. That I would not be able to return in a month.”
Every time she mentioned her boss’s name, he felt a tight knot in his gut. “And?”
She sighed. “And if I know Massi and I do, he’s not going to like it. Neither is he going to believe that I fell in love with you so suddenly. It is better I tell him the truth—that this is nothing but a show.”
“Absolutely not.” Zayn moved closer to her, the tanned sheen of her smooth skin an invitation. But he resisted the urge to find out if it was as smooth as it looked. “This is between only you and me, Amalia. Not even my closest adviser is going to know that beneath your prim manner is a cunning blackmailer.
“Whatever relationship you had with Massi was finished the moment you considered blackmailing me.”
Taking her to bed, much as his body was already weaving fantasies about it, was not an option.
And with the media frenzy surrounding him being what it was, he could not go near a woman until all this was wrapped up to his satisfaction.
Whether he liked it or not, celibacy, for at least a few months, seemed to be the order of the day. Never succumb to weakness or another’s will, had been beat into him from a young age. He played hard because he needed to let loose, to cope with the pressures of his life, not because he was of weak will.
A few months with a fake, extremely annoying fiancée was a short price to pay to ensure Mirah’s happiness.
CHAPTER FIVE
AMALIA TRIED TO restore some calm through her usual breathing exercises on the Al-Ghamdi private jet as she and Zayn winged their way to Paris ten days later, but the ritual that had always helped her maintain composure in the face of her mother’s swinging moods and her declining health in the last two years, failed to help her at all.
She was anxious about Aslam, about the coming charade, about her attraction to the man on the opposite side of the craft and even being equipped with all the tools to face the world and the media as the playboy sheikh’s adoring fiancée didn’t help a bit with that anxiety.
Ten days in which a stylist and a beautician had been sent to bring her up to scratch. She wouldn’t have admitted it to Zayn under the promise of death, but Amalia had loved the Parisian stylist and her chic sense of style. Instead of forcing her views on how the sheikh’s supposed fiancée should look, the woman had helped Amalia choose dresses and accessories that fit her sense of style. It had been like being on one of those super-trendy makeover shows without the cringe worthy being-on-TV part.
No expense had been spared on her new wardrobe, which included only designer dresses and shoes, handbags and even hats for different occasions. It was neatly stowed away at the back of the luxurious jet. A square-cut diamond in a solitaire setting had been delivered to her suite, with the same aplomb as a non-fiction book she’d requested. Hoping that it would fit all wrong so that she could send it back, she’d been dismayed when it slid on perfectly.
Now its cold weight on her finger felt like a chain around her neck, a constant reminder that she was taking part in a dangerous charade.
Refusing to give in to Zayn’s all too possessive and personal order to not cut her hair, Amalia had asked the woman if a shorter hairstyle would serve her better and had received a very stringent, almost offended reply in return.
The stylist had fingered her long locks and told her she had hair like spun gold and it would be blasphemy to the hair gods to cut it off. Instead she had cut it into layers so that the shortest framed Amalia’s face. Again, Amalia couldn’t ignore the fact that it had been something she had been meaning to do for years and had not gotten to it.
From then on, she had realized it was a waste of energy to protest and had thrown herself into it, at least the whipping-her-into-shape part, with proper gusto. She had been given a mud bath, a facial, a manicure and pedicure, in short, pampered from head to toe like never before.
The servants, obviously under the orders of the imperious Sheikh, packed away her work clothes. It felt as if her armor was being torn away from her. His comment that Amalia always dressed to hide herself hit her hard.
Had she been doing that? she wondered for the hundredth time.
All she’d received when she’d boarded the jet had been a cursory look from Zayn and a condescending nod as if to say he found her acceptable.
She was clearly losing her marbles because she’d been disappointed by that cursory look. Greedy for more, she had hunted down that Celebrity Spy! article again and apparently, Sheikh Zayn preferred sophisticated, confident women who knew all the rules of the game. Women who probably didn’t run hot and cold at the idea of just one kiss, much less panicked about being his partner, even for a short while.
If Amalia had any doubts about whether he was attracted to her in any way, her meeting with his sister Mirah had put paid to that. Mirah had not just been surprised but shocked when he had introduced Amalia as his fiancée. Granted, some of it had been because of how sudden their engagement was. “You are a career woman. Wow, my brother truly does not realize what has hit him, yes? I have always felt sadness that Zayn would not even consider love as a factor into his marriage. But you...clearly, love is the only reason he chose you,” she had said with a beaming smile on her face.
Just then, Amalia found herself chewing on those words. Why was it sad that Mr. Alpha Sheikh did not want love in his marriage? He probably knew any woman would run far and fast at the idea of loving him and had suitably adjusted his expectations.
As though called, pulled toward him by some invisible rope, Amalia found her gaze moving toward him. Thankfully, his dark head was bent to his laptop and she studied him greedily.
The wide breadth of his shoulders against the compact design of the jet’s seat, the lean, powerful line of his thighs—Amalia got warm in her silk suit just looking at him.
The sleeves of his light blue dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, displaying olive-skinned arms with a generous sprinkling of hair. Papers were strewn over the desk in front of him. Long fingers, fingers that had tugged at her hair, fingers that had rasped over her cheeks, tapped away at the keyboard in a somewhat stultifying way. As if he didn’t quite know how to type.
The deepening scowl on his face made Amalia smile with a wicked joy. Apparently, Mr. Sheikh was not perfect at everything. She stood up from her seat and took the one opposite him. Even with the spacious seating and her adjusting her legs, her knees bumped against his. “Need a little help, Sheikh?”
He looked up, and for once his focus on her was a bit diluted. Good, she could handle him like this. “One of my PAs fell sick at the last minute and one has to stay behind in Sintar to deal with any contingencies. And the third one is useless. All she does is blush and mutter incoherently every time she lays eyes on me. I would have fired her if I hadn’t been assured again and again by the rest of the staff that she’s utterly efficient and hardworking in my absence.”
He sounded so disgruntled but she couldn’t manage a smile. “It must be a curse to be such a perfect specimen of manhood,” she said a little acidly.
“You’re more nuisance than a help. So retu
rn to your seat, say very little and just look perfect for the rest of the flight. Let us call it your job description for the next few months.” His gaze turned away dismissively. “That pantsuit, while sufficient, is not good enough for the fund-raiser.”
Amalia swallowed the growl that wanted to rise from the depths of her soul. The dismissive prig! “I feel sorry for the woman who ends up marrying you, Sheikh.”
“Don’t. Some women like having a man who will take care of their every need.”
A part of her was more than tempted to leave him to his hell, but a part of her, the part that had become extremely bored over the past ten days and the part that was acutely aware that there were six hours and eight more minutes left on the flight, and the stubborn part that wanted to prove something of herself to him said, “That software you’re struggling with, we use the same program to manage Massi’s schedule.”
“It’s not just the schedule. I need these reports sorted by urgency and importance and summarized for me. Not everything needs to end up on my desk. There are different departments that most of these requests can be routed to.”
“Believe me, Sheikh, I can do all that, too.”
“Why are you offering to help?”
“Even though you have been an utter a—” he raised that imperious brow again and she changed her word “—beast to me, you mean?”
“Did you talk this way to your Massi?”
She shrugged, refusing to accept or deny. Damn it, she should have never hinted as if there was more to it. “I’m offering to help because there are a million minutes to pass before we reach Paris and I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for ten days. Believe me, a makeover that you don’t have to pay for is all well and good but I’ve never been this idle for so long. I’m bored to death and the guards you have on me don’t even know how to play cards.”
“They’re not for your entertainment, Amalia.” He let his gaze sweep over her face, something challenging in it. “There are all kinds of state programs here. And you did refuse to sign the NDA. How do I know you’re not collecting material for your next blackmail scheme?”
Amalia didn’t know why his lack of trust in her should pinch her so. Really, it seemed she was existing in some dream land. Why did she again and again find herself surprised by what a hard man he was? Why was it that she weakened with him when no other man had even come close?
She sat back in her seat, waiting for that emotional reaction to subside before she spoke. “You either trust me over the next few months, Sheikh, or you do not. Like you were so careful to point out, I have no power in this relationship. And everything to lose.
“You can dress me in the fanciest clothes and threaten me with everything from jail to incarceration, but no one is going to believe this charade until you trust me. And you treat me, no, at least pretend like you value my place in your life.”
“Of course you were feeling neglected. Once we return, I will arrange a vacation for you.” Having her out of his hair, under surveillance, Zayn congratulated himself on thinking of it. It was the best way to minimize the damage she could do to the situation with her loud mouth.
That he was hiding from the problem was something Zayn refused to even consider.
“You’re not packing me off to Siberia with two guard dogs. The one thing I wanted was to visit with Aslam and you vetoed it.” She snorted. “I have worked for five years for a man who controls a million-dollar business. You...you pretty much run the country. I think I can imagine what a working day for you constitutes. I’m not complaining, just informing you.”
“You are different from any woman I have ever known, Amalia.”
If she had to hear that one more time, Amalia was going to scream. “So you keep reminding me, Sheikh. And the message has been noted, loud and clear. Now can we move on?”
“I will arrange for you to visit Aslam once we return to Sintar. On your word that you will not reveal anything of our agreement to him.”
Now it was her turn to be shocked. “Clever move, Sheikh. Dangle the carrot in front of the poor donkey. You’re only using that to keep me in line.”
“Now who has trust issues?”
The silence that descended was strained with so many things that Amalia looked away.
“Is it only me and what I provoke in you that has made you so combative, Amalia, or are you like that with all men, including your Massi?”
“He is not my Massi and I...they call me Calm in the Storm back at work. Did you know that?”
“I’d have just called you the storm. So it is me, then.”
Such asinine satisfaction drawled in his words that Amalia wanted to do something violent. Which would only confirm his arrogant theory. She was a little afraid to test it, too. “We got off to the wrong start, yes. Which is why I think it is time to call truce,” Amalia finished, admitting to herself that she had provoked him from the moment she had set eyes on him.
And to be brutally honest, he had behaved like a gentleman even though he had every reason to doubt her. Except the kiss. She still had no idea what that was about.
She stuck out her hand over the small table between them. “Since I’m not the type to hold a grudge, I’m waving a white flag... Zayn.”
His name on her lips reverberated through the entire craft, as if some invisible barrier had been smashed, leaving something else in the air around them.
Amalia met his gaze and saw the infinitesimal widening of those dark eyes, before he lowered them to look at her hand. Slowly, he made contact with her right hand.
A curious swooping sensation in her gut, she suddenly wished she hadn’t forced the issue. Only now when it was too late, did she realize that the sheikh and she being at each other’s throats covered up a lot of things she didn’t want to face.
Like her increasing attraction to him.
Suddenly, it felt like it was written all over her face and in the stilted silence between them. Just as she was about to stand up, he leaned forward in his seat, his legs bracketing hers on either side. “I do not know that I prefer my name on your lips, Amalia.”
“Exactly what I was thinking. I think I’ll stick to Sheikh.”
Confined to her seat by his large body, Amalia shivered. Her breath was a languorous fire in her throat, her pulse skittering madly as his finger traced the veins on her wrist.
She’d never been so afraid to look into a man’s eyes and see what they held, never been afraid of what was written in her own eyes.
He turned his laptop so that the screen was facing her. The software program she had claimed she was an expert on could have been written in Arabic for all she could make sense of it. “I will go through each of these and dictate notes about who should address it and the steps that need to be taken. Start typing.”
She looked up then, shock stealing her words.
He raised those dark brows, the hard mouth twitching at the sides. “Problems already?”
Pulling her watch and bracelets off, Amalia put them in a corner of the desk and straightened in her seat. Tugging the rubber band she’d been playing with through her fingers, she pushed back her hair and gathered it in one hand.
A hard glitter in his eyes, the way he followed her movements, sent a pulse of longing through Amalia. It was hard to be in the company of a compellingly attractive man like the sheikh and not feel a feminine flutter. To not imagine all sorts of romantic illusions even if one tried to be sensible.
Indulging in a moment of weakness didn’t mean she would pursue anything, Amalia told herself. Not that the sheikh wanted a personal anything with her. He barely trusted her, did he?
So Amalia clung to what did make sense. She opened a new Notes window and smiled at him. “I’m ready when you are, Sheikh.”
CHAPTER SIX
THREE... THERE WERE three small white pea
rl buttons on Amalia’s pink pantsuit and they were driving Zayn to distraction.
Every time she moved in her seat, which she did constantly, the thin blouse she wore under the deeply cut jacket stretched sinuously against her breasts.
It was the same every day, his awareness of her growing by the minute.
He fisted his hands by his sides, fighting the urge to fill his hands with something else. He had seen women wearing skimpily provocative clothes and still somehow look less sensual than the woman working away on his laptop, her brow tied in concentration.
Her long hair pulled into a high ponytail swung as her fingers raced over the keyboard.
The pantsuit was the height of designer chic, taking advantage of the long line of her legs. When she’d come aboard the jet, Zayn had felt a wave of startling awareness again. He’d heard reports from his senior aide and had chosen to avoid her, all the while telling himself that he was just too busy.
Now he knew why he had avoided her.
Ten days had not dimmed her appeal one bit.
From the buttons to the narrow collar to the silk that didn’t quite hug her curves, it was Amalia to a T—prim, buttoned up and yet utterly provocative.
He shouldn’t be surprised by anything this woman did and yet Zayn was. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect from her. What had she called the house? The perfect marriage of tradition and modernity?
Not even Mirah had seen his struggle reflected in his design. He, who prided himself on knowing himself and his mind, even he had missed it.
Her attire was the perfect blend of sophistication and the demureness that he sensed was an innate part of Amalia. That she’d managed to retain a sense of her own style and self under the obvious duress she felt at being his fiancée, at being thrust into the eye of the media from her average life, spoke to the strength of her personality.
By now, Zayn would have written off any other woman with such decidedly strong views. Yet, Amalia continued to persist in his mind and body.
