by Holly Rayner
conversation downstairs, if you feel up to it,” he continued. “In the gardens. I can’t sleep when I feel like we have a million things to cover.”
Amity felt her eyes open wide. He wanted to hang out—with just her—even after those women had latched to him and refused to let go?
“Sure, perhaps for a while,” she whispered. Why did she seem so meek?
Aziz led her out through a back staircase, a direct route from his chambers to the outdoor gardens. In the moonlight, the reds, oranges and yellows of the flowers seemed to leap out at them. The large bushes, which lined the walkway, were enormous beasts, their leaves rustling in the breeze.
“Frankly, I’m relieved you agreed to not talk about work,” Aziz said, shaking his head. “I know I seemed all business this morning, in the desert, but it really does scare me—hiring you to work on my image like this. I’ve been this way my entire life. Why do I need a professional to help me show the world who I am? What am I doing wrong?”
Amity had heard these words from other clients before, and already, she felt inclined to protect him from himself. “You know,” she began, searching for the right words, “Image isn’t everything. In my line of work, you start to learn that when you show people who you are, truly, down to your bones, then people begin to trust you and like you. It’s bizarre to hear it, I know, but the way to come out from under your father’s shadow is just to be yourself.”
Aziz looked at her for a long time. She felt vulnerable, waiting for his answer.
“You know, that’s probably the most sense anyone’s ever made to me,” Aziz said, laughing.
“That’s why I make the big bucks,” Amity grinned.
They walked slowly for a while, without words. Amity noted how bright the Sheikh seemed, especially given how somber he had seemed at the nightclub. So fascinating how people can switch on and off like that, she thought.
“Who were those girls?” she teased him after a moment. “They certainly latched onto you.”
“You know, that happens everywhere I go out. It’s like they can smell the money on me,” Aziz stated. “It’s not that they’re not fun. They are. But they don’t have anything going on back there.” He gestured to his brain. “Not that I blame them. It’s probably far more fun to live without brain matter.”
“Sometimes I want to ask Flora,” Amity admitted, grinning. “How much easier it is for her, without brain activity.”
Aziz laughed. “She’s bright, that one. She’ll sniff out a dumb billionaire yet. I know the type.”
“But for now, she’s supposed to be helping me help you.”
“Trust me,” Aziz said, his eyes flashing. “She’s already been scooped up by the Al-Mabbar party scene. We won’t see her again until you’re boarding your flight home. And even then, who knows if she’ll join you.”
“Such a California girl. I can’t imagine her not going home.”
“But even you. You’re from Minnesota, and you wanted to live miles and miles away. You like the displacement, don’t you?”
“I think I do,” Amity admitted. “I crave different worlds. I crave things I don’t know. I think that’s why I like PR. I like building characters I could never be. Images I could never relate to. It’s entertaining. Like molding clay.” She laughed at herself. “It sounds silly when I put it into words.”
“Everything does, doesn’t it?” Aziz began. “Love, especially. Madness. Eating, drinking, sorrow or grief. Everything sounds silly when you try to describe it. Which is why you must accept feelings as what they are.”
“Now you’re the one with wisdom,” Amity said.
“You’re just saying that because I’m paying you,” he said, winking.
They walked along like that, eyeing each other between sentences, chatting like equals. They dug into their opinions about nightlife, about why people liked to see and be seen.
“It’s this strange, electric energy when you’re out on the dancefloor,” Aziz explained. “But then, at some point, after you’ve done it for over a decade, you realize how false the energy becomes. It tastes foul in your mouth. And you crave real human interaction, like this.”
These words made Amity’s heart warm. She longed to slip her fingers through his. It had been years since she’d felt this close to someone.
Nearly an hour later, when they said goodbye at the entrance to the mansion, she felt as if she floated to the top floor. She was daydreaming about him, and about his words, as she drifted off to sleep.
She lost herself to the beautiful madness of it, knowing only that she’d wake up responsible, recharged the following morning. She had to.
NINE
Amity awoke to a knocking at the door. She blinked awake, her heart beating erratically, and shuffled from beneath the sheets. She had no concept whatsoever of the time, given that she’d been thrust halfway across the world the previous day—and then hadn’t bothered to go to bed at a decent hour. This wasn’t like her. She reprimanded herself internally as she shuffled toward the door—calculating the time she’d lost.
“Hello?” she said drowsily, ratcheting open the door. She blinked heavily as her eyes took in the sight of a maid.
“Miss Winters,” the maid said in a thick accent. “The Sheikh has asked me to inform you that he’s left for the day, for a business meeting, and that your office has been prepared for you downstairs.”
Amity continued to blink, trying to make sense of the words. “He’s already awake?” she croaked.
The maid nodded. “It’s nearly noon, miss,” she piped. “He wanted to go over the details of his meeting prior to his departure—”
Amity held up a hand, mortified. She should have set an alarm, something. God, this was a juvenile mistake. She roughed her fingers down her crinkled nightdress. “Allow me to get dressed, then. I’ll come downstairs to the office in ten minutes. And, if you could, alert my intern to meet me downstairs—”
“But Miss Winters?” the maid interrupted, her eyes large. “I’ve attempted to contact Miss Flora several times this morning, to no avail.”
Amity frowned, her eyebrows low. Already, her suspicions about Flora were being proven correct. She would party her way through the project, without helping Amity with a single element of the Sheikh’s case. She sighed gruffly. “Very well. I’ll see you soon.”
She shut the door with a clatter and moved to the wardrobe, rifling through her clothes and brushing her hair, thinking she could take a much-needed shower once she’d organized the office and made her first steps toward completion of this project. Her head had rolled the previous evening—with lusty thoughts, with an unexpected crush. But she would blotch it out now, much like she’d blotched out the terrible image of celebrities all over Hollywood. No one spoke about Justin LeGarde’s theft at the Whole Foods anymore, and she wouldn’t think of her attraction to Aziz a single moment longer. She had to think of it the same way.
The office was a long, bright room near the gardens, with massive windows and sea green drapes that arched in the breeze from the corner fans. The maid placed a cup of tea on the table for her, bowing deeply before leaving her alone, a lost figure in the echoing office.
Amity tapped her fingernails against the desk, staring at her computer. After pushing aside her feelings for Aziz, she’d begun to assess the conversations she’d had with him—about his father, about his livelihood in Al-Mabbar. She was starting to cultivate an idea.
After a brief search, she found the numbers for several Al-Mabbar charities, many of which Aziz’s father had worked with closely. She dialed the first number, a charity that worked with young orphans, and summoned her chipper, lively voice.
“Hello there. My name is Amity Winters, and I represent Sheikh Aziz al Arin.”
“Yes, Miss Winters. Thank you for calling. What can we do for His Highness today?”
“Well,” Amity began, knowing her smile could be felt through the phone, “I’d like to make a public donation in the Sheikh’s name. I
think you’ll be quite surprised by the sum we’re willing to put down.”
The line was quiet for a bit. Amity knew this must have been a shock—that the spoiled, rampant Sheikh (as he was perceived) would put down such an insane amount of money for a good cause. For orphans, of all things. She waited for the awe, for the questions. She’d used this tactic with several pop stars back in LA, and each time, without fail, the stars had received nothing but good press in the following weeks. This would work like a charm.
“Ah, I’m sorry—” The woman on the other line hesitated.
Amity heard the shuffling of paper, the surprise. But the words that came next nearly knocked her over.
“According to our records, the Sheikh made a substantial donation just a few weeks ago. Quite a hefty sum—larger than the figure you just mentioned—and he asked that he always be recorded anonymously.”
Amity drew her head back. She took a deep breath. “Anonymously?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Winters. I can’t process a public donation for you today. I have to trust what His Highness stated previously.”
Amity thanked the woman and stabbed her finger on the End button, shaking her head. An anonymous donation? Why would he do that?
Frustrated, she turned her gaze to the next charity on her list, one that fought to end hunger. She dialed the number, humming to herself until the call connected. A moment later, the woman on the other end of the line informed her that the Sheikh had done the exact same thing—donated anonymously—only a few weeks before!
Each time she dialed a new organization, she encountered the same problem. And each time, her heart rallied high in her throat, generating anger and confusion. Why was the Sheikh making it so difficult for her to do her job? This should have been a major step in the right direction. And instead, it seemed as if he were working against her. She felt as if she were walking backwards.
After calling nearly twenty different charities, each time encountering the same problem, a flustered Amity thrust herself into the sunshine of the gardens, scratching her head. Her brain was humming. So often, her clients had been far too consumed with which party they would be attending next, which girl they would date, which event they would ruin. Generally, they didn’t even know which charities were present in their city—let alone donate to them.
Amity paused next to the animal enclosure, where the lions and tigers were sleeping like house cats, their paws twitching. She strung her fingers through the fence, somehow unafraid of these massive creatures, and inhaled, exhaled, trying to think. How was she growing so used to this world, in such a brief amount of time? Her hair fell in muddled strings around her face, and she decided to shower and change before the Sheikh returned from his afternoon meetings.
A few hours before dinner, the same maid from that morning arrived at Amity’s office and knocked at her door, informing her that Aziz was out in the garden, and wanted to speak with her. Amity thanked her and scurried to her feet, whizzing out into the garden and into the sunshine. There, she found Aziz—grinning at her with those dark, penetrating eyes. He wore another tailored suit and stood with his fingers dipped into his pockets, waiting.
“Good evening, Amity. How are you? I’m sorry I missed you this morning. I know you were struggling with jetlag.”
“It’s no trouble,” Amity said brightly. She took his offered arm and walked beside him, through the gardens. “In fact, I began work on a new strategy for your image today. But it seems that you foiled it already.” She was trying to tease him, but she could tell that her words cut into him, gave him pause.
“I’m sorry?” he asked. He cleared his throat, halting their walk. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Amity said, suddenly anxious. She bit her lip. “I thought about what you said about your father being so involved with charity. What a wonderful thing. And so I figured it would be appropriate for you to do something similar—to make donations—in your name—to various charities around the city. But it seems that you’ve already beaten me to it.”
“And chosen to do it anonymously,” Aziz said sternly. He swiped his hand through his dark hair, shaking his head.
“Why is that?” Amity continued, feeling like a child. “Why would you do this anonymously, when it seems that it would bolster your image so much? I hate to pry. It’s just making our mission that much more difficult.”
“Amity, I feel very strongly about the concept of charity,” Aziz began. His sigh was heavy. “I believe that too many people contribute to charity for that exact reason—to show other people they care, when they really don’t. I don’t want to exploit charities, orphanages or food drives to improve my personal reputation. That’s what my father did. Everyone knew how much he donated, and when. And they clapped him on the back for it. I don’t want to do it that way.”
Amity took a step back, allowing the air to cool between them. She opened her mouth, searching for something to say, but all of a sudden, Aziz’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. He lifted his finger, asking for a moment. And she nodded, watching him march back into the house with a firm, “Hello, this is Aziz.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, assessing their conversation. So often, she’d used the tactic of charity donation to
