The Sheikh's Baby Bet, Page 4

  “I get it,” the Sheikh said, his voice soft. “Not all mothers are like my mine. But damn, it’s been two years and I still miss her, every single stupid day.” He laughed slightly, bowing his head. “It was a traumatic time. Going to the hospital every day. Trying to lift her spirits when she really didn’t have a reason to smile. As it got near the end, they had her on so much medication that she could barely open her eyes. I remained at her side. Reading to her. Holding her hand…” He trailed off, bringing his chin to his chest. “Sorry for going into this. I promise I don’t throw this story onto just anyone.”

  Did this mean Tiffany wasn’t ‘just anyone’? Embarrassed, yet feeling her heart beat with excitement, she slipped her hand over his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “It’s all right,” she breathed. “You can say whatever you want to, here. This is a safe space.”

  “It feels that way,” he laughed. “And you can’t possibly understand how important that is. Especially for someone like me, who hasn’t felt safe in over two years.”

  “When my mother left,” Tiffany said softly, “I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel like I was standing on solid ground again. But now that I’ve lived here a few years, I can’t imagine another life for myself. Truth be told, I’m glad she left. If only so I could come here and build something else for myself.”

  The Sheikh suddenly reached for her hand, lifted it, and kissed it. Caught off-guard, Tiffany’s lips parted with sudden excitement and emotion. Closing her eyes, she felt his lips kiss down her hand, toward her arm, inhaling the scent of her. Shivering, she allowed herself to fall into his arms. She shuddered slightly, almost feeling as if she’d begin to cry. She hadn’t told anyone the truth of herself in years. And revealing it was almost like getting naked in front of him. It was almost like giving herself over to him, wholly and sexually.

  It was almost better than that.

  After a long moment of silence, the Sheikh looked down and noticed they were out of wine. Without pause, he lifted the glasses and walked toward the kitchen, leaving Tiffany in the living room alone. She heard the gurgle of the wine as it poured into the glass. Then, nothing. Wondering if something was wrong, she stood up and walked, taking tentative steps toward the kitchen. When she appeared in the doorway, she stared across at him, at his burning eyes, turned toward her.

  And then, without pause, he burst across the room and kissed her. His soft mouth met hers, and his strong arms drew her close. She felt passion growing in her stomach. She fell into his kiss, yearning for more.

  Kazra lifted her into his arms and carried her to her bedroom, slipping her across the comforter. He stared down at her small frame, his lips parted, his eyes like those of a wild animal. After a moment, he whispered, “Are you sure about this?”

  But Tiffany couldn’t imagine anything she wanted more.

  They made love after that, falling into one another. They continued deep into the night, inhaling one another’s smells and crying out together. Far, far away, the paparazzi were searching for the Sheikh, looking in all of his usual Friday night haunts. Far away, Zarina was calling Tiffany’s dead cellphone, curious about how her evening with the Sheikh had gone. The night hummed along without them. They no longer needed it. They had one another.

  Afterwards, sweaty and exhausted, they collapsed in one another’s arms, lost in the haze of their passion. They fell asleep, tucked close together, listening to the waves as they crashed against the pier. It had been the most romantic night of Tiffany’s life. The world had seemed to open itself up to her, revealing true emotion. And she no longer wanted to resist it.

  Chapter Five

  Tiffany hadn’t dreamed in years. But that night, wrapped in the loving embrace of the Sheikh, she fell into gorgeous dreams. Dreams of her and Kazra, basking in the sunshine, and diving into the glowing sea. Dreams of a future together, walking hand-in-hand and choosing furniture. Dreams in which her father and the current Sheikh spent long nights speaking together over a glass or two of whiskey, discussing Al Barait’s issues and the ways in which her father could assist.

  She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was getting ahead of herself. But she couldn’t help it. After the emotions of the previous night—after having a connection with someone for the first time in years—she wanted to clamber into life with him. It was all she could do not to wake up and tell him, immediately.

  But when she awoke, she realized, with a sudden jolt, that her bed was empty. She glanced around her, listening hard. Perhaps he was in the shower?

  She waited, her heart pounding, trying to search out the sound of the water running. But after nearly five minutes of silence, she stretched her feet to the ground. Rubbing her eyes, she held out hope that he was just down the road, grabbing them coffee. That he was perched on the balcony, speaking on the phone. That he hadn’t just left without saying goodbye.

  Finally, she reached for her T-shirt and drew it over her head. She took tentative steps towards the kitchen, glancing around her as she went, noting that he’d folded the sweatpants and T-shirt she’d given him and placed them on the couch.

  Now, the only hope she clung to was that he’d left a note.

  Feeling anxious, almost crazy, she shuffled through the papers on her countertop, fighting for a reality that wasn’t there. Finally giving in to reality, she slammed her fist on the countertop, her eyes bright and angry. How could he have put her through such a wonderful night, just to leave her so early in the morning? How could he have sent her flowers, chocolates—a singer, for God’s sake—just to leave her in the morning after he’d gotten what he wanted? With a deep sigh she fell to the ground, crossing her legs in front of her. She’d been abandoned, just as she’d been afraid of. And instead of allowing tears to fall, she felt her anger rise.

  Minutes later, she was dressed. She pushed a brush through her hair and left, knowing that she’d go crazy if she stayed in her apartment where she could still smell his scent. Finding her spot at her nearby coffee shop, she dropped her chin into her hand and leaned on it heavily, glaring out the window at the shimmering sun. People passed on their way to the beach, clinging to their towels and laughing together. Lovers walked, hand in hand: constant reminders that whatever she and the Sheikh had had the night before had been false, and had no grounding in reality.

  “You really fooled me,” she whispered to herself, her eyes narrowing. “And that was only your first mistake.”

  On a newspaper rack near the side of the coffee shop, she spotted his face: all bright white teeth in that crooked smile and high cheekbones. He stared back at her, laughing—seemingly mocking her for being so foolish. Tiffany reached for the magazine, gripping it tight and smacking it against her table. The headline read back, “Sheikh Closes Down Hotel Party At Dawn.”

  This was the final kick. Blinking wildly, Tiffany realized that the Sheikh had left her bed hours before she’d awoken, only to leap into his private driver’s car and whip off to a party. While she’d been diving from dream to dream, he’d been taking shots and gloating with some of the highest rollers in the city. He’d been sweet-talking other women, gripping their waists, tossing the memory of her into the garbage.

  Enraged, she crumpled up the newspaper, aimed at the trashcan in the corner and blasted it away. Without proper aim, however, she watched as it tossed to the side, landing at the feet of a woman about her age, wearing stiletto heels. The woman grinned at her from behind cat-eye sunglasses, looking tired, as if she’d been awake all night. She glanced at the newspaper, and then lifted it, chuckling.

  “Ah, yes. It was quite a night,” she said, gesturing toward the headline. “After the party was broken up, I actually left with the Sheikh and a few of his entourage,” she said, her voice high-pitched and bright. “Back to the palace, if you can believe that! These guys. Their ideas are always off the wall. And Kazra himself, well. You wouldn’t think he’d be such a party animal. But it was his fault that I haven’t been home yet.”

  Tiffany’s lips p
arted in shock. “You’ve just come from the palace?”

  The woman flipped her hair over her shoulder, clearly impressed with herself. “Oh, it was no big deal. Just dancing. But the Sheikh says that next weekend, he’ll take us all out to the best club in town.”

  Tiffany scoffed, glaring down at her fingers.

  “What? He says he’s a man of his word,” the girl said, her eyes glittering. “Since he’s the next ruler of this country, I have to believe him.” Her tone was playful, and almost condescending.

  Tiffany clucked her tongue and turned back toward the window, hoping the woman would leave her alone. Sure, she understood. The Sheikh recognized that his world wasn’t hers. But being rejected so harshly—right before he darted off to another party!—it was far too much for her to bear.

  Then she had an idea. Reaching for her phone, she dialed Mallory. The phone rang three times, nearly clipping into voicemail, before the other woman answered with a huff.

  “Hey, honey,” Mallory began. “Sorry. We’re doing that workout I told you about. The one with the lunges?”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Tiffany said, her nostrils flaring. It felt strange that anyone’s life had continued on, when she was living in this nightmare. “I need to discuss a new marketing plan with you. A new blog post, something we could target at people coming into Al Barait.”

  “You’re itching to write?” Mallory asked, still gasping for breath.

  “It’s about an entire scene we’ve skipped over, Mallory,” Tiffany said, scratching at her forehead. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mallory asked, incredulous.

  “The party scene,” Tiffany sighed. “And who better to interview about the party scene than the number one party boy of the entire country?”

  “Ha,” Mallory laughed. After a pause, she continued. “You’re just being cocky, now that you have one man chasing after you. You want them all. Even the future Sheikh!”

  “That’s not it,” Tiffany lied, sliding her finger along the edge of the table, scratching off bits of wood. “It’s really not.”

  “Well, beats me why else you’d be thinking about this on a Saturday morning, but…” Mallory trailed off, then whispered something to her husband beside her. “Just a work thing. One more minute.”

  “I really think it’s a good angle to exploit, maybe even bring in some younger tourists,” Tiffany said, trying to sound more diplomatic. “And it wouldn’t take longer than an hour or two.”

  “You think you can track him down?” Mallory asked, sounding doubtful. “He runs a pretty ragged life, doesn’t he?”

  “Mallory, Mallory,” Tiffany said, feeling increasingly apprehensive, but trying to keep her voice even. “You know I can find almost anyone in this city. It’s the job I was born to do.”

  After Mallory sputtered her agreement, Tiffany strode from the coffee shop with a fire under her feet. She clutched her cellphone and bounded up the steps, into her home office. With a large list of telephone numbers before her—all the people with whom she’d worked via the tourism office—she found one that belonged to Domingo, a South American man who’d worked at the palace the year before. He’d handled the tours she’d put together for the richer, semi-famous Americans and Brits who wanted a sneak peek of the palace grounds and decadent hallways. She prayed, crossing her fingers tight, that he was still employed at the palace.

  Domingo answered the phone quickly, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Domingo, hello!” Tiffany chimed in, wanting to sound cordial and alive, not like she was trying to track down the man who’d embarrassed her. “How have you been?”

  “I’m sorry. Who is this?” he asked, his voice growing darker.

  “It’s Tiffany Ashworth at Barait Boutique. My company hired you last year to run those celebrity tours…”

  “Oh, Tiffany,” Domingo said, his tone lightening slightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really suspicious of people who call this number now that I no longer work at the palace. I’m worried that people will try to use me for my contacts.”

  Tiffany’s heart sunk deep into her stomach. “Oh, that’s horrible to hear,” she said, still playacting. “Why on earth would they use you?”

  “Nobody wants my services anymore,” he sighed. “I fell out of favor at the palace, and now I’m struggling to get a proper job. It’s been months. I’ve been washing dishes at a restaurant. My hands are scrubbed clean!”

  “Oh, Domingo.” Tiffany’s brain felt stretched thin. How could she get through this one? He was her only contact, her only way in. Pressing her fist against her forehead, she spoke. “I think I might have another tour you could do for us, if you’re willing?”

  “Oh, my, yes!” Domingo said, leaping on it. “What kind of tour? Brewery? Wine tasting?”

  “Um. I was thinking more along the lines of historic sites?” Tiffany said, sighing. “If that’s not too boring for you?”

  “If it’s paid, I’ll take it,” Domingo said, chortling.

  “That’s great, Domingo—” Tiffany began.

  “And thanks for thinking of me,” Domingo said, still sounding more cheerful. “It really means the world, knowing you appreciate what I do.”

  “Right.” Tiffany’s eyes felt larger than saucers. “I remember how much our clients enjoyed your work.” After a pause, she felt her jaw clench. She couldn’t possibly tell Domingo the truth, now. “Say. There was another guy who did the tours with you sometimes, right? Theodore?”

  “I would say he was the lesser of the two of us,” Domingo said. “But yes. Theodore did the occasional tour.”

  “And he’s still at the palace?” Tiffany asked.

  “Of course he is. He took my job,” Domingo said, his voice gruff.

  “You don’t happen to have his number, do you?” Tiffany asked, feeling strained. How long was this going to go on? The sun was peaking higher into the sky, a reminder that she was losing time. If she was going to shove this situation in the Sheikh’s face, she needed to do it as soon as possible.

  “Theodore’s number?” Domingo asked, incredulous. He began to stutter. “I—I don’t understand. You just…” He trailed off. “You just want my contacts at the palace. Don’t you?”

  “No. Of course not,” Tiffany said, lying through her teeth. “I just want to see if Theodore might be able to take on a few tours—”

  “No,” Domingo said, smashing a line between them. “I won’t do that. I know you’re trying to use me, just like all the others. It’s disgusting, Tiffany. Really. I went out of my way for your company last year…”

  “I know. I know,” Tiffany sighed. It was all coming apart. “But it’s absolutely imperative that I speak with the Sheikh.”

  “Find him yourself,” Domingo said, scoffing. “You know he’s at some bimbo’s apartment. You read the tabloids.”

  Then, he hung up, and the dial tone buzzed into Tiffany’s ear.

  Enraged, she tossed the phone against the couch cushions. How was she supposed to find the Sheikh, now? Pacing the floor, she ignored one, then two, then three calls from Zarina. She knew that her friend was filled with questions about the night before. Tiffany didn’t feel like she could speak about it yet; she felt like she’d been hung out to dry.

  Zarina called a fourth time, and on the third ring Tiffany answered it.

  “Zarina, I’m sorry. I’m just not in a great mood right now, okay?”

  “Girl, listen!” Zarina sounded in a rush. “I just drove past your guy!”

  “What do you mean?” Tiffany asked, her ears suddenly perked. “Which guy?”

  “Don’t be silly. I haven’t heard from you all day. I know something must have happened last night.” Zarina paused, swallowing harshly. “I saw your guy in one of his fancy convertibles, driving with his friends—some of the guys we saw at that restaurant.”

  “Where was he going?” Tiffany asked, her voice growing low
. “Could you tell?”

  “You’re looking for him?” Zarina asked.

  “Well, kind of. See, we’re doing a story about him for the company—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Zarina said, her voice crisp. “I know you’re up to something. I can smell it.”

  “No, really. It can wait and everything, I just. He left some stuff with me last night, and I need to return it…” Tiffany smacked her hand against her forehead, feeling increasingly stupid. After a long, horrible pause, she whispered. “Okay. All right. I need to find him. For personal reasons.”

  “All right,” Zarina said. “I’ll give you a pass this time. I’ve never known you to get this worked up over a guy…”

  “Zarina.” Tiffany inhaled through her teeth, almost seething. “Can you just tell me where he was going?”

  “He turned left on the highway, towards the big car show. We’ve been hearing commercials for it all month. Isn’t he a car fanatic? Vintage ones are his thing, aren’t they?”

  Tiffany swallowed, feeling her heart hammering. So he wasn’t with another girl, she thought. He was just at a car show, doing what he did best, spending money he hadn’t earned.

  “Yes. A car show. That makes sense…” Tiffany trailed off, lost in thought. She had half a mind to turn off her phone, lock her apartment, and hide beneath the covers for the next few days. He’d returned to his old life, and she should return to hers: to one of loneliness and misery.

  But no. When they’d been together, she had seen another side to him. He’d been soft-edged, telling her how he’d been at his mother’s bedside every night, before she’d died. He’d shown her his true colors. Perhaps he was just at the car show because his friends expected it of him. She would go. She would demand answers. And she would remind him of the intensity they had shared in each other’s company—an intensity she refused to just throw away.