Sheikh's Scandalous Mistress (3 page)

She frowned, and for the first time, something besides hardened skepticism glinted in those blue eyes of hers. Maybe it was understanding; he just hoped it wasn’t pity. He never should have said as much, but he’d always loathed himself for letting go on that one point. He shouldn’t have budged on the name.

“You shouldn’t have sold out on that one thing. It’s a sweet gesture, and frankly, it would have made a great story.”

“I wanted to honor Farana, but maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know if I have the strength to explain about her to everyone. Perhaps I should, though. It’s a shame how easy it is for family to grow forgotten.”

She nodded and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I get that. I love my dad, and my stepmom has always tried so hard. God knows I gave her so much crap as a teenager. Still, there’s something about my dad remarrying at all that burns me up. I know it’s selfish, and still childish in some small part of my mind, but I sometimes feel like even that much moving on makes it seem like Mom’s been buried a second time.”

She surprised him then by reaching out and touching his hand. “Don’t ever hide the truth about someone you care about. Trust me, I know that way too well.”

“But I am led to believe,” he continued, “that you find the kitsch of the ‘Ali Babba’ name as ridiculous as I do?”

“I think it’s a bit degrading. I suppose it’s better that you didn’t call it ‘Aladdin’s’ or make a ‘1,001 Arabian Nights’ pun,” she replied, smirking.

So the intrigue continues, does it not
?

“Do you have other questions for me?” he asked. “I can tell you about the specs for the restaurants and our chefs. I can talk about the amazing magicians and stage shows we’ve hired for the night entertainment. I can even tell you about the literal, arduous process of creating this skyscraper girder by girder.”

He couldn’t keep the pride from creeping into his voice. No matter how risky this maneuver was or how much his father had frowned at the idea of going big with their next building venture, the resort and casino had been a complete labor of love for Amir. It was almost like his child, something he’d fought for in order to bring lovingly into existence. Considering he enjoyed his bachelor lifestyle, he figured this would be the closest thing to a legacy he’d leave on the world…assuming the casino survived and flourished the way he sincerely hoped it would.

“I suppose you’ll have to tell me.”

He frowned back at her, still intrigued by her utter lack of care. He’d dealt with reporters for years. It went hand in hand with being a royal and with his family’s vast financial holdings. He’d rarely met one who couldn’t fake enthusiasm or even politeness. Whatever else were true about Miss Sinclair, she had a serious stick up her bum, and he wasn’t sure where it had come from. Yet, her acerbic nature was refreshing, something that toyed with him.

“We can keep talking about you. I have a feeling this isn’t the assignment you actually wanted at the
Sentinel
.”

“I’m trying to be polite. I just…and don’t take this the wrong way,” she said.

“Oh, I won’t.”

“But this
is
a puff piece. I could be easily asking the same questions for
Us Weekly
or
People
. This is not at all my type of journalism. To be perfectly frank…” she started, biting her lower lip a little.

“Why stop now?” he asked, chuckling.

“Look, usually I’d be covering political news in America’s capital. This is a side diversion, so I really just have to type whatever gets the inches filled and record the right quotes tonight at the press conference. If you can just go through the spiel for my recorder, then we can both be closer to freedom.”

He leaned lower and traced a finger over her shoulder, smoothing back her golden hair. “Of course, if that’s what you actually want, Miss Sinclair. We can go by the book…but perhaps one day you should learn to hide your disdain for the assignment you’re currently on. It’ll get your subjects to open up more,” he said, leaning so close that his lips were hovering over her left ear. “I’d open up so much for you.”

She stood up fast and swallowed hard. “I think I’ll just get what I need from your press secretary. I….until tonight at the press conference, Sheikh Bahan.”

“Yes, we meet again, Miss Sinclair,” he finished, enjoying the view as she walked out of the office.

It took almost fifteen minutes before Amanda felt her heart rate return to normal back in her hotel room. Surely what she thought had just happened hadn’t. It wasn’t unusual to be hit on while covering her beat. She sometimes spoke with mayors or even older senators and congressman on the Hill. Often it was just a wink in her direction. One eighty-year-old senator had even said he had a room permanently downtown at one of the premiere hotels. Still, this was different. His lips had been practically on her ear, even as he teased her about “opening up.”

But the thing that made this encounter so distinct, what had her heart hammering like crazy, was that he wasn’t some crusty old senator or some lecherous mayor. Sheikh Amir Bahan was seductive—at close to six-foot-five, with eyes the color of amber and a neatly trimmed dark beard that highlighted his sharp cheekbones, he was pure sex incarnate. He had her thinking thoughts that she’d been too busy to even think about in the last six months. Her poor battery-operated boyfriend had long ago been shoved into a drawer and forgotten about. Her six-month-long investigation of Senator Jackson’s corruption had consumed her. She’d been all business, all the time.

But now, maybe Margery’s and Harris’s words were influencing her. She’d have to wait out the next six months or so in journalistic purgatory. Currently, she was still reaching out to gather more sources, and as soon as she was back in DC (whenever that would be), Amanda would be finding every extra witness she could wrangle into helping her build an even bigger, more solid case against the senator. However, right now, she’d be in Abu Dhabi for the next two weeks or more, covering the ins and outs of the casino’s opening. Maybe it would be okay to let herself relax for just a few days, to let herself give in to her own urges and needs. Who knew if she’d even interpreted the Sheikh’s overtures correctly?

God, what did she know?

Maybe Sheikh Bahan was like that with every woman. His reputation certainly preceded him. It was quite possible that Amanda was reading things that weren’t there, seeing hints of attraction that were only in her addled and exhausted mind. So he’d swept her hair over her shoulder—so what? He’d whispered in her ear and smirked down at her with that delicious, crooked smile of his. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be no more than his default temperament. And then there was the fact that it would be nuts. He was a sheikh—royalty and a man worth billions—and she was just the reporter with two big hips who was covering him for a fortnight.

She just needed rest. Besides, the press conference was going to start in less than eight hours, and she still had to prep for a teaser piece to go out before tomorrow’s news conference roundup. Amanda still had to go over everything she needed with his secretary beforehand. She didn’t have time for fantasies brought on by far too much deprivation.

But maybe she did have time for some mindless white noise.

As she flipped the TV on, she grimaced when CNN came on first. Granted, as a newshound, she needed to stay on top of what was happening, but she’d also been on an international flight, exhausted from travel, and was just now trying to get her head in the game to write her next piece. As she looked up, though, her stomach scrunched up and bile rose in her throat. It was a flash of a headline from El Salvador, where two dozen people were killed in a cartel shootout.

It all leads back to Jackson, damn it.

So much for getting work done immediately. She needed to get to the scotch and blot out her guilt. None of this would be happening if she’d stuck to her guns, just like her mother would have done. As long as she stayed silent, those people and all the machinations in Central America were on her mind. Pouring the scotch into her first tumbler, she took a quick shot, letting the amber liquid burn its way down her throat.

God that felt good. Hopefully it could take an edge off her guilt and give her just enough liquid courage to get through tonight.

***

“And so,” he said, smiling as best he could for the assorted reporters, “that’s the basic presentation on our facilities. Do you have any questions?”

His eyes drifted over the crowd of assorted and somewhat sleepy faces. He caught sight of those piercing blue eyes and that shiny mane of golden hair in the back of the room. Amir wasn’t sure why he needed so badly for her to come back. It was more than obvious that she was going to be here. After all, her paper had sent her to cover the full unveiling of the resort. Still, she hadn’t been there at the start, and now that he was staring back at her, he could see something different in her eyes. Instead of the disdain mixed with mirth from before, he saw eyes that seemed red and less sharply focused.

Has she been drinking?

One of the reporters from a British paper started the Q&A with a simple question about what he hoped to add to the resort as time went on. But then it was Miss Sinclair who had her hand up. Actually, she was practically standing on her tiptoes and waving her arm all over, almost as if she were at a party. It wouldn’t have looked odd for her to have a lit lighter in her hand, like at the encore of a rock concert.

Still, he wanted to hear from her, so he called on her.

“Yes, the reporter from the
Washington Sentinel.
Ah, Miss Sinclair, I believe.”

“How can you justify the use of your resources to create yet another resort in the outer reaches of the city? There are already a fair share of casinos and luxury hotels around the Formula One racing track, and yet the city’s infrastructure and urban planning are a mess and undermaintained?” She grinned back at him, her expression sharp and feral like a wolf. “Or do I need to break this down into further constituent parts?”

He blinked, realizing that he’d walked right into a trap. She actually wasn’t the first reporter to criticize the creation of the Ali Babba for that reason. Usually, though, the bulk of them were journalists within Abu Dhabi, itself. The locals were angry at some of the ways the old heart of the city had been forgotten in the rush to expand the glittering, outer edge as a tourist attraction. Amir hadn’t expected such a piercing question as this press conference.

He should have based on her attitude earlier this morning.

“To be fair, I would say that creating jobs and helping to increase the tourism industry are a boon for the entire population of Abu Dhabi.”

“But you won’t take, say, a certain percentage of the profits from the casino and then put it back into the infrastructure of your own nation-state, will you? These will go back into your family coffers?”

Clenching his jaw, Amir tried not to pounce on her with any fury. He staunchly believed that building up the tourism in his nation, having it even supersede that of Dubai, would help all his people. It would make America care about the nation’s issues if tourists were using it as a playground. It would put wealth in everyone’s pockets, and most of all, it would give him a way to keep hiring a mostly Abu Dhabian staff.

“We currently employ over two thousand citizens of Abu Dhabi, and as we expand—”

“If you expand,” she countered.

“
When
,” he chimed out, projecting strength and assurance for everyone else. “When we grow, we’ll bring even more to this city-state and its people. Now, moving on…”

***

After the press conference there was a cocktail party for both investors and members of the press. It was exactly what he’d been waiting for. His intriguing reporter had gone from an alluring curiosity straight to an annoying thorn in his side. While he didn’t mind some spirit in a reporter or a woman, Amir loathed being made into a fool. Miss Sinclair had worked her hardest to essentially call him on the carpet and to catch the attention of the other reporters, to make them also gear their questions towards his plans as sheikh for the rest of his country. He had those plans, but he and his family could only do so much at a time, damn it.

He found her out on the balcony alone, nursing a glass of sparkling water or club soda. Perhaps she really was hungover or drunk already. As he slid next to her, he noticed her eyes seemed less red, but the determination was brimming in them just as steadily as it was at the press conference.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, his tone as commanding as it ever was for his staff.

She glared up at him. He was so shocked at the way she held herself with such confidence and poise. The woman was barely five feet tall, and he should have no trouble making her kowtow to him, and yet she was eyeing him as if he were nothing more than just smoke and mirrors. Damn it, he had far more authority than that, and it was time that Miss Sinclair respected him.

“Were you now? Do you have any more specifics on how your wonder resort is going to save your country?”

“I maintain what I say. There’s more than just money involved.”

“Isn’t there always?” she asked, her tone resigned.

“But I like to point out politically, that Americans only care about things on a whim. If we suddenly become the go-to playground for the rich, then any other problems we might have as things destabilize around here will actually get listened to. Don’t mistake the kitschy name and the glitz for something else. I think of my duty, my family, and what the resort can do for
everyone
constantly, Miss Sinclair,” he finished, feeling his breath coming rapidly as he spoke and his nostrils flaring with his anger.

She considered him and leaned against the railing. “This place really does matter that much to you? You really believe your own hype?”