The Sheikh's Irresistible Proposal (13 page)

ONE

Emma

It all started with a really crappy day. I know that’s not the most auspicious start to things, but really, the whole day was a tribute to Murphy’s Law; everything that could have gone wrong, did.

It started in the morning, when the alarm I’d set didn’t go off. I’d been exhausted when I set the damn thing, and I’d accidentally selected PM instead of AM, and woke up at about 10:45, with all of fifteen minutes to shower, get dressed, and drive out to the Laurel Price Talent Agency.

I wasn’t famous enough to be late, so I dove into the shower like a mad woman, my long red hair flying in all directions. I’d thought about cutting it, but everyone liked it long, and in my line of work, you give the people what they want. I turned on the water, and promptly screamed.

When you’re in a hurry, you forget a great many basic things, like how long it takes the water to heat up. I leapt out of the spray, nearly slipping in the tub, grabbed my loofah sponge, and waited impatiently. When the water finally got warm, I soaped up and started scrubbing.

Two minutes later, I stepped out, stinging soap in my brown eyes, feeling around for a towel like a Night of the Living Dead zombie. Laurel was a half hour away with traffic, and I had ten minutes. I dove into my black dress and flats, anticipating that I was going to need to run, then shot out the door of my tiny apartment, bumping straight into the last person I wanted to see right then: my landlady.

“Why, it’s Emma Johnson,” she said, in saccharine tones. “You seem to be confused, dear, so allow me to clear something up. This is not, I repeat,
not
a homeless shelter.”

Her voice always reminded me of an evil Aunt Bea. She was gaunt and wrinkled, her eyes sharp and beady. It almost felt like they could see you through the walls.

“I came to tell you that a nice young woman has expressed interest in renting an apartment here. I know you won’t mind if I give her a tour of yours, because if you are unable to produce the rent in the next day or two, it pains me to tell you that you will no longer be occupying it.”

I don’t have time for this!
I thought to myself, but I was already a good three weeks behind on my rent. Given that it was the third time in as many months, running past this woman was a very bad idea. So was fighting her about people touring my apartment. The smart thing to do was get to my car as fast as humanly possible.

“I’m sorry your rent is late, Mrs. Coleman,” I began, doing my best to sound sincere. “I’m going to do something about that right this minute. But I really need to go now. I’m very late. I’ll come see you the day after tomorrow.”

“I truly hope so,” she simpered sweetly, letting me pass. “I’ve always said you have such nice things. It would be a crying shame if I were forced to put them out in the street.”

I didn’t say anything. There wasn’t time. At that point, the best case scenario was I’d show up half an hour late.

I ran outside, and into a cloudburst. Just imagine my luck. California’s in the middle of a drought, but the little rain that is falling somehow managed to find me. I did a lot of swearing, and ran to my car: a white Malibu from two or three years ago. It was nothing fancy, but it got the job done without using too much gas or breaking down too often.

I barreled down the streets of North Hollywood, weaving through the lanes, and yelling at drivers to get out of my way. There were two things waiting for me at that talent agency: an audition for a national commercial, and preliminary instructions for the reality show I was going to appear on that evening.

When I’d moved to LA from Arizona, I had hoped to do more than sell shampoo and go on televised dates, but bill collectors don’t give a damn about your dreams, so that’s precisely what I was racing to do. The pay for the reality show was described as “generous” but I couldn’t afford not to have a backup just in case. They could always cut my part, and if I didn’t get a paycheck soon, I was going to be out in the street.

I reached the agency at 11:40, and dashed straight up the stairs to the third floor waiting room. I had tried out for so many parts here in the last few months that the woman at the front desk knew me on sight. Her name was Ms. Rosen. She was small and pale, about forty years old, and had a few wrinkles and a very thin smile. She shook her head reproachfully as she came into my field of vision, and instinctively I knew all my hurrying had been for nothing.

“They called you three times, honey, but you didn’t answer. They moved on, and gave the part to an up-and-coming named Melanie Pond. Your agent isn’t happy, and you need to run up to her office right this minute.” She said it all matter-of-factly, in a quiet, even tone, as if she wasn’t reading me a death sentence.

I thanked her curtly and headed upstairs. If the reality show didn’t work out now, I was pretty much screwed. I had nothing to fall back on, and it was all because of a stupid alarm. On top of that, my agent was waiting in her office, simmering in her displeasure. It wasn’t even noon yet, but I was sure my day couldn’t get worse. I was wrong.

You’d think a Hollywood agent would have a fancy office, but Margaret Thune’s merely had a small desk, a file cabinet, two chairs for guests, and a water cooler. Margaret was sitting at her desk, furiously typing away on her laptop. When she saw me, I got an icy stare, and she went back to typing.

I coughed politely, cleared my throat, and shuffled about, but the woman took no notice of me. Finally, she glanced up from what she was doing, and pointed at one of the chairs. She was twenty-six, only three years older than me, but the way she was ordering me about, she might as well have been my mother. I sat down in spite of my misgivings, and struggled to master my anger.

“You made me look like a fool just now,” Margaret finally began, in slow, dangerous, tones. “I spent the last half hour trying to convince the Bare Necessities representative to wait just a little while longer because the perfect candidate would be arriving any minute. I spent all that time talking you up, telling them you’d make their ads shine, only to have you be a no show. This sort of thing tarnishes your reputation as well as mine, Emma. You’re making it really hard for me to do my job!”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “It was the stupid al—”

“I don’t care what it was, Emma. There’s no room for laziness in this business. You wanna play in the majors, you show up on time. Movie careers have blossomed from advertising gigs. If this happens again, you’re on your own. I’m not wasting my time if you’re not serious.”

“Just a minute!” I roared, rising to my full height, and gazing into her cold, narrow eyes.

She overruled me with a wave of her thin white hand, and a pursing of her crimson lips. “We’re going to discuss your assignment this evening,” she returned coldly. “For God’s sake, don’t be late for it. You’re to be at the Merridoc at seven sharp. When you get there, you’ll go straight to wardrobe and get your script for the evening. You’ve heard of Date Roulette I assume?”

“Yeah,” I replied stiffly. “It’s constructed reality. Kind of like the show I did last month.”

“Right,” Margaret replied dismissively. “Follow the script exactly, and you’ll be home free. I don’t have anything else lined up for you yet, so if you mess this up, you’re on your own.”

She dismissed me like I was an army private, and I got out of there, swearing under my breath.

No question about it, Margaret was a hard-ass. But I needed her, and she was good at what she did. I’d been on twelve television programs because of her. Two months ago, she landed me a role as an inspector on that show about a paper company that everyone loves. It was only a tiny role in two episodes, but I’d got to be a part of one of the most popular shows in the country. Margaret had also got me bit parts in four commercials, including the one where the kids love me because I make them pizza rolls. That one allowed me to make last month’s rent and my car payment. Now she had gotten me on Date Roulette, a show more popular than any I had done before. It was going to be my largest audience yet. Hard-ass or not, I didn’t want Margaret even thinking of dropping me.

I went back downstairs, and out into the rain, to find something I could afford for lunch. Six or seven glamorous restaurants caught my attention, but my money hid deep in my purse at the sight of them. I ended up in a cheap sandwich shop, gnawing at an even cheaper chicken Caesar wrap. Two tables down, a six-year-old was shouting herself silly, climbing all over the booth she and her mother were in. When I looked over, her mother blushed red with embarrassment. She was trying in vain to get her little girl to settle down, bribing her with smartphone videos.

The rest of the day went by pretty much like that: one annoyance after another. By 6:45 that evening, I was stuck in traffic and swearing like a pack of devils.

“Parking’s gonna suck,” I told myself flatly. There was no point holding out hope.

It felt like everyone in Hollywood was trying to get to the Merridoc, and I had to weave through traffic and cut past a few people on my way there. I saw many a middle finger flashed my way, but I didn’t care; being late again was not an option.

I shot into the right lane like a woman possessed, just ahead of a sedan, and drove in the wake of an ambulance for three blocks.

“The hell are ya doin’, lady?” some guy shouted, nearly running into me.

I ignored him and drove on, feeling adrenaline pump through my veins. By the time the restaurant came into view, I was sure every cop in the city would be behind me, like the ending of Blues Brothers.

I pulled my car into the parking lot, amazed that it was still unscathed, and saw what I’d known I would: every single space was taken. It was the perfect end to a terrible day. I was five minutes late, with nowhere to park.

I was just considering taking my chances and parking it on the street when a miracle happened. Just a few spaces ahead of me, a car’s lights flashed to life. Someone was pulling out of a space. For the first time today, something was going right. That space might as well have come with a light from heaven and its own choir.

Just at that moment, I saw a car beside me, a sleek, black Audi that had to have cost more than a small house. I tensed: it was heading for the space as well, but after all I had been through today, there was no natural way anyone else was getting it. I slammed my foot on the accelerator, cut ahead of my competition, and made a very sharp turn into the empty lot.

My heart was beating much faster than usual, and I felt like I had just come off a runaway roller coaster. Collecting myself, I got out of my car and smoothed the wrinkles that had formed in my dress.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” a clear voice suddenly shouted. It had a slight Mediterranean accent. “You cut me up and nearly ran into my car! If you don’t know how to drive, stay the hell off the road. What makes you think you have the right to cut in front of people?”

“I saw it first,” I returned simply, turning to look at the guy yelling at me.

I swear he looked like he belonged in a movie. My first thought was that he was one of the bachelors I would be “dating” that evening. If the other two looked anything like him, doing the show might not be so bad after all.

He was tall, a few inches over six feet, with olive skin that had been further tanned in the sun. Even through the expensively-tailored suit he was wearing, it was obvious that he had a chiseled body. He had a strong jaw, and short, wavy, black hair that shone under the lights of the parking lot. A neatly trimmed beard covered his face, which at the moment, was set firmly in an expression of rage.

“You saw it first?” he shouted, walking towards me. “What are you? Five? I was about to pull in, and you had to nearly kill us both to stop me.”

I was about to reply when I remembered I was already late, for the second time that day. I didn’t want whoever was in charge to find me in the middle of a shouting match, as opposed to in wardrobe, so I turned away and stepped inside the Merridoc.

“Get back here!” the man ordered. “I’m talking to you!”

The restaurant looked like a fifties nightclub, complete with the grand stage and intimate lighting. TV cameras were mounted in a ring around the rear of the room, and each one had a perfect view of the tables with their golden tablecloths. Fine crystal shone in the artificial candlelight, and silver sat at every place setting.