The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) (2 page)

At your palace.
Nigella almost giggled. It sounded so absurd. Or was this really about getting her off Adjalane land?

She wasn’t convinced this was the best path to the sea. If the ground proved too rocky, costs would soar. Or would they have to do an above-ground pipeline and what kind of exposure to terrorists would that create? She had a hundred questions about this deal—and she wasn’t sure if Malid Adjalane’s job was to sell her on a hunk of useless land, or was he here to fleece her for a ridiculous amount of money?

One dark eyebrow lifted over his dark sunglasses. Again, she wanted to see his eyes, and she might get a chance over lunch. She called out to her guys to pack it up for now. She turned to tell Malid she’d follow him to his…palace.

But Malid was waving to the guy who’d come with him and already had hold of Nigella by the elbow. “Fadin will drive us. Your men may not be able to follow, so they had best return to their hotel.”

The guy—Fadin—inclined his head and then spoke briefly with her men. Nigella stiffened at that bit of high-handed take over—they were her men. But she didn’t need to get into a battle this early in the game.

Malid opened the door for her, and she slid into the back seat. “Nice ride,” she told him.

“More dependable in the desert.” Fadin slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Air conditioning stirred cool air over her skin. The car smelled of leather and money.

She eyed Malid, who was slipping into the seat next to her.
“You don’t have to sit back here with me,” she informed him.

He offered another of those charming smiles that he seemed to use so well. “But I want to. Now, what shall we talk of on the ride there?”

“Your home is lovely,” Nigella said. And it was. They’d driven through a gated entrance into a courtyard. Palm trees, lush foliage, flowering plants, and fountains lined a circular drive. The building—pale sandstone in stark, modern lines—seemed almost a backdrop to the garden. On the drive over, they’d talked about Al-Sarid’s history—it’s struggle to hold onto its independence and not be swallowed up by other, larger or richer countries, and its efforts to modernize and adapt to a parliamentary form of government. Nigella came away with the clear impression that families such as the Adjalane were still informal rulers who influenced everything. She was going to have to be careful when dealing with them.

Malid held out his hand to help her from the SUV. He gestured to the high walls and the very solid gate. “We are in sandstorm season, and so an interior entrance from the garage as well as this one, and walls are most useful to block most of the sand. Fadin, please tell the kitchen we will be having luncheon on the second floor balcony.” He glanced back to her and asked, “Do you like nature?”

She ignored the hand held out to her and used the excuse of gawking to climb out on her own. She turned in a circle. “Back in Texas we have a greenhouse—it’s my retreat. The mansion’s big and the ranch is even bigger, and growing up that greenhouse was Tarzan’s jungle, and I was Indiana Jones.”

Malid laughed—he actually laughed. She turned and saw he’d pulled off his sunglasses—at last. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, and she started to think this deal wouldn’t be that hard to pull off. “You are mixing your fiction,” Malid told her.

She grinned. “Oh, always.”

Taking her arm, he led her inside. Short of being rude and pulling away, she didn’t know how to get his hands off her, but maybe she shouldn’t try so hard.
He’s just being polite
, she told herself. But she also gave a small shiver. She liked those strong wrists and long fingers on her skin just a touch too much.

She also found herself liking the clean lines inside. Not quite stark, but modern and sparse, with a vibrant use of colors—dark blues, reds, orange and yellows—in the artwork choices which were all excellent, modern works, the carpets, which looked old and richly worked, and thick drapery that bracketed sheer linen.

Malid led her upstairs and to a balcony where a dining table of glass and wrought iron had been set up. He gestured toward one of the chairs, and she seated herself.

“Your name…it seems unusual,” he asked. He took the chair opposite her. She relaxed back against the thick cushions. It wasn’t too personal a question, but it was an ice breaker, and one she was used to.

A young woman in a very modern maid’s uniform came out of the house and filled water glasses for them. Nigella sipped and said, “Gordon Michaels was hoping for a son—Nigel was going to be his name.”

“And he got you instead?”

She nodded. “But Daddy likes to stick to a plan. So I got the name—only a little adjusted.”

“And now you’re following his footsteps?”

She smiled. “I’m Daddy’s problem solver.” And his deal maker. She’d learned young how to twist arms, leverage weaknesses and bargain hard. This, however, was due to be the longest pipeline in the Middle East and the crowning jewel in Opell Oil’s empire. Gordon had made her work hard to get her hands on this deal—and he’d all but said he was now looking at her to run the company when he retired at the end of the year.

But that wasn’t certain yet.

Gordon had two others—Benson and Williams—that he’d also been grooming for top spots, and Nigella knew that when it came to business, Gordon put the company ahead of family. The way it should be. Of course, that still stung at times. Which meant she was going to earn the right to take over from Daddy—and this deal would prove her worthy. Yet again.

She glanced out at the courtyard they were overlooking, and blinked hard. She wasn’t going to dig up old wounds—not the ones that had her having to work harder than any son. She was here to prove to Daddy that she had what it took to be the next head of Opell Oil.

Waving her water glass, she asked, “So…did you buy or build all this?”

Malid shook his head. He sat back, hands folded over a very flat stomach. He’d taken off his ball cap and had dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it disordered. She almost wanted to do the same thing. Thankfully, the maid came back with two others—and plates with salads, the hummus she’d learned you always got anywhere in the Middle East, flatbread, fruits, something that smelled like roast lamb, and finely chopped cucumbers mixed with olives. She realized she was hungry and started to help herself.

Malid sipped his water and gave her that mysterious smile of his. “Not quite. Now, before you ruin our luncheon by asking more questions that will no doubt lead to a subject I despise, I suggest we discuss the details of your offer.”

She raised an eyebrow in his direction and dug into the flatbread. It was fresh, melted in her mouth, and was perfect. She nodded and pulled out a sheaf of papers from her messenger bag. In the field, she liked to have hard copy, not computers. “That’s the offer my father presented to your father.”

Malid took the papers and read through them. Nigella shamelessly ate. The lamb was as good as the smell promised—moist, marinated in something with citrus and delicately spiced. The fruits were perfectly ripe and sweet. She could get used to this diet. Then Malid started to frown, and Nigella’s stomach tightened. He glanced at her. “Opell Oil wants to purchase the land, not just lease it? You expect us to sell land that has been in our family for over two centuries?”

Putting down the flatbread—the meal was to be eaten with the fingers, her favorite kind of food—Nigella wiped her hands on her napkin and met that dark-eyed, steady gaze. The man would make a great poker player, and she had thought this might be an issue that would need to be hammered out. “I’ve done a comparable cost analysis for similar land, and I believe our offer is more than fair. Do you see a problem?”

Eyes narrowing, he put the papers down on the table. “Adjalane will not sell you the land.”

She let out a breath. “We are looking at other sites. A long-term lease is just…well, it means we would build a resource that would one day not be ours, and we like to look at the long term.”

That damn smile came out again—it was starting to torment her. “Come up with another offer.”

Nigella picked up her water. Okay, so he was going to play hardball. She could do that. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“No, right here. Right now. Surely you can come up with a counter that I will find more appealing?”

Frowning, she wanted to pick up an olive and throw it at him. That was childish. Instead, she put down her water and smiled back. “I’ll have to look at the numbers again. And we’ll want to look at those other sites first.”

Malid shook his head and made a tsking noise that had her clenching her hand around her napkin. “Do you take your time with all major decisions?” he asked.

“I find it makes for fewer mistakes and not so many regrets. Due diligence is not a bad thing.” Daddy might love to act from his gut. She didn’t. Given that Malid had done something to get himself booted from the family, she was betting he had his own hot temper.

She held Malid’s gaze, daring him to challenge her decision-making process. He just smiled back, those lush lips curved with a secret. “You’ve never known the adrenaline rush of making a split second decision and living with the consequences, be they good or bad?”

“I don’t like surprises.” She let the words out in a flat tone. It was about time he learned she wasn’t going to be swayed.

Just as fast, the smile went to a blaze that took her breath. He swept out a hand. “Let us forget about business and enjoy our meal.” He dug into the food, started asking if she had any hobbies, spoke of places he had seen in his travels and asked if she traveled much.

She had, but she was still suspicious of this sudden shift. “Daddy was in the air more than he was on the ground, and with my mother’s passing, he started taking me with him. That and the nanny of the week got me to college. Daddy’s a demanding individual, and not many of the hired help ever could put up with him for more than a few months.”

“Did you not grow tired of the constant change?” Malid asked. He leaned forward. “I ask, having had the same caretakers my entire life.”

She had to smile at that. “Makes you adept at getting people to do what you want them to, doesn’t it?”

He offered her more flatbread. She was tempted, but had to decline—she’d been pigging out on the hummus. Malid helped himself and said, “My guess is you are very good at what you do.”

“Fishing there?” He gave her a blank look, and she said, “It’s called catching more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, and you’re spreading the sweet on a tad too thick there.”

“I will keep that in mind as we go forward in business then.”

***

After lunch, Malid suggested a walk through the gardens. Nigella agreed. They kept to safe topics—Nigella was interested in what would grow in the heat, and Malid talked of irrigation and shading.

It seemed to him that a chemistry simmered between them, but he did not know yet what to make of that. Would it be useful—or a distraction? Nigella was certainly a pleasant visual that kept snagging his stare as she bent to sniff at the jasmine or turned to admire one of the many fountains that helped to cool the courtyard and the house. He liked her long legs, the way she moved—he even liked the touch of a drawl that slipped into her words when she spoke of home.

She seemed, too, to approve of his palace.

The doors stood open on the ground floor and sheer, white drapery billowed out from the rooms. The splash of the fountains also made for a pleasant background sound. He plucked a hibiscus—a vivid red bloom and presented it to her. Her cheeks pinked, but she seemed not to care for a great deal of flattery.

A blunt woman, he thought. Refreshingly so. But quite as determined to get her way as he was. He would take his time with this deal, he decided. There was chemistry between them—they were alike in some things, he thought, and that intrigued him. But business was business, and he could not let an attraction make him stupid. One thing he had learned over the past few months was the value of patience—and he was determined to see Nigella be the one to give on the matter of this lease.

Malid sent Nigella home in his car—Fadin would drive her back to her hotel. He thought about going along—it was a two-hour drive and he wanted to spend more time with her, to figure her out. But Nigella was starting to look decided jet lagged. And she had said she needed time to think.

He agreed to meet her at the temporary headquarters for Opell Oil in two days. Malid planned to use the time to find out more about her and any possible weaknesses in Opell Oil. It was possible he could structure a price that would make a lease far more appealing to her and her father.

Watching the car pull away, Malid wondered if such a woman as her had a husband. He did not think so. She wore no ring, and she had the air of someone whose life had been consumed by business. He knew about that, too. Until he had earned his father’s disapproval, Malid’s life and ambition had been to be the CEO of the family’s company. Now…now he had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

He had started a few small companies—technology ventures, which would encourage young people to stay in Al-Sarid, and a few charities that could help some of the nomadic tribes deal with the ever-changing world. He had grown tired of any kind of night clubbing years ago—and in some ways he thought it a pity he had never married. A family would have been a good distraction for him. But he had never had time before now.

Perhaps he was more like Nigella in that way—both of them consumed by business, by making the deal, by being the best.

He headed back inside the palace, thinking of her and her expressive, amethyst eyes.

***

Malid stepped out of the vehicle, grateful that Fadin had insisted on driving him to this meeting with Nigella. It gave him extra time to think of possible tactics he might have to use and to catch up with his other ventures, which he had neglected over the past two days.

He had kept himself busy digging into Opell Oil. Given how oil prices had not been good of late—rising and falling and being utterly undependable—the company was looking to diversify. They had been quietly investing into other technologies—wind and solar power among them. That could be useful for Al-Sarid and another way to encourage Opell to seek a lease—with options for solar and wind installations.