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

He’d also received word from one of his sources that Opell Oil had been speaking with officials in the neighboring country of Tawzar, which was eager to get the Opell pipeline.

Tawzar had struggled to keep up with both newer technology and oil production. He knew they could greatly use the revenues from such a deal, and that might lead them to attempt giving Opell far more than the Adjalane family intended to offer. However, Tawzar had an unstable government—that was the greatest drawback. Malid would use that if he needed to, but he hoped he could secure a deal with Nigella today without mention of Tawzar.

Opell Oil had set up temporary offices in a high rise that blended technology with old world charm of the coastal city in Dubai. It was interesting they had not chosen to lease space in Al-Sarid. He did not believe in signs and omens—but he did believe in the unspoken message. This message clearly said that Opell Oil had not yet fixed on Al-Sarid as their best option for a pipeline.

In the lobby, Malid noted that Opell Oil had offices on the thirty-fifth floor. He enjoyed the view of the city as the glass-enclosed elevator carried him upward.

Nigella would hopefully have another offer—if she didn’t, he had several ideas to present for her consideration. The idea of seeing her again sent a pleasant shiver over his skin. He was moderately curious to see if the attraction he’d felt between them the other day remained or had it been a passing fancy—an interest only because she had seemed so different from the other women he had met over his life.

Stepping out of the elevator, he took in thick, slate-colored carpets, a floral arrangement on a side table, a large piece of slate with water cascading down it, and the opaque walls of glass that provided the occupants inside the offices privacy.

The receptionist seemed to expect him for she showed him into a conference room with a view of Dubai and the sea.

Malid hated to be kept waiting—in his life, people waited on him, not the other way around. However, this was business. Hiding his irritation, he took a seat at the boardroom table. It was large and of a polished mahogany that spoke of money. He, too had dressed to impress—an Armani suit and tie, with a white
taub
over it and the
keffiyeh
favored by his family. Today, he was Sheikh Malid Adjalane. Anyone who saw him in traditional robes would know he was a person of importance and authority.

Staring out at the skyline, he wondered what Nigella would think of his garb—and what would she be wearing?

The snick of a door opening behind him had him turning, but Nigella brought another man with her. The resemblance was obvious at once

Gordon Michaels had the same eyes as his daughter, the same dark hair—almost black with a touch of brown. However, gray streaked his hair. Age, sun and weather had lined his skin. He obviously kept himself fit—but Malid was going to guess he had been ill recently. Instead of his coat being a perfect fit, it hung a touch loose. He came into the room, and Malid stood—the man’s personality was such that he swept in with arrogance and domination. Malid stiffened and glanced at Nigella.

She’d dressed in a black business suit—a thin skirt, a silk button-down blouse, a blazer over the top. Her hair was pulled back, and her makeup was as bold as her jewelry today. Judging by her expression, she was not happy to have her father with her today.

Malid turned to Gordon Michaels. “I assumed I would be meeting with your daughter.”

The other man didn’t even look at Nigella. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room. He glanced at Malid’s robes and said, “What seems to be the problem with my offer?”

Glancing at Nigella, Malid lifted an eyebrow. She dropped her stare to the floor—ah, so she could do nothing with her father. He knew the feeling. Turning back to Michaels, he said, “Nigella called you? Or emailed? And you think somehow you must fly here and fix this in person—that she was not able to handle this?”

Michaels huffed out a breath. “You trying to hold my company hostage? We put a huge sum on the table for what amounts to little more than piles of sand.”

“Daddy—?”

Michaels slashed his hand, silencing Nigella. Her cheeks pinked, and Malid’s face heated. This was a family matter obviously, but Michaels was pulling Malid into it. He forced himself to smile and sit down. “I came here to negotiate with Nigella—not you.”

Crossing his arms, Michaels said, “If I have to, we’ll go east and run the pipeline through Tawzar. And you and your backwards country can go on still livin’ in the dark ages.”

Nigella stepped forward, pushing between her father and Malid. “Daddy—can we have a word?”

Glancing from Nigella to her father, Malid wondered who would win this contest of wills between them. Until now, Nigella had seemed unable to do much with her father—now, however, now she looked a spitfire. A warrior ready to do battle. In heels, she stood as tall as her father—and she looked him in the eye. Michaels hesitated—and Nigella used that moment. She put a hand on his arm and her drawl thickened. “Please, Daddy.”

What man could resist that tone? Malid saw Michaels soften—the man’s eyes lost their sharp edge, his shoulders eased and he gave a quick nod. He shot a last look at Malid as if to promise this wasn’t settled yet, but he let his daughter lead him from the conference room, mild as a lamb.

And wasn’t that interesting.

It seemed there was an unofficial power struggle within the Opell Oil. In his research, Malid had read that Gordon Michaels was grooming possible successors. There had not been a word about any illness—but the man he had just met was not the same, robust man he had seen in so many images online. This put a new slant on things. Opell Oil might need this pipeline sooner than Malid had thought—if Michaels died while he was still CEO, Opell Oil stock would drop. That was only to be expected. It would no doubt recover—but the company would be exposed to hostile takeovers. Michaels would be wise to name a successor and ensure a smooth transition that would leave stockholders feeling secure enough that they did not rush to sell their shares

That meant Nigella Michaels would no doubt want to secure the pipeline at once.

Malid smiled—suddenly he knew it was in his best interests to drag out negotiations. Opell Oil would soon be begging to sign any deal. All he must do is distract Nigella and keep the deal in play just long enough.

Nigella stepped back into the conference room. It had taken coaxing her daddy, badgering him, reminding him what the doctor had said about his blood pressure, and then reminding him that he’d promised her she’d be lead on this deal. That had finally done it. Gordon Michaels might be a tough, stubborn son-of-a-bitch, but his word and handshake were legendary—as solid as gold in the bank. She’d outlined how she planned to go at Malid, and he’d finally agreed that her tactics were good.

She’d also gotten him to admit he didn’t understand the culture of the region, nor did he want to. In his mind, the universal language was dollars. She’d told him time and again that family and heritage often trumped monetary gain. He’d never gotten that message—but he had agreed she was still his problem solver.

And Malid was proving to be a problem.

Smiling at him, she came over to him. She’d left him sitting in one of the chairs, but now he was standing. He’d been staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows when she’d entered, but he’d turned.

“I apologize for my father—he’s…well, he just flew in and he’s never in the best mood after a long flight. If you’ll come with me, we can finish our meeting in my office. I can promise you there will be no more interference from Daddy. He’s got…well, he’s actually here on a different matter.” Searching Malid’s dark eyes—they looked hard and cold just now—she tried to convey how sorry she was and silently begged him to give her the chance she was asking for.

He inclined his head. “I must admit I, too, know what it is to be at odds with one’s father. It is the one good thing of being asked to absent myself—while I have missed my home and certain members of my family, I haven’t missed fighting with Nimr. And the approved way for my brothers Adilan and Nassir and I to settle an argument is with fists. That I haven’t missed, either.”

The knot loosened in her stomach. “Well, Daddy’s not much of one for punching, but he did teach me to box when I was twelve.” Turning, she led the way down the hall and to her corner office. A few days and she’d already turned it into her space—meaning lots of mess. Papers cluttered the rosewood desk, books spilled from the shelves, and the only feminine touch she’d allowed herself was an exotic carpet, locally made and antique. She loved the rose and tan hues in the carpet and had bought it despite the ridiculous price charged. This was her space now—and she firmly shut the door.

Malid walked to the large wall of windows behind her desk. She had a silver tea set on a table near an overstuffed sofa, but he ignored comfort for the view. “This city is amazing—I never tire of visiting.”

Joining him, Nigella folded her arms. She made sure to stand a few feet away. He looked even more the dashing sheikh today, with his robes and the headscarf she’d seen on other men. He also smelled good—like sandalwood or something else exotic and spicy. For some reason, she’d thought he’d show up in a suit—and he had. But the addition of the traditional clothing left him…well, looking very much a prince of the desert.

She’d tried to pound that part of it into Daddy’s head—the Adjalane family was just about royalty in these parts. But Daddy was a Texas son through and through—it wasn’t so much that he believed all men were created equal as he thought princes were something that belonged in story books.

Giving a nod to the view spread out below them—blue water and high rises all sparkling in the sunlight—she said, “Your part of the world is beautiful in such unexpected ways.”

Malid nodded and turned to face her. “You are quite certain your father has agreed to let you handle the negotiations from here on out?”

“Daddy had a point. Tawzar is an option—I’m not taking it off the table. But I’d like to think there’s some way we can work out a deal with your family that makes everyone happy.”

He seemed to consider the idea. Nigella held her breath. She hoped Malid hadn’t figured out that Tawzar was a last resort for Opall Oil—the place was notoriously unstable and she didn’t see that changing in the future. Daddy might think the good old US of A would come in guns blazing to help protect a U.S. company, but Nigella would prefer dealing with a stable country.

Stepping over to her desk, Nigella spread out some photos. “I flew over Tawzar yesterday by helicopter. It was barren, but I could see some good potential spots for a pipeline.”

“What did you say about vinegar and honey? Is it not vinegar to talk of Tawzar? And you would have to add thousands of miles of pipe. Have you done the same…fly over with Al-Sarid?”

She shook her head. Did he have to stand so dang close. She could feel the heat of his body and smell that teasing spicy scent. “The piece we saw a few days ago was all I’ve seen.” Pressing a hand to her stomach, which was already rolling at the thought of another helicopter ride, she admitted, “Have to say, I did not enjoy all that dipping and diving. Not at all.”

Malid smiled. “There is so much more to see in Al-Sarid. And better ways to see it. What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

Nigella cocked her head to one side. Just what was he planning here? “My calendar’s clear. I wasn’t sure how long our meeting would take.”

“Then let me show you my country. Let me prove to you why Al-Sarid is the perfect place for your pipeline, and also show you why a lease would ally you to my family, which would be of greater benefit to Opell Oil. I promise we will not be taking any helicopters. What I have in mind is something much more…traditional. Old school, if you will.”

“Don’t tell me—camels?”

Malid lifted a hand. “For part of the journey. Clear your calendar for tomorrow as well—and the day after” He offered up a boyish grin. Her stomach gave a flip. Damn, but when he wanted to put on the charm it came out hot as the sun in the desert. She couldn’t help but stare at him like she was fourteen with her first crush—those amazing, dark eyes, and those lush lips that curved right now and looked all too inviting.

Heat tingled on her cheeks. And what was she thinking? Three days with him in the desert? Why would that be so bad?

She knew the dangers of mixing business with pleasure. She’d had one office fling, had it go sour, and had to endure seeing the guy for another six months as he charmed his way around through half a dozen more affairs. HR had finally booted the guy for sexual harassment.

But Malid—this was a deal that would be done, and if getting him in bed got the deal done faster, nothing wrong with that.

She smiled back at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going for the cliché of a sheikh who carries a woman off to his desert tent?”

Malid stepped closer. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

She gave a laugh then realized he was serious. Shaking her head, she told him, “I can’t possibly be ready by then.”

“I will have everything you need waiting for us when we reach the border. What use is my carrying you off if I can’t…well, carry you off.” He tapped one finger on her cheek. “I promise you will not regret anything.”

Nigella pressed her lips tight. She never acted without looking at things from all sides. Never. Going away like this was not something she’d ever done—or did. She’d dated plenty, but it was always with a plan and a schedule and a…and boy had those all worked out badly.

She sucked in a breath and let it out. It was not how she operated and this was so far outside her comfort zone, it took everything within her to actually nod at him and give him a smile.

***

Malid strode from the room and was already on the phone by the time he stepped into the elevator. Arrangements would need to be made, but this gave him an excellent reason to return to Al-Sarid. After speaking to Fadin about what was needed, he called his father’s private line.

“Malid, I assume you are calling to say the deal is made?” Nimr sounded tired—exhausted in fact.