The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) (7 page)

“Our world? What is that supposed to mean?” Nigella asked, wary again. Nimr was now reminding her far too much of Daddy—he was a damn cagey man.

Nimr waved a vague gesture. “The oil industry. A world created for and by men. A world where women are not readily accepted or trusted.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I have enough sway with Malid to convince him of much—he’s very much his own man. You made him that, you know.”

He nodded. “But I have found that when the heart is involved, any man can act for the good and approval of another. And, as you Americans like to say, what have you got to lose?”

She wet her lips. One word echoed in her head in answer—
everything.
She could end up losing the deal, and Malid’s respect, and…and she didn’t want to dig any deeper into that thought. What she’d had with Malid was…was what? A fling? She didn’t do flings or affairs, and the thought right now of never seeing Malid again—or worse, seeing him and pissing him off by trying to interfere in his life—left her chest tight and her stomach knotted and she didn’t want to go there. But what other choice did she have?

Nigella arrived back at her hotel, her mind spinning. If she didn’t find a way to help Malid sort things out with his father, Nimr was never going to approve any deal with Opell Oil. Sure, she could fly to Tawzar—and end up with a terrible deal there.

She paced her hotel room, weighting her options. She could pretend the meeting with Nimr had never happened—and she’d lose everything. She could sweeten the deal—and Nimr would reject it. Or she could try and convince Malid to make peace with his father. Nimr was far too much like her own dad, and so she could speak from experience about dealing with a difficult father.

She stopped pacing and scowled at her pale reflection in the glass door that opened onto her balcony. “Even I can’t pull that one off,” she muttered.

Her cell phone rang, her dad’s number showing up on the caller ID, so she answered.

“Nigella. How are things going? I haven’t heard from you for a few days.”

Not an unusual occurrence, Daddy.
She buried her sarcasm—one family feud was enough right now—took a breath and put on her business voice. “Things are progressing.” Boy—was that waffling.

Her father’s Texas drawl deepened. “By that, I take it we’re no closer to havin’ a contract in hand.”

“Actually, we are closer—there’s a deal in place to buy the land. It’s everything we need.”

“But?” her father asked. That one word came loaded with doubt. “Tell you what, honey. I fly down an’ we’ll go see the sheikh together and button things up.”

“Daddy, you said you were leavin’ this to me.” Nigella heard the drawl deepening in her voice, too.

“An’ I have an’ you got a deal done. But I want to start construction before summer kicks in and it’s hotter than West Texas in a July. ‘Sides, be nice to see my little girl.”

Nigella clenched her back teeth. Once Daddy starting calling her ‘his little girl’ that meat he had stopped thinking of her as a woman who could run his company

I have to fix this.

Forcing a smile into her voice, she reminded Daddy he had a board meeting in London tomorrow—that would buy her a day. She hung up and dialed Malid’s number. “It’s Nigella Michaels.”

She heard a smile in Malid’s voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? I was just thinking of you. How are you?”

She paused, wishing she could take him up on the invitation she could hear lurking. But she was running out of time and options. “Can I come see you? Now?”

“What if I come to you? The helicopter will put me at your hotel in half an hour.”

Nigella let out a breath. There were things about Malid’s take-charge arrogance that were rather comforting. “Sounds good. I really didn’t want to make the drive to you.” She told him she’d meet him in the lobby, then started plotting just what she was going to say once she saw him. And was this all about to blow up in her face?

***

Malid had heard the tension in Nigella’s voice, and he saw it in her shoulders and stiff stance when he met her in the lobby. She looked in business mode—a dark suit coat and trousers, an even darker blouse. Her eyes seemed wary and she looked tired. Walking up to her, he took her hand. “Shall we get out of here?”

She gave a small smile. “Should I change first?” She waved her free hand at his jeans and polo shirt.

Malid grinned. “Today, I’m not a sheikh. And you’ll be fine.” He led her outside, flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take them to the botanical gardens.”

With a sideways glance, she said, “I didn’t realize there was such a thing here.”

“It is financed by both the Adjalane and the Sharqi families and has been likened to the Garden of Eden.” He let his smile widen. “But it is not as private as an oasis.”

Her cheeks warmed. He was delighted to see it. He had been hoping she might provide him the distraction he needed to forget his frustration and anger with his father. At least for a short while. But seeing her tense and worried, he found himself wanting to be the distraction for her. That was a novel sensation.

Twenty minutes later, he had her hand in his as they strolled along the paved walks amid the gardens that were shaded by trees and cooled by salt-tanged air from the ocean. Malid had bought them both iced lemonades.

Nigella had shed her suit coat and carried it over one arm. She looked far more relaxed now, but the worry had not left her eyes. “Hard to believe that not too far from here lies an inhospitable desert.”

Malid shrugged. “What you deem inhospitable is home to many. Now, come sit and tell me what you wish to speak about?” He led her to a stone bench next to an arbor of jasmine.

Sitting down, Nigella draped her suit jacket next to her and turned to face him, her paper cup of lemonade crumpling in her hand. Malid took the cup from her and set it beside him, and she blurted out, “Your father asked to see me.” Her mouth twisted. “He and my father have much in common.”

He glanced at her. “You met with him.” He made it a statement of fact and not a question. His stomach burned, but he swallowed back the reaction. He would wait and hear what had happened—but if Nimr had done anything to harm Nigella…

The urge to protect her surprised him—both for its heat and possessiveness. He had known her for so short a time. And yet in some ways it seemed as if she had been next to him forever. He didn’t understand it, so he shook his head and frowned. “That cannot be a good thing.”

She started to pleat a fold of her trousers. Malid put his hand over hers. “What troubles you?”

“My father’s flying in. And yours…well, he’s—”

“Impossible to deal with?”

She nodded. “But…well, have you ever wondered why he is?”

“Oh, I know. My father is the opposite of my grandfather—who nearly lost the family everything.”

She wet her lips, and Malid wanted to lean in and kiss her. But she put a hand over his and said, “You mean he’s afraid of the doing the same thing? Afraid even to show what he feels?”

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” Malid asked.

“No. I know my daddy loves me, he just doesn’t think I have what it takes to run his company. He’s trying to hang onto ‘his little girl’ being little.”

Malid shook his head. “You’re not trying to convince me that my father actually cares for me?” Pulling his hand from hers, he touched her cheek. “Do not even attempt to figure out the relationship between my father and me. I have been trying to do that for years with no success.”

“Maybe that’s ‘cause you and your father are too much alike. You ever think what it’d be like to have a son like you? Someone always pushing, always thinking he knows better?”

Malid laughed. “A son…what ideas do you have in mind now?”

She pulled in a breath, and Malid said, “Why do I feel like I’ve just walked into a trap?”

Smiling, she leaned closer, to kiss the corner of his mouth, and trail kisses to his ear. “Will you do one thing for me?” she asked, her mouth pressed against his skin and her breath hot.

Malid closed his eyes. How could he deny her anything? Putting an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. “You are playing unfair.”

“What’s that about love and war? And this is business. I have an idea.”

“I have one as well,” he said, pulling her even closer so her breasts pressed against his chest. He began to wish he had never thought of taking her away from her hotel—had met with her in her room so they could be having this conversation naked.

She pushed both hands against his chest and held him back. “First things first, and the first thing is—you’ve got a couple of brothers right?”

It took an hour to convince Malid to call his brother Nassir—the one he supposedly wasn’t on the outs with.

They met him in an upscale restaurant that offered sheltered dining alcoves, and traditional low tables with cushioned seats that Nigella learned were called poufs. After they washed hands, the waiters brought the meal out—spicy chicken and grilled vegetables, something called a
mezze
, a plate with a lot of smaller dishes, including cheese, cubed melon,
tabbouleh
,
mutabbal
, and a grilled sausage, hummus, flatbread, and other side dishes that Nigella couldn’t name. Back home, this would have been called a pot luck—but the dishes were far finer and rich. Nigella dug in and listened to the brothers talk.

It seemed that Nassir ran his own company and owned a gym. Like his father and Malid, he had dark hair and olive skin, a strong nose and lean features. But his eyes were a tawny brown, and the lines around his mouth came from an easy smile. Nigella found herself thinking,
Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with this Adjalane?

The thought froze her, and she started to choke on an olive. Malid patted her back, she grabbed for water and then stared at Malid.

Love.
She was in love—falling, had fallen, was going deeper yet.

No—it couldn’t be.

She stared at Malid, seeing the curve of his ear, how his beard always seemed to come into fast. She was short of breath and her head was buzzing. This couldn’t be. She was a sensible person—she took her time with decisions. And yet…this wasn’t just about business anymore. This wasn’t about the deal. She wanted to see Malid happy—and that meant he needed to patch things up with his father. For his own sake. She wanted him happy because…because she’d done the thing she’d never done. She’d jumped in with both feet with him and she was in love with him.

Great—as if he’d want her to hang around once they got a deal done. She tore off some flatbread and chewed on it, not tasting a thing.

Nassir was telling his brother stories about his gym, and the bothers swapped some gossip. Nigella was glad to see there was at least one easy-going Adjalane around—maybe there was hope for this family after all.

After the meal had been cleared and a dessert of ice cream that tasted like roses was brought out—Nigella figured that had to be an acquired taste—she leaned forward and asked Nassir, “How is your mother?”

He stared at her. Malid cursed and said, “Father hasn’t told you, has he?” Frowning, Nassir shook his head, and Malid said, “Mother is ill.”

Face pale, Nassir shook his head again. “No. It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Malid asked. “You know Father. He tells us what he thinks we need to know—nothing more. When were you last at the palace?”

Nassir shifted his stare away. “I’ve been busy.”

Nigella cut in before an argument could start. “That doesn’t matter. Malid wants to see her—you should, too. And your daddy’s being a butt about this.” Both men stared at her and her cheeks heated. “Sorry, but he is.”

Malid grinned, took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “No, that is the right word.” He glanced back at Nassir. “Well, shall we go see mother?”

Nassir agreed to drive, but he warned Malid, “If Father sees you, he’s going to want an apology.”

Waving off that idea, Malid ushered Nigella into Nassir’s truck. He climbed in after her. It wasn’t exactly a family reunion, but it was a step, Nigella thought. The front seat was big enough to hold three, and she didn’t mind pressing up against Malid—he didn’t seem to mind, either, although he did seem distracted.

Nassir drove like a demon, leaving Nigella clutching Malid’s arm. Nassir’s truck was waved through the gates at the palace without a second glance. He’d barely stopped in the courtyard before Malid was out of the car and through the front doors. Nigella followed, leaving Nassir to deal with his truck, any guards, and possibly Malid’s father.

Following Malid’s echoing footsteps, Nigella headed down a hall and up a set of stairs. The place was huge, even bigger than she’d thought this morning—lord, was that only this morning she’d been here?

Malid threw open a set of double doors and stepped inside, and Nigella peaked in.

An older woman sat in a chair near tall windows that overlooked the garden. She looked comfortably plump, her dark hair long and worn up, her smile very much the same as Nassir’s—welcoming and kind. To Nigella, Malid’s mother looked healthy and alert. A mix of jasmine and roses scented the air. Glancing up, the woman smiled. “Malid. What a pleasant surprise.” The soft melodic tone of her voice seemed strong to Nigella. If this woman was ill, it wasn’t with anything serious.

Malid stopped as if he’d been hit by a two-by-four. His mouth fell open, worked a moment, and snapped closed. He stiffened, his hands fisting at his sides. “Mother, you’re not…I was told you were ill?”

She smiled and reached for Malid’s hand. “Does your father know you are here? Have you made it up with him? Who is this lovely young lady you have brought to see me?”

Malid spat out his next words. “Father hinted to me that you were dying.”

She let out a sigh. “Ah, Nimr—always trying to manage everyone. It is not me who must see a doctor. It is Nimr. He is refusing to undergo the treatments that might prolong his life.”

Malid’s skin chilled and his heart seemed to stop. He stared at his mother, the blood pounding in his temples. “Nimr is dying?” The words stuck on his tongue. It seemed impossible.