The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) (8 page)

His mother stood and patted him on the chest. “Please talk with him. You must make it right. It’s not good for a family to be at war with one another—and it is not good for Nimr.”

Malid forced a smile and took his mother’s hand. “As long as you are well, that is all that matters.” He turned and started for the door, and saw Nigella standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. He ought to introduce her. Instead, he waved from Nigella to his mother. “Mother, this is Nigella. Please see she is made welcome.” With that, he left.

He headed for where he thought Nimr must be—in his study. The spider sitting at the heart of his web. It was time they had done with all deceptions.

His father’s study was a room he had come to hate—comfortable leather chairs, books lining one wall, paintings on two of the other walls, French doors that opened into the garden. Malid could only remember the times he had been left standing here, facing his father’s desk, waiting for his father’s disapproval.

Stepping into the room, Malid saw his father look up. Nimr put down a pen he had been writing with and folded his hands, his dark eyebrows lifted. “You have thought better of your words?”

“We had an arrangement.”

Nimr frowned. “I see you still have not thought about anything.”

Malid threw out a hand. “The mighty Nimr Adjalane—don’t you ever tire of acting the puppet master who makes us all dance?”

Standing, Nimr put his hands flat on his desk. “How dare you speak to me like that!”

“And how dare you use my mother as a pawn. She isn’t ill. You are—but I would call it a sickness in the head.” Malid jabbed a finger at his father.

Nimr straightened and slashed a hand though the air. “None of that matters. And our arrangement was for you to negotiate with Opell Oil—once you had a deal, I would give permission for you to visit. I was hoping you would learn more than you have.”

Malid took a step forward. “I worked out an excellent deal. I don’t know what devil drives you, but I will not play your games, and I no longer must live by your rules.”

“From what I can see, you don’t live by any rules. Everything I have tried to do has been for your own good—but you are too blind to see. You are an Adjalane and you belong here to take the family forward. But no…you cannot see that. How did you even get in here?”

“Nassir brought me.”

Nimr frowned and sat down suddenly. He clutched his left arm with his right hand. His skin took on an odd pallor—and fatigue filled his eyes. Malid held still, suspecting yet another ploy—another trick. Nimr was never sick—never. He thought of what Nigella had said—that Nimr could not express what he felt. And his mother had said his father was the one who was ill. Well, it did not matter—nothing did. Malid turned to go—he would not be back.

Before he could, Hassan—Nimr’s servant—came into the room and said, “Gordon Michaels is here to see you.”

Malid watched as his father tried to pull the cloak of his position around him. He straightened and let go of his arm—but Malid felt as if he’d just seen the first chink in his father’s armor. It made him seem human, something Malid would have sworn would never happen.

Ignoring Malid, Nimr glanced at Hassan. “Show him in.”

Gordon Michaels came in as if he had been lurking right behind Hassan. The man looked rushed, his face slightly reddened, his hair tousled. His suit seemed wrinkled by travel and his tie looked as if it had hurriedly been pushed into place. However, Malid knew this was a man to reckon with. From all he had heard, Gordon Michaels had perfected the look of a country-boy—but his reputation was of a shark. Nigella trailed into the room behind him, and sent a frown and a small shake of her head at Malid, as if she had spoken already to her father to try and avert this and had failed.

Malid narrowed his eyes—he would not sit back and watch Gordon Michaels treat Nigella poorly.

Pushing his hands into his pockets, he watched as Gordon Michaels stalked into the room. “Adjalane, just what game you playin’ at? Are we doing a deal or runnin’ in circles?”

Nimr shrugged. “No game. You want something that is very important to myself and my family. I want something in return.”

Arms crossed, Gordon waited. Malid stepped forward to say something, but Nigella walked between the two older men. “Well, isn’t this just fine. You two can now have a good row that won’t make anyone feel better.” She glanced at Malid. “Malid, you have a chance to mend things here.”

He stiffened. “Nigella, why do you ask that of me?”

She threw out her arms. “For one thing, I’d like y’all to stop using anger and bluster as a reason not to say what you’re feeling. Family is important—to all of us.” She blew out a breath. “You and I, Malid, we have something going. But right now my heart is breaking ‘cause I could never be with a man who would abandon his family.”

Malid stepped back—he felt as if she had slapped him. “You expect me to forgive everything my father has done?”

“What about what you’ve done? Families fight, but at the end of the day, they stick together. Without family, we have nothing.” She turned and stared at her father. “Daddy, I love you, but I’m done with trying to prove myself to you.” She turned to Malid’s father. “Sir, you might have been trying to teach your son a lesson, but it’s about as good as the one of you leavin’ him in the desert—just plain wrong-headed.” Finally, she looked at Malid. “And you…you make a fine third here, just as bull-headed as these two and trying to get your own way and ready to stomp off if you don’t.”

Malid stared at her for a moment, his heart pounding. He glanced at his father and Nigella’s father—the two men looked stunned. Nimr sat back in his chair, one hand pressed to his chest. Gordon lifted a hand and let it drop. “Honey, you’re my little girl.”

“Not any more, Daddy. I’m grown, and if you don’t put me in charge, I’ll find a company that will. Won’t mean I love you any less, and I know you love me.” She propped a hand on her hip and faced Malid. “As for you—well, you need to make a choice here between pride or losing everything worth having. And that might include me since I’m not so sure I can be with a guy who doesn’t know how to say those three very important words?”

“Words? What...I love you?”

“Those are nice, but I’m thinking more of saying, I’m sorry.”

Malid stared at her—how dare she…she…she tell him the truth. He blinked. For the first time in his life, he knew he wanted something more than just to be in the right. The thought of not having Nigella in his life twisted a knot in his guts--.

He took a step toward her and stopped.

What if he said those words she had asked for—offered up an apology—but his father threw them away? Would Nigella blame him? His father was the hardest man in the world to deal with—and Malid wasn’t certain he could back down here.

He looked from his father to Nigella’s father and nodded. “It seems my father is not well. Until he is fully recovered, I will be acting for him—and we will sign our deal.” Nimr made a sound of protest, but Malid stepped between him and Gordon. “Father, you wished an apology. You do not deserve it. But if what you want is for me to make amends to my brother and his new wife, that I can do. I will do what is necessary to convince you to let me finish these negotiations.” Malid turned to Gordon. “But I will only sign this deal with Nigella Michaels.”

Gordon looked between Malid and his father. “I guess we could do that.”

Nimr started to stand. Before he could, he gave a gasp and fell back in his chair, clutching his chest. Malid moved at once to his father’s side, felt for a pulse in his wrist and found it racing. Yelling for Hassan, he ordered the man to fetch Nassir at once.

Nigella came over and put a hand on Malid’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Malid shook his head, and Nassir burst into the room. “I think he’s having a heart attack. He needs to get to the hospital immediately.”

Nassir bent down over his father. “Malid, there’s a sandstorm brewing. It won’t be safe.”

Malid shook his head. “It will if I drive. Nigella, will you—?”

“I’m coming with,” she said, her tone flat and final.

For a moment, Nigella thought Malid would argue with her. His mouth flattened, but the worry hadn’t left his eyes. She knew the danger—sandstorm. The sand could clog the engine—they could be trapped. But Malid gave a nod. Nassir, do you have scarves in your truck? Nassir gave a nod.

Malid and Nassir got their arms around their father. He grumbled a protest, but nothing more, and they picked him up as if he weighted nothing. Nigella hurried to the front doors to throw them open for him.

Calling out, Malid shouted, “Mr. Michaels, after the storm passes, please escort my mother to the hospital, and have Hassan send someone to find our brother, Adilan. He should be there as well.”

Outside, the wind had picked up. Nigella smelled the dry warmth of the desert and the bite of sand stung her cheeks. She could already see the sky darkening to brown in the west. “How long?” she asked Malid. She yanked open the doors to the truck—it was an extended cab. Malid and Nassir settled Nimr in the back seat, Nigella climbed in with him and fastened his seatbelt and hers. She took Nimr’s hand in hers—his pulse seemed erratic, but he was still aware and grumbling, telling everyone there was no need for such fuss.

Nigella fixed a stare on him. “Do you really want to die and leave Malid in charge?”

He frowned at her and said, his voice gravely, “You are impertinent.”

“So I’ve been told.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of aspirin.” Opening it, she dug one out. “Chew and swallow. It’ll taste horrible, but it’s the best think for heart attack and that’s my guess for what you’re having. If it’s not, it’s not a stroke and the aspirin won’t hurt.” Nimr stared at her. She raised her eyebrows. “It’s your choice about the dying part—but I think your boys are trying to keep you around.”

Still grumbling about Western women who didn’t know their place, Nimr took the aspirin and chewed. Nigella glanced out the window. The sand made spitting noises as it hit the vehicle, and the sky had darkened even more, leaving the sun a red ball in the dirty sky. She found the headscarves Nassir had said he had in his car—tucked into a plastic bag. She dug one out for herself, then one for Nimr. He grumbled even more and pulled it from her hands, but his fingers trembled. She took it from him and began to put it in place as best she could.

Malid and Nassir had had a brief argument over who would drive, but Malid had won simply by climbing into the driver’s seat and buckling in. Nassir was forced to jump into the passenger’s side before Malid took off with a squeal of tires.

Gulping down a breath, Nigella figured this would be a wild ride, but Malid navigated his way with almost an instinct for how to stay on the road. She didn’t bother him with questions, but when it became almost impossible to see more than a few feet in front of the car, she turned her attention back to Nimr. He, too, kept his eyes closed. His breathing was fast and shallow. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

Nigella felt a stare on her. She wet her lips and looked up and met Malid’s stare in the rear view mirror—for once he wasn’t the cocky, arrogant man. He looked a worried son. And then he had to look back at the road.

The truck jerked to a stop. Nigella braced herself and started to ask what had happened. But Nassir and Malid jumped from the truck and came around to get their father out—they had to be at the hospital.

Above the howl of the wind, Malid yelled to Nigella, “Go inside. Tell them what’s happened.”

Nigella fumbled with her seatbelt, got it off, struggled with the door, and stepped out—the wind almost slammed her back. She grabbed her flapping scarf and got one end over her mouth. Hunched over, she ran for the brightest light, hoping that was the emergency room light from glass doors. It was. The double doors opened for her and closed, and then an interior set opened. She stepped back into a calm world, and got out the words, “Heart attack. Sheikh Adjalane.”

The staff jumped as if she’d hit them with a cattle prod. A gurney appeared, nurses rushed for the doors. Malid came in with Nassir, their father held between them, Malid coughing form the sand dust, and Nassir’s face hidden by his headscarf.

A flurry of activity erupted. Nimr was settled on the gurney, IV bags appeared along with monitors and cuffs and other equipment, and just as fast Nimr was whisked away.

Rubbing her arms, Nigella stepped up to Malid. “You okay?”

He shook his head. “I do not matter—but my father is in good hands. He built this hospital, so they will be aware of that. Knowing that their major benefactor is now a patient is a motivating force.”

Nigella managed a weak smile. Nassir headed over to the desk, Malid followed and the two began to answer questions put to them—when had the pain started, had he ever had anything like this before. Nigella interrupted to explain she had given Sheikh Adjalane an aspirin. The nurse nodded and kept asking questions—and then they were told to wait.

Sheikh Adjalane had been taken to the lab for cat scans and testing. Nassir yanked off his head scarf and strode away, calling back, “I am going for some tea.”

Malid turned to Nigella—and she saw in his eyes the fear that she would feel if it was her father in a hospital like this. Walking to him, she put her arms around him and held him tight. Malid stiffened a moment, then leaned into her, wrapping his arms around her.

***

Malid paced the waiting room. Nigella had gone to wash her face and use the facilities. Nassir was off, asking the nurses yet again about their father. Malid knew there was nothing to do but wait—he hated that. He wanted to do something—but this was up to the doctors.

He had thought about calling in specialists—but they were already here. All he could do now was ask for a private room and round-the-clock nursing once his father was out of heart surgery. They had been informed that the tests had shown a blockage—it was being corrected with stents that would open up the arteries again.