Valentine Vegas Gigolo Sheikh (6 page)

"No, we won't," she informed him. "You're just going to give me my $500 back, with no trouble."

"Of course," he said.

But something about the way he said it filled her with dread.

Chapter six

Stacia Keating became more interesting by the second, he decided, as he watched her shake her very fine ass to the tune of a Bollywood hit. Cameras flashed and he joined the other guests as they clapped to the infectious beat. She had been as good as her word. No one who did not already know the tale would have guessed that she and the second groomsman had been lovers—if a man who did not care to bring his woman to completion could be called a lover—or that the woman who did all she could to take everyone's eyes from the bride was her supervisor. He knew little of women's fashion or the customs of women at weddings, but he was fairly certain that wearing white was reserved for the bride, as was wearing an elaborate hairstyle topped with a sparkling tiara. But in an efficient, quiet way, Stacia took care of it all. He'd been standing at her side in the receiving line when her boss' turn had come, and Stacia had chattered away as if the woman was one of her best friends, despite the snarling curl of the other woman's lip.

Now, the interesting Miss Stacia was leading her fellow bridesmaids in an unexpected, but highly rehearsed, East Indian dance number straight out of a film. A thoughtful tribute that her friend would never forget. Impressive as hell. Not to mention that the enthusiasm with which she danced gave him some wicked ideas for the more intimate dance he had planned for later.

She was about to perform a complicated series of steps that had made her stumble earlier, a flash of purple against a white background caught his eye. Super Bitch held a small violet camera at eye level. He waited to see her press the button, but she held the camera in place, tracking a specific dancer's movement. A video, then. One which would, no doubt, appear on YouTube by morning, edited for humiliation.

As a preventative measure, his security team had hacked the communication accounts and social media of the wedding guests to prevent them from revealing his location. They would be permitted to share, Tweet, post, and
Like
as they wished. After he had departed. As an additional measure, the hotel's internet network was experiencing technical difficulties.

He moved toward Super Bitch before he was even aware he had decided to do it, pushing through the crowd and approaching from behind without her knowledge. It was the matter of a moment to reach over her shoulder and pull the device from her hands. She whirled on him, her gaudy tiara and blue eyes flashing.

"Hey," she whined.

Theatrically, he examined the camera, as if he'd never seen one before.

As soon as she recognized him, her face softened from its craggy rage into a simpering smile of pleasure. No doubt news of the prince among them had passed from guest to guest. She dipped an over-dramatic curtsy that made him fight a sarcastic snort. "Your Majesty."

Your Highness
, he corrected mentally.

"Your Majesty," the man who must be Colin said, in a tone of near-wonder. "Can I say what an honor—"

"What an intriguing device." He interrupted, laying his accent on thick as he turned the camera over in his hands. "I shall return it to you."

Super Bitch opened her scarlet-painted mouth to protest. The useless boyfriend gave her upper arm a vicious squeeze, making her yelp and shut her mouth.

Zaqwan turned and strode away, purple camera in hand. Once he'd reached the bar, he deleted the incriminating video and, out of curiosity, began to scroll through the photos.

"Are you having a good time, sir?" the bartender asked. The inquiry was not mere politeness, and hid another question behind it. But he did not need any assistance.

"Just fine," he assured the young man, who wore his white shirt and black vest with the confidence of a man who was the master of his surroundings. More like a security chief than a bartender. "But—" He lowered his voice and, in Arabic, ordered two special drinks with an ingredient that had been brought from Ittar.

Ittar, which had been known as
Samm
only a few years ago. In Arabic, it meant poison, and referred to the lethal toxin that came from the powdered root of a sunset-colored orchid native only to the island. His first initiative as Crown Prince had been to change that to
Ittar
, renaming the country as the Island of Perfume, after the scent of those same orchids.

As its previous name suggested, the island had once been famed for its potions, poisons, and court intrigues. Intrigues that had meant it had been safer for him to be raised in obscurity until coming of age.

Under his direction, his country had become known for high-end shops and low taxes. The wealthy and powerful from neighboring oil-rich countries came for the luxury hotels and exclusive restaurants, and left with their wallets much lighter. Now his focus was opening international markets for the island's namesake perfume.

He had been moderately successful. In only a few weeks, the New York office would be open, then the Paris one by April.

He was aware of no fewer than three pairs of eyes tracking his every move. The ex-boyfriend, Super Bitch, and most satisfying of all, Stacia. She had finished her dance and was now accepting gushing thanks from the bride, who had forgotten all about the intruder at her wedding. For an instant, Stacia shot him a lip-curled sneer, perhaps for speaking to Super Bitch. She had good reason not to trust him, he admitted, yet it bothered him that she did not.

In the camera's memory, he found the photos that interested him. He had guessed that there might be a snap or two from the corporate Christmas party where Stacia had introduced Super Bitch to her boyfriend. He was not wrong.

He had no clue what evidence he searched for, but he found it easily enough. The blurry foreground of the picture framed a vignette of Stacia holding two drinks, frozen forever in the motion of handing Colin one of them. The man's right arm was encased in a vibrant green cast and hung uselessly in a sling. While Stacia's entire focus was on boyfriend, his face was turned fully toward the camera as if he hadn't seen or heard the woman next to him.

Intriguing. He flipped though the remainder of the camera's contents and found more photos of Colin at that party, showing that Super Bitch had zoned in on him. Nothing else caught Zaqwan's attention. That one photo, though, merited further investigation.

A few seconds later, he joined the couple at the table they occupied alone. The two of them sat up at attention when he asked to join them. They were clearly star-struck by the idea of chatting with royalty. He'd met a thousand others the same as them in the last year.

"Impressive technology." He flattered her camera as he passed it back. It really was not anything unusual.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the woman said. "My name is Cassandra Xavier and this is my fiancé Colin Farrars. Please call me Cass."

His cue to invite them to address him informally in return. He did not. "I could not help noticing a familiar face in your photos. The maid of honor, is it not? With you?" He indicated the odious Colin.

Cass threw back her head in laughter, and Colin answered. "We used to see each other."

"Your arm was broken. Why?"

"Skiing accident. The cast finally came off the next day. I had to get it re-broken twice after it didn't heal properly. The whole thing took six months."

Six months too long
, Stacia had said, referring to how long she'd dated this man.

Cass couldn't stay out of the conversation. "He and Stacia started going out right after he broke it. You should have seen the way she simpered over him the whole time. 'Do you need this? Do you want that?' Sickening."

"She didn't understand that grown men don't need mothers. She did the same to my buddy Armen when she dated him after his car wreck. Practically suffocated him," Colin said. "Thank God I met Cass."

"Thank God," Zaqwan agreed, and meant it. Clearly, Colin had dated her until he no longer needed her to help him, then left her. This Armen sounded as if he had done the same.

It made him think of her father's illness—the sickness the family had endured when she was only a child. Yet... it did not feel like a woman merely seeking to replicate her parent's relationship because that was all she knew. More than mere sympathy for the ill.

Framed in the context of her other relationships, it seemed Stacia Keating purposely chose men weaker than herself.

Interesting.

"We will be announcing our engagement later tonight," Cass said, beaming.

It took all his self-control not to inform them that if they attempted to take the microphone, his security team would escort them from the room. The thought of these two turning another couple's celebration into a stage for themselves lit a fire inside him. Stacia had been exactly right earlier, demanding that they focus on the needs of the bride and groom. She showed a perception and consideration for others that he rarely saw in people. He hadn't met anyone in the past eight years who hadn't simply wanted something from him, an investment, his advice, or his influence with his father.

"I must give you my congratulations," he said, formally. "You are ideally suited to each other."

He ignored them while they gushed at his left-handed compliment, and signaled the waiter to deliver the drinks he had ordered from the bartender earlier. "It is a custom in my country to offer new friends a traditional drink, and name the drink after them. This was the best I could do with these resources. Please."

The three of them drank. His own was vodka cut with water, slightly tinted with grenadine. The two others were thick with grenadine, the highly flavored syrup masking the taste of a special ingredient.

"You said these drinks were named after the people who drank them? What's mine called?"

He told her, as well as the name he'd given to her boyfriend's drink. In Arabic. They both continued to consume the contents of their glasses with delight. Cass repeated the name a few times to ensure she had it right.

"Translated," he said, rising from the table, "the names mean 'Super Bitch' and 'Premature Ejaculator.'"

As he walked away, he knew angry glares burned into his back. What did he care? The night was nearly over, and Miss Stacia Keating was free for the next dance.

Chapter seven

"What did you do to them?" Stacia demanded, putting as much harshness into her tone as she could manage with Zaqwan's hand at the small of her back and him moving her around the dance floor as if she was nothing.

Strange. With him, she didn't have the problem she had when slow dancing with other men—trying to take the lead.

She wanted so much to loathe every fiber of his being. He'd lied to her, taken advantage of her, and put her in the most awkward situation of her life. And he kept watching at her with this irritating expression, like she was some kind of house he was considering moving in to. Just when she worked up a good, solid
mad
to aim at him, he went and did something amazing. Giving her the first orgasm of her life, asking the shy, skinny, freckled flower girl to dance (the only other female he paid any attention to, she noticed, which gave her a little thrill she tried so hard to shake off), and now this...

A few minutes after he'd left their table, Cass and Colin had left the party. They stumbled and wove toward the door, barely able to walk and definitely not able to walk straight.

"Angry,
Sokar
?" he asked. "I merely introduced them to an old custom of my country—getting rid of inconvenient pests. The court of Ittar was once famous for its poisons."

"You didn't poison them." She was sure of it, but her voice wavered.

"It was tempting, but no. They will sleep deeply tonight and move quite slowly in the morning." Irritating self-satisfaction dripped from his voice. "They annoyed me. They intended to announce their engagement tonight."

"I know I told you I wanted to keep everyone from pulling focus from the bride, but that's extreme."

He lowered his tone to a heart-thudding intimate level. "I confess I thought more of its effect on you."

"Please." She gave him the eye-rolling he deserved.

"Do you still care for him?"

For who?
"You mean Colin?" She shrugged. "I slept with him. I'll always care for him a little, I guess. But I wouldn't take him back for all the chocolate in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Why did you talk to them for so long if they annoyed you?"

"To learn some interesting information."

"Care to share?"

He gave her a pointed look that nearly melted her panties off. "Very much. But you banned drama for the duration of the wedding, and I fear this would lead to that. Unless you decree the wedding is now over?"

"Keep it to yourself, then," she said. "I don't care anyway. But—" She scanned the room. Most of the guests had left. Most importantly, Colin and Cass had left. In fact, the only couples left on the dance floor were the bride and groom and—gulp— Zaqwan and her. The few guests at the mostly empty tables eyed the dance floor with knowing interest. Their attention wasn't aimed at the newlyweds.

The song wasn't even close to finished. She stepped out of his arms anyway. "Yes, I'd say the wedding is over. It was very
nice
to meet you." She emphasized the word with all the good manners she could muster, holding out her palm for a stiff handshake. Through smiling teeth, she added for his ears alone, "My money. You said you'd give it back."

He tilted his head and laid his accent on thick, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "Ah, but we do not shake hands in my country. We have a far more charming custom." Without warning, he grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed one cheek, European-style. When he did, he whispered in her ear. "Your money is in my room. You will have to come and retrieve it."

She tensed as he switched to the other cheek, expecting him to deliver a seductive lick, or take her lobe between his teeth. But he didn't. He discreetly told her his room number, and then released her to stride off toward the bride and groom.