The Sheikh’s American Love - A Box Set

by Holly Rayner

We sat in silence for a few tense moments. The jazz music overhead wasn’t doing anything to calm my anger, like it usually did. Joel watched me from across the snack table with a sad, worried look in his big brown eyes.

  I hated quitting. Giving up felt like a tiny death. But there was no point hanging on to the night’s fantasies, not now. With a deep breath I got out of my chair and made a half-hearted gesture in the direction of the snack table. “Do you mind if I put all of this back in the fridge? At least I’ll have lunch for a—“

  The sound of the gallery door opening, the clear ring of the bell, interrupted me. Both Joel and I turned fast. Following it came the sound of sloppy high-heeled steps on the hardwood floor, accompanied by girlish giggling and squeals.

  Smoothing out my dress, I walked around the dividing wall with purposeful steps and a big smile, trying to swallow the anger that was bubbling in my gut. But that anger only got hotter at the view in front of me.

  The Sheikh, I could only presume, was a tall, young, attractive man with broad shoulders and a body that betrayed his hard work in the gym. His hair was even blacker than Joel’s, somehow; the color of a starless night sky. Chiseled and handsome, he wore a crisp beige linen suit and Italian leather shoes. From under his sleeves and collar, the edges of tattoos teased across his bronze skin.

  On each of his arms was a blonde woman—they might have been sisters, they looked so alike—in tight but expensive cocktail dresses that accentuated their ample curves. Purses swung precariously from their forearms as they clung onto the Sheikh with each drunken step they took into the gallery, laughing and pushing at each other over some joke I must have missed.

  The sight froze me. This was a new one. I gathered my composure and reset my smile. The art business was nothing if not customer service-oriented.

  “Good evening, Sheikh Rafiq Al-Zayn. I’m Evangeline Pryce. We spoke on the phone earlier.”

  I held out my hand to shake his, and the women looked at it as if I was trying to hand him a rotten egg. The Sheikh, who seemed to be having trouble focusing on my face, didn’t notice it at all.

  “Where is your drink service?” he asked in a loud voice. When a gross belch followed, both of the women fell into uproarious laughter.

  Stunned and only growing angrier, I made a gesture toward the table at the back. “I’m sure the food is cold by now, unfortunately” I said sharply.

  Joel came from around the back wall, hands held politely behind his back, but the Sheikh pointed and angrily said, “I thought I specifically asked for this to be a private exhibition.”

  I whirled around and exchanged a look with Joel.

  “This is my assistant, Joel Perez. He’s not here to view the art, sir.”

  The Sheikh only huffed and hooked his arms around the necks of each of the girls as he led them back through the gallery, toward the drinks. Joel smiled until the Sheikh passed, and then he turned to me with a bitter and twisted look on his face, like he smelled something nasty.

  Joel and I stood at a distance, trying not to crowd or rush the trio, as they poured glass after glass of champagne and drank them faster than anyone I’d ever seen. After ten minutes, it became clear they’d forgotten they were in an art gallery.

  Joel stealthily put his hand on my back, a gentle gesture I knew too well.

  He was trying to keep me calm, but I couldn’t help myself. Instead I asked in a loud and firm voice, “Can I answer any questions about the art for you?”

  None of them turned or even acknowledged I had spoken. Heat crept up my neck and face.

  The Sheikh tipped over the last of the champagne bottles, and it rolled across the table and hit the wooden floor with a loud crack. He looked around a moment, ducking to glance under the table by lifting the black cloth, and once he didn’t find anything else to drink, he pulled the blondes close by their tiny waists and whispered something in a deep timbre in each of their ears. Whatever it was made both of them blush and shiver.

  “Ay dios mío,” said Joel to himself. He shook his head and walked away from the scene.

  I couldn’t walk away. I was too furious. Like a car wreck, I couldn’t look away from the horrible mess this night had turned into.

  The drunken party headed back toward the door, breezing by me as if I were a ghost. The Sheikh said nothing to me, not even glancing at the paintings before he disappeared into the night with the two women.

  Dark realization came over me as it became apparent that the Sheikh had never intended to purchase any of my art. He didn’t care about me or my work at all; he only wanted to put on a show for his lady friends, to impress them into sleeping with him. He had wasted an entire day of my life just so he could get laid.

  That was the last straw. Heels pounding like a judge’s gavel on the hardwood, I marched through the gallery and out the front door to follow them. A shiny, intimidating black car sat idling on the curb, and the blondes were trying to fall inside without hurting themselves as the Sheikh and a well-dressed chauffer waited.

  “Hey!” I said, stalking up to him.

  The Sheikh turned at the sound, wobbling on his feet just a bit.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “You’re an inconsiderate asshole, you know that?”

  Suddenly the sound of the idling engine was all I could hear. The blondes had stopped wrestling with each other, and even the thin chauffer seemed to have frozen in surprise. The face of the Sheikh had lost all pretence of humor.

  “What did you say to me?” he asked in a deep voice.

  “I said you’re an inconsiderate asshole. You wasted my time and the time of my assistant tonight. I know the art world is just another playground for people like you, but this is my life. This is everything I am, and you just crumpled up all my work and threw it away like a piece of trash. You’re an asshole.”

  The Sheikh stared at me silently, his dark eyes piercing through mine. Before he could respond, I whirled on my heels and headed back inside, slamming the door behind me and locking it. By the time Joel and I cleaned up the gallery, the car was gone.

  THREE

  Sleep came fitfully that night. Joel couldn’t stay much longer after we cleaned up, and he’d been such a champ for me this and many other nights that I didn’t pester him, even though I wanted the company. Instead, my company was an unopened bottle of Cabernet and a long, hot shower. Hours passed, tossing and turning, as I had imaginary conversations in my head with the arrogant asshole from the night before. What little bite I’d given him didn’t feel like enough.

  The next day, I was too tired and down to worry about changing out the paintings in the gallery for the general public. The curation I had done for the Sheikh was a bit different than what I typically kept hanging up, but that was a problem for another day, I decided once I came downstairs.

  The gallery opened on time at 9am, and as usual, no one was pounding on the doors to get in. At least the warm sunshine spilling across the floor and white walls seemed to be lifting my mood. After running through my opening checklist, I made a pot of burned coffee in the kitchenette in the back room and stood in the hallway, where I had a good view of the gallery floor, while I enjoyed the warmth.

  Around noon, some looky-loos wandered in and planted themselves right in front of Constantine, a long horizontal piece brimming with hazy orange and yellow light, and the faint impressionist view of the Hagia Sophia’s iconic minarets. Keeping my distance at first, I let them take in the gallery and the piece before attempting any interaction. Some of these people were like bunny rabbits, and if I moved too fast, they’d be right out the door, and so would my rent money.

  Before I could get to them, the gallery’s front door swung open and shut. Turning my head, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  It was the Sheikh, closing the gallery door gently behind him. The expression on his handsome face was nothing like the night before. There was no snooty power, no anger, no darkness. He was pale, his lips dry. He’d shaven cleanly and showere
d, and instead of a nighttime-style tailored suit, he wore a casual button-up and slacks. But he was clearly in the throes of a hangover. He took off his dark sunglasses and scanned the gallery until his eyes landed on me. His gaze softened so distinctly that I could see it from across the room.

  Anger flared behind my eyes as I blinked in disbelief. I never expected he’d have the nerve to show his face around here again; but then, rich assholes obviously do whatever they want, regardless of whose days they ruin.

  I looked back to the middle-aged couple near Constantine. They hadn’t noticed me approach and were still talking quietly with each other as they swept over the features of the work with pointed fingers. I changed course and headed for the Sheikh.

  He stood waiting for me, and I crossed my arms as I came to a stop in front of him.

  “What is it I can do for you now, Sheikh Al-Zayn? You already drank all of my champagne, remember?” I said lowly.

  He cleared his throat. “I think I’ve lost the right for such respectful formality. Please, call me Rafiq.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Something almost wounded crossed his face, and he ran a big hand through his black hair. “Miss Pryce, I’m here to tell you that I’m truly sorry for everything that happened last night. May I ask for a moment to speak with you…” he gazed over to the couple, “in private?”

  “You can speak to me right here,” I said. “Your performance last night didn’t earn you any favors from me.”

  There was no way he was going to get me alone where he could intimidate me; he wasn’t the first arrogant jerk I’d met in my life.

  He didn’t argue with me. “Very well. Let me apologize to you profusely for my behavior last night, and for the behavior of my… friends.” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid things got a little out of hand at the engagement we had been attending prior, and I didn’t realize at the time that I was in no shape to make our meeting. I should have called and cancelled.”

  “You should have stayed sober enough to make your appointments,” I said before I could stop myself. Some voice deep in my mind was warning me that my own behavior was crossing a line, but I was too upset to care. “I didn’t get as far as I am by letting people walk all over me, and you’re not about to be the first.”

  Rafiq’s face fell, but he didn’t get angry. He only nodded again. “Fair enough. I respect that,” he said. “My behavior was selfish and indefensible. I hope you can forgive me.”

  I fell silent. With a big sigh, I averted my gaze and watched the foot traffic out the window. “Your apology is appreciated,” I said, not without some bitterness. “Forgiveness, well—that might be a while.”

  Rafiq didn’t press further. Instead he turned and tucked his hands behind his back as he began a sauntering stroll toward the nearest panting to his left. Actually, paintings, plural—the work was an amalgam of six smaller canvases painted with a single cohesive image. The separate canvases allowed me to create space in certain parts of the picture, but not others, and to change it at will. This was the fourth arrangement I’d tried since painting it years ago, but it was always titled Locusta.

  He came to a stop in front of it and tilted his head as he took in the deep greens and royal blues, the way the strokes seemed to simultaneously suggest both snakes and rivers, while little white ruins of the Roman variety peeked out from beneath the darker tones, like cities hidden in the jungle. After watching him for a moment, I came up beside him.

  “This is exceptional,” he said in a firm voice.

  His compliment surprised me. “Oh?”

  “Do you ever re-arrange the canvases?” he asked, shifting his hand around in the air. “Create different shapes?”

  A smile rose to the corner of my lips. “In fact, I do. How did you know?”

  “No reason,” he replied.

  We made our way together around the gallery, and in stark difference from the night before, Rafiq stopped at each and every canvas and gave it a thorough, respectful analysis. He had nothing but glowing praise, and I found myself wondering if he was just trying to sweeten me up after last night. There was no way he didn’t know how charming his sparkling half-smile was when he flashed it at me. Even Joel, as mad as he had been the night prior, had pointed it out as we were cleaning up.

  We arrived at Constantine and I realized the looky-loos from before had disappeared, empty-handed. A pang of guilt cut my heart; I probably should have paid them more attention.

  Rafiq stopped short, as if stricken, when he turned his eyes to Constantine. Maybe it was the familiar landscape. He wasn’t Turkish, but surely as rich as he was, he’d been to Istanbul himself, and seen the great minarets.

  After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. “Your use of color is very bold. I’m so tired of pastels and faded nostalgic tones. I don’t relate to this ache people have to live in the past.” He turned from the painting to look down at me, standing next to him. “Your work doesn’t live in the past, though, does it?” He waved a hand at the painting. “No, this is the color of the present, and the future. You may use old things in your work, but you’ve brought them from the past with you, instead of joining them there.”

  Stunned, I had no response. It had been years—if it had ever happened—since someone had spoken in such a way about my work. Sure, plenty of my rich buyers gushed over the pieces they purchased, rattling off the lingo they remembered from their half-century-old Art History degrees as they talked about how envious their friends would be at the way it looked in the library.

  But Rafiq’s words were different. The way he spoke about art seemed…genuine.

  “I, uh…” I said. “Thank you. That is a real compliment.”

  Rafiq’s eyes studied me for a moment, until I grew uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. As if he could sense it, he smiled and moved on.

  The last painting he had to see in the gallery was Oceanic, with all its swarming wet darkness and mythical monsters. Rafiq stood before this one for longer than he did any of the others, even stepping back to take in the fullness of the canvas. He pressed his face up close to get a good look at the monsters in the misty darkness, tracing the sea spray with a light fingertip.

  “I must have this,” he said lowly. “It’s perfect.”

  My heart seized up in my chest. I didn’t want to get my hopes up about what I thought I’d just heard. Oceanic was one of the largest canvases—and it was expensive.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Rafiq turned and repeated, “I must have this one.” He reached his hand in his fine jacket and pulled out a snakeskin wallet. From within it, he produced a platinum credit card, the likes of which I had only seen once or twice my whole career. “Please, charge this. Is your assistant here to help us wrap it for transport? I probably owe him an apology, too.”

  “He’s not here at the moment,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He only helps with special events.”

  “Not a problem, my driver can assist us,” said Rafiq, pulling his smartphone from a different pocket. He sent a quick text as he simultaneously explained, “Ahmed has been with my family for years, and he has very delicate hands. He has helped me move fine art many times before. I would not suggest it if it would put the painting at risk.”

  His forthright concern for the artwork warmed my heart. As angry as I still felt about the Sheikh’s behavior, I wasn’t about to argue my way out of this meal ticket. My rent would be paid for three months on this sale alone.

  “Then I’ll be right back,” I said, rushing through to the back to fetch a step stool and the wrap for the painting.

  When I returned, Ahmed had joined Rafiq. I recognized him as the driver from the night before, who had looked as stunned as Rafiq when I stood up to him. They were nearly the same tall height, but Ahmed was thin like a green bean, his bronze face wrinkled with age and sun, a thick black moustache neatly manicured under his nose. He and Rafiq spoke to each other in Arabic, pointing at the painting. Judging by the look on
Ahmed’s face, he liked it as much as Rafiq did.

  “Miss Pryce,” said Rafiq. He held out a hand to me, and reluctantly I took it. He planted a tiny kiss on the back before gesturing with his other to the driver. “This is Ahmed. Ahmed, Miss Evangeline Pryce, the artist.”

  “Ah, madam,” said Ahmed, bowing his head politely toward her. “A fine job you’ve done here, a fine job. Your work makes my heart sing.” He held his hands up in a joyous gesture.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, blushing.

  I watched with some reservation as the men carefully took the canvas from the wall. They were tall enough that the step stool was entirely unnecessary. They wrapped it until it was fully protected from any errant drop of rain or worse. My heart felt a little broken, as it always did when one of my paintings left. Somehow, it was like giving up a little part of myself.

  Once the painting was safely loaded in the town car, Ahmed returned to the driver’s seat, and Rafiq followed me back inside the gallery to wrap up his transaction. He waited across the counter as the credit card machine ran his four-figure bill.