The Sheikh’s American Love - A Box Set

by Holly Rayner

  “Scary,” I finished for him.

  “Yeah,” he said. “A little.” He wouldn’t look at me.

  I didn’t know what to say to him—I had never had this level of luxury and security to consider giving up in the first place. I laid my head on his shoulder.

  “Would your father really cut you off if you kept up your life the way it’s going?” I asked quietly. “He would really and truly leave you out to dry?”

  “Really and truly,” sighed Rafiq, staring out at the city. “He’s said it since I was a young man. Ever since I first started to show signs that his influence over me was…waning. I have some of my own money, of course, but my life apart from him would undoubtedly look different.” He sighed again. “Or, rather, still could become different. I guess we’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish things could be different for you. I may not know exactly what you’re going through, but I can see the way it hurts you, Rafiq. And I know that pain is real. I hope you can find a way to get rid of the pain one day… I hope you can find some way to reconcile all this and be at peace.”

  Rafiq’s eyes were misty and full of emotion when he looked over at me. I squeezed his hand and gave him a little smile.

  “Maybe one day I’ll be brave like you,” he said.

  His words hurt my heart. “Well, even if you aren’t, you should know I didn’t exactly hate spending time with you today. So you achieved more than you thought today, it would seem.”

  I could almost feel the tension evaporating from his muscles beneath me. He smiled. “Am I growing on you, Evie?”

  I laughed. “I suppose you could say that. We made a pretty good team today.”

  “Yeah,” said Rafiq thoughtfully. “We really did.”

  Rafiq pulled me closer against his body, and laid his head on top of mine as we watched the setting sun.

  I didn’t remember finally dozing off, snuggled tightly in Rafiq’s arms. But I certainly remember the huge and startling realization that I was falling in love with Rafiq, and didn’t want our time together to end.

  TWELVE

  Rafiq woke up first, somewhere around midnight, and gently shook me awake. Realizing we had fallen asleep in each other’s arms on the porch couch , we chuckled sheepishly as we moved back into the penthouse and relocated to our separate beds for the rest of the night. Despite the luxurious warmth of the bed in my spare room, it felt utterly lacking without Rafiq’s arms around me, and I fell asleep wishing he was still with me.

  The next morning, the romantic haze had washed away and my heart was filled with worry. My day with Rafiq had to have been a fluke. Sure, he had been on fantastic form at the gallery, and every moment afterward, but how could I trust it? Every time he did something incredible, it seemed like some sort of jackass move wasn’t far behind it. After all, he had admitted that he wasn’t brave enough to face the truth of his life. I had known instinctively, right from our first meeting, that Rafiq was hiding from something with all his partying. Now I knew it for sure.

  The feelings I had for this version of Rafiq were doomed to destroy my heart the second he called up his hard-partying buddies and scantily clad girls for another night of debauchery. Even imagining the scenario made my heart hurt, and I knew then I had gone too far; I’d let myself get too close to him.

  Rookie mistake, I thought, scolding myself. He was a rich, eligible bachelor who liked the night life. He liked it so much, he was willing to deceive his father in order to keep it and his fortune, instead of simply giving up his partying ways. Even though I truly believed him when he said he enjoyed my art, it didn’t change who Rafiq really was, or how he lived his life. And it wasn’t the life for me. I’d cleaned up all the beer cans and party mess I wanted to clean up for a good long while.

  My thoughts washed over me like a dark flood that cast away all the relief I had felt the night before in Rafiq’s arms. It left me feeling sour and upset, and yearning for the comfort of the gallery, where at least life made a little bit more sense than the wonderland I had gotten myself into.

  I was grateful my bedroom had its own connecting bathroom when I heard Rafiq stirring outside in the penthouse living room. I took my time getting ready, including taking a very long, hot shower. Part of me wasn’t ready to face Rafiq yet. My feelings were still raging, fighting each other for dominance.

  But he was ready to face me, I discovered, when I finally came out of my bedroom. In fact, he was excited to see me. When I emerged, rubbing my wet hair with a towel, I saw his face light up from where he sat on the living room couch, perusing through some paperwork.

  “Good morning!” he said. “How did you sleep?”

  I gave him half-smile, deciding to play it as cool as I could. “Better, once I was in a real bed,” I joked. “My neck’s a little cricked, though.”

  “Mine too,” he said, rubbing his hand across the back of his strong neck. “Do you want me to massage it for you?”

  Heat flushed my skin. “No, no,” I said quickly, but I must have been too quick, or too sharp, and Rafiq looked wounded at my rejection of him. “I’m already running late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “For the gallery,” I laughed. “Most people work every day during the week, Rafiq, remember?”

  Rafiq got up from the couch and put the papers down on the table. As he came over to me, he said, “Well, actually, I had something else in mind for us to do today.”

  My emotions flared. Why did he have to be so sweet and thoughtful now, when all I wanted to do was back off from this? Was this some kind of game for him?

  But even as I thought it, I knew it was wrong. Rafiq was arrogant and selfish, but he wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t trying to make things hard for me.

  “Oh?” I finally answered, folding my arms in front of me. Determined as I was to head to the gallery regardless of what he had to say, he had stoked my curiosity. “And what did you have in mind?”

  “Have you ever been to the aquarium?”

  “Sure, once or twice,” I shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Well it just happens that I’m the largest donor to their funds,” he said with a proud smile. “I called and arranged for us to have a private tour, and lunch cooked by the chef who runs their upscale dinner restaurant.”

  A little stunned, I laughed and said, “Rafiq…”

  “After, I want to take you to the Franklin Gallery of Modern Art on Vine Street. They just started an exhibition of Cai Guo-Qiang, and I have it on good authority the artist will be making a surprise appearance.”

  “Rafiq…”

  “And then we can wrap up with dinner at La Mer. I’ve already reserved us a table, since you seemed to really enjoy the seafood at lunch the other day. That is, after I’ve taken you shopping at Hanneman’s, of course. A lady could always use a new dress,” he said sardonically.

  “Rafiq,” I said, loudly enough this time that he finally stopped talking.

  “What?” he said. Confusion spread over his handsome features. “It doesn’t have to be a dress. It can be whatever you want.”

  I had to laugh at him. There was something almost childlike in how excited he was to take me out today, but I couldn’t trust it.

  Not with fresh memories of hot blonde women in tight dresses ambling about his apartment. Not when he had barely gone a single night without partying or going out to a club. He was probably just trying to find some relief from the stress he was feeling about his father’s visit by being sweet with me. This wasn’t real, I kept telling myself. None of this was real—no matter how badly I wanted it to be.

  “I have to go to the gallery,” I said. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can do those things another time, okay?”

  Crestfallen, Rafiq blinked a few times, and shifted on his feet. “Oh. Did you not like my ideas?”

  “No, it’s not that,” I said, sad that I had clearly hurt his feelings. “It’s very sweet of you to offer, I just… I still have to take care of my lif
e. I like being here with you, but this is temporary, remember? I can’t just abandon my work.”

  He shook his head sadly. “Right. This is all temporary, of course.”

  “Are you upset?”

  I shouldn’t have asked, but in spite of myself, I cared. I didn’t want to upset him.

  He shook his head again. “No. It’s fine, I understand.” He waved a hand and walked away from me.

  “Rafiq,” I called after him, as the distance between us increased.

  “Really, it’s fine,” he said. The closed-lipped smile on his face was a lie. “You’re right, you need to take care of your life. I’ll be here when you get back.” He disappeared into the kitchen before I could reply.

  Now feeling hurt myself, I left the penthouse and took a taxi back to my gallery.

  THIRTEEN

  The day had been slow. I had been hoping for more overflow from yesterday’s festival, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. Only a few looky-loos had wandered in, and all of them had left soon after I spoke with them. They were like crows pecking at someone else’s corn, and the slightest rustle sent them squawking away toward the sky.

  Normally the looky-loos didn’t get to me, but I was on edge today. I couldn’t get the image of Rafiq’s sad eyes out of my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had made a mistake by refusing his offer of a grand day out.

  “Excuse me.” A small feminine voice brought me out of my thoughts. A short middle-aged lady with a smart brunette bob and an expensive red pea coat stood in front of the counter where I was sitting.

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  “Are you the artist?” she asked.

  “I certainly am. Can I answer any questions for you?”

  I got up from the stool, ready to come around the counter, just as the woman pointed a bony finger sparkling with a huge emerald ring toward a painting full of pinks that was called Anastasia.

  “I just love this one. Is it one of a kind?”

  “Much like the artist, yes, all of her works are one of a kind.”

  Rafiq’s voice sounded before I could answer. He had been walking toward us, a big smile on his face as he approached. The woman whirled around to face him.

  “Rafiq, what are you doing here?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.

  “I’m here to do my job,” he said, sidling up next to the woman in the red coat. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him, such was their height difference, but she clearly enjoyed his smile once she did. “And convince this beautiful young woman to take Anastasia home with her tonight.”

  The woman giggled and wrapped her hand around the elbow Rafiq offered to her. “By all means, young man, convince away.”

  He led her back toward the painting, spinning a web as he did.

  “Miss Pryce is a self-taught American artist. She was raised in a loving, supportive home, and thus she was allowed room to find her vision and let it flourish. It’s all in the colors, you see. That’s what you first noticed, isn’t it?”

  “You’re exactly right, it is,” said the woman.

  “Tell me the way the colors of this make you feel. Why do you like it?” Rafiq asked her.

  “I like the way it reminds me of being a little girl again. It reminds me of the dollhouse my father and brother built for me for my 12th birthday. Just looking at it I can still taste the pastries my mother baked us.”

  “You see?” said Rafiq. “None of that is here in the painting, and yet all of it is. This painting had the power to take you back to your childhood and fill your tongue with the taste of forgotten sweetness. This is the power of color that Miss Pryce has mastered. To have one of her works in your home is akin to hanging a living memory on your wall. Think of having that happy sensation every time you walk by it from now on.”

  Whether he knew it or not, Rafiq had drawn a crowd of gallery customers who stood at staggered distances, listening intently to his bold delivery. He was an impressive orator, and art fans loved nothing more than to hear someone knowledgeable dissect art. Rafiq had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

  The woman in the red coat waved her hands at me from across the room, loudly reminding me that the painting was hers.

  “I asked first!” she said. “Create an invoice for me, please!” She seemed genuinely concerned that one of the other patrons would swipe it out from under her.

  Rafiq looked up at me from over the top of her head with a wink and a smile.

  I didn’t have any strength to resist him at that moment. I smiled back with all the happiness I felt, watching him advocate for my craft and my livelihood with all the passion of an artist himself.

  He was making it very, very difficult not to fall in love with him.

  “The art is priceless, friends,” said Rafiq to the crowd. “And you would be truly foolish to pass up the chance to own a Pryce. In fact, this may be the last time her work is within your budget.” The crowd laughed and a few clapped.

  Rafiq turned toward me, still waiting, a little stunned, behind my white counter. He took careful steps toward me as he spoke. The crowd moved to let him by, as if he was a boat cutting through crystal clear water.

  “Speaking of foolishness, I might be the greatest fool here today, even though I own more Pryce paintings than the artist herself at this point.” The crowd loved his jokes, but he didn’t stop to enjoy their laughter. “If failing to worship her art is foolish, then what is to be said about the man who fails to worship the artist?”

  He stared at me, and my heart stopped beating. Heat rose on my skin as the emotions I’d been trying so hard to fight and bury started bubbling up to the surface, beckoned by Rafiq. Something heavy was gathering in the air of the room.

  “Being in this gallery is to be surrounded by beauty,” he said. “But Evie, truly…you are the most beautiful work of all.” He held his hand out to me.

  Not knowing what else to do in front of all the staring eyes, I took his hand, and he kissed the back of mine delicately. Shivers ran down my spine.

  The crowd watched with hushed, baited breath.

  “Evangeline, I have to ask you something,” he said.

  My breath caught in my throat. “Ask me something?”

  “I know that our relationship began as something… professional,” he said, caressing my hand in both of his. His palms were strong and warm, comforting. “But it’s become more than that for me, and I think it has for you, too. I didn’t expect it, but I would be a fool to run from it. You’ve made me want to be a braver man, and there’s no better time to begin making brave decisions than right now.”

  Some of the women in the audience began to coo, and I was suddenly very aware of the sea of eyes staring at us, watching, waiting.

  “Evangeline, I want you to be with me. Honestly be with me. I want to take care of you, and love you,” he said. “Do you love me, Evie? Will you let me be yours?”

  A thousand tons of pressure weighed on my heart and lungs, and I almost felt ready to pass out. Part of my mind was begging to scream at him yes, yes!, and I fought with great difficulty to quiet that voice. I couldn’t do it to myself. No matter what he was saying to me now—especially here, putting on a show, in front of an audience—I knew what he was really like. I knew how he spent his nights and days and what he found worthwhile, and it certainly wasn’t domestic bliss with me, or anyone else. This was just another show, just like our relationship was a show for his father.

  It was fake, I told myself. It had to be fake; there was no way Rafiq loved me.

  With every passing second, the smile on Rafiq’s face faded just a bit.

  Finally I found the voice to blurt it out. “Rafiq, I…I can’t.”

  His shoulders fell. Behind him, people in the crowd exchanged low, sad words, and some of them started to drift away, as if trying to spare Rafiq the embarrassment of their gaze.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “Don’t… don’t you feel anything for me? Did I just imagine what was ha
ppening between us? I know I didn’t imagine it, Evie. I felt it last night, holding you in my arms.”

  His questions pierced the core of me, and I couldn’t find it in myself to lie to him about what I really felt, but I couldn’t tell him, either. Or maybe it was that I couldn’t admit it out loud to myself.

  “It’s just…our lives are so different, Rafiq. I don’t think you would really be happy with me. I don’t live like you live, with all the parties, the constant nightlife…”

  Rafiq’s posture straightened, as if I had hit a deep nerve in him that overcame the sadness of the rejection itself.