The Sheikh’s Accidental Heir (Sharjah Sheikhs Book 2)

by Leslie North

  Melanie vowed she’d be up first in the morning. She’d leave the clothes he’d bought her, wear her pants and white shirt out of here. She had a business to run, and it was time for Cinderella to get back to her ashes.

  5

  Ahmed stared off into the distance, only half listening to his father’s lecture and thinking far too much about his sensual American. It had been almost a month since they had shared two wonderful days. Ahmed had stayed in New York for another week, listening to too many complaints from his older brothers, attending dull business meetings, and slipping in trips to look over New York real estate. He hadn’t found anything that set his pulse to hammering—not the way his Melanie had. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

  He also hadn’t been able to contact her.

  She had been gone when he’d woken after their second night. He’d had no time to tell her the condom had broken during that last vigorous bout of sex. He’d called her firm and had left a message for Melanie to call him, but she had not. Which meant the broken condom must not matter—nothing had come of it. And Melanie was done with him. His mouth twitched down. She had made it clear she wanted two days with him and nothing more—she had even left behind the clothes he had bought just for her.

  That rankled.

  He did not want a woman who only wanted him for his money, but he did want a woman he could pamper and fuss over.

  He had vowed he was not done with his sensual American.

  But then his father had insisted that Ahmed return home. He’d put off the trip as long as he could, had used the excuse of business, but eventually even his brothers insisted he must go.

  “Father has plans for you,” Khalid had said. His expression had been grim, and that had sent a shiver of alarm down Ahmed’s spine.

  However, he was wondering now why he’d been worried.

  His father was droning on and on about Ahmed’s poor behavior—as usual. Ahmed had kissed an American—a congressman’s daughter. A girl barely eighteen. Ahmed had stiffened at that comment. His father would hate even more to learn of Ahmed’s sensual American and their two days of pleasure. But then his father started into the usual complaint of how Ahmed was not growing up, not taking responsibility, not involved in business enough. As if there was room for Ahmed when his older brothers had everything so well handled.

  Ahmed stared out the window to a stark, blue sky and the white walls of the palace and the lush gardens in the courtyard. But he kept thinking of green eyes and a slender, sensual woman.

  His father’s voice sharpened, and Ahmed glanced at the man. His father was looking older—a little more gray in his hair and his beard, a few more lines around his dark eyes.

  And what was he talking about now? About how marriage and a family would make Ahmed grow up, would give him a better sense of responsibility. That old tale. Ahmed let out a long breath, and then his father said, “Marriage is the answer, and she will make you a good wife.”

  Ahmed sat up. For an instant, he thought his father was speaking of Melanie and the image flashed in front of him of her dark hair and those amazing green eyes. He shook his head. Melanie wanted marriage as little as did Ahmed. And his father did not know about the sensual American.

  His father was also looking pleased. Something was wrong here.

  “Marry?” Ahmed spat out the word. “Father, what have you done?”

  His father leaned his elbows on the desk. He had worn traditional garb, as usual. The white robes and the keffiyeh scarf, fastened with a black igal. The ends of the keffiyeh swung forward. “I have settled your future. Yafassa has agreed to wed his Nasiji to you. It is settled.” He sliced a hand through the air.

  Ahmed stood. “Nothing is settled. I have no wish to marry.”

  His father stood and leaned his hands on his oak desk. “You wish to shame our name? And what of Nasiji? You will leave her disgraced? Abandoned by the man meant to be her husband? Who will have her then?”

  Ahmed crossed his arms. “This arrangement is not my doing—so you may undo it.”

  “Impossible.” Al-Qasimi straightened. “I have already given my word on this matter.” He clapped his hands. The door behind Ahmed opened and he turned. A woman in a full, black burka entered, her head and figure covered but her eyes visible. Her deep, mesmerizing green eyes. However, they were not Melanie’s eyes—Ahmed knew that in an instant.

  She gave a nod, and Ahmed’s father strode toward the door. “I leave you to work out the details, but this marriage will take place.” He paused in front of Ahmed. “Do not bring shame to my family or to hers or I shall not just disown you, but I will see the two of you whipped and bring the full force of my power against you.” He strode from the room.

  Ahmed fisted his hands. He turned and started to leave, but Nasiji touched his arm. “Please, Ahmed. I do not wish this either. But we have no choice.”

  Stopping, gut churning and his skin hot, Ahmed glanced at her. “This is your father’s doing—and mine?” He’d known Nasiji for most of his life. At one point, he’d even had an infatuation with her younger sister, but that had fallen apart horribly.

  She pushed back the veil, giving him a better look at her face. He could see she was as displeased as he was about their arrangement. She sat down on one of the stiff-backed chairs in his father’s sparse and functional office.

  “I have no alternative. My father—he is old. He fears he has spoiled me—allowed me to become too Western, so he thinks now that marriage and a traditional life will cure all. He and your father cooked this up and when I protested—”

  “You did?” Ahmed sat in the chair next to hers.

  “I did—and I feared my father would have a stroke. Ahmed, I cannot risk his life to defy him. I would never forgive myself. And…well, I see no other future. My father will see me married before he dies—he wishes for grandchildren.”

  Ahmed nodded. “As does my father. My brother has already started on this task, but a dozen grandchildren will not satisfy my father.”

  Nasiji gave a small smile. “Would it be so bad to marry me?”

  Ahmed took a deep breath. “Nasiji, you are a beautiful woman. You come from a wealthy family and would make any man a wonderful wife.”

  “But…I hear that word coming from your lips even though you have not said it, Ahmed.”

  He stood and walked to the windows. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned back to face her. “I met someone in New York. An American.”

  Her mouth pulled down. “Who is this woman?”

  Ahmed blinked. He realized then that he knew her only as Melanie—but it would take no great effort to learn her name and more about her. He knew she worked for the company hired by his brothers to cater the New York event. He frowned.

  Nasiji stood, came to his side and touched his arm again. “I will not be a demanding wife. If you wish to make trips to New York—I will not ask questions. I only ask that I be allowed to have a life, too.”

  Pulling away, Ahmed shook his head. “That may be a marriage to satisfy you, but it will not do for me.”

  Her face paled. “So you will deny me? Leave me to face the wrath of your father and mine? I know you can leave. But I cannot.” Tears shimmered in her eyes.

  She was a lovely woman, with golden skin and high cheekbones, a lush mouth and huge eyes. However, Ahmed couldn’t help but compare her to his sensual American. Nasiji was a serious girl, with a stubborn chin and a temper. She was not the woman for him—and they both knew it. He shook his head. “Nasiji, you would not be happy with me.”

  “And I will be happy to be whipped and branded an undutiful daughter? To be left no choice but to be given to an old man with bad teeth and the habits of a donkey? My father has vowed I will marry this year. If not to you, then to…to some old cousin of his who has three wives already, and I will never be allowed to do more than breed babies. That is, if the old man can even get it up.”

  Ahmed let out a laugh, and Nasiji glared at him. “Sor
ry—I should not laugh. But your language. And your father would do it, wouldn’t he? Beat you and then marry you off just so he could think he had secured your future and be at peace with himself.”

  Nasiji nodded. “And your father would cut you off—see you in jail even. He will not allow you to dishonor his given word.”

  Ahmed waved away such an idea. “I have more freedom than you, Nasiji. I can leave, make my own way in this world. If I must forever leave my home, I would do so. But I see how it is for you. We must find you a better husband, I think. And…and a way out of this for both of us that will not anger our fathers but will leave them pleased to have averted disaster. Perhaps there is even a way to get you to New York or to someplace in America where you can have the life you want.”

  The tears vanished from her eyes, leaving Ahmed wondering just how genuine they had been. “You have an idea?” she asked.

  Ahmed looked into Nasiji’s now hardened eyes—hard as stone. He wondered if he was mad to even toy with the idea that had sprouted in his mind. But it was not just his future at stake—it was Nasiji’s. He had to help her. The long friendship between their families meant he owed her that much. And this idea of his would bring his sensual American back into his life. What happened after that—well, he’d always hoped to be his own man. Now he was going to have to prove it.

  He would need his Melanie’s help with that.

  If she would give it.

  6

  It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Melanie did a slow circle in the middle of the spotlessly clean, relentlessly top-of-the-line, enormous kitchen of the Sultan of Sharjah. Stainless steel freezers, Aga stoves, marble pastry station, a wall of walk-in fridges, and spice racks stocked with everything a chef could want. Not to mention the stacks of bowls, trays, and every possible mixer or appliance she could want. She hadn’t even dug into the full list of tools available. Here was the chance to finally get her catering company—MM Catering—into the headlines. And she had Ahmed to thank for this.

  She was still a little worried about meeting him again.

  George had taken the call and had booked the event, just about pushing Melanie onto the first plane out of JFK. “It’s the Emirate of Sharjah, Melanie. A royal family, an unlimited budget and a spread in People Magazine,” George had told her. He’d packed her knives, his hands shaking. She’d protested that she needed back up, but George told her he’d get Angie, Sid and Terry onto the very next plane, and Melanie could buy what she needed. He’d ship her anything else—like himself and whatever other staff she had to import. Meantime, he was clearing the calendar for the next month. A month! Just to plan one event.

  Melanie put a hand on her stomach. The nausea caught at her again, just as it had the past few mornings. If she didn’t know any better, she’d suspect something was up. She was a few days late with her period, but she’d always been a little irregular. And she knew damn well that Ahmed had used protection every single time. She’d seen, felt, and heard the evidence. Still, that last time—she’d felt a spurt of wetness inside. She frowned. She didn’t have time to deal with complications right now, so it’d just have to wait. This had to be jet lag puffing up her ankles and nerves twisting her stomach.

  She’d been met at the airport by a harried-looking wedding planner who had introduced herself as Madam Zolest. The name left the woman sounding more like a fortune teller, but the Chanel suit, the ruthlessly slim and stylish dress and diamond studs all said Zolest knew her business and made a fortune at it. Zolest had led Melanie to a car, said she had underlings meeting Melanie’s staff and started with the requirements for the bride and groom.

  Melanie’s stomach had jumped at those words. A part of her was hoping it was Ahmed’s other brother—or a cousin—who was getting married. But she had to face the truth—she might have been his last-minute fling. She needed to focus on the job, the money, and the fact that this was going to launch her company into being in demand by the wealthiest clients in the world. There was nothing but upside on this.

  So why were her hands shaking worse than George’s had been?

  Angie, Sid and Terry burst into the kitchen, chattering like the college students they had been up until a few months ago. George called them the Three Musketeers. They were her go-to team, and she clapped her hands, got their attention and put them to work.

  Today, they had to prep three rounds of tester foods for the bride and groom—samples that would showcase options for the menu and confirm she could handle the job. Madam Zolest had said she’d be doing the first tasting before anything went out to the happy couple, and Zolest hadn’t sounded happy or confident that Melanie could deliver. She was going to blow Zolest out of the water.

  Today it was all about hors d’oeuvres.

  Sid was working on the spiced plantains, crispy fried bananas with a sweet curry spice, and an Allo Tika, spiced chicken done in a cube on a stick. Angie was making spicy tuna in a hand-rolled Miso seaweed cone, a seared Hamachi and fish tacos in wonton shells. Terry had the hard job—an array of wood-fired mini-pizzas, with toppings ranging from caviar to roasted vegetables. As a nod to tradition, Melanie was going to do a hand-held Shawarma—the lamb was almost done roasting and filled the kitchen with the aroma, and fresh pita that was cooling right now—and dates stuffed with a goat cheese, walnut and honey mixture. Those were already made and on a tray in a cooler to get them to the perfect temperature.

  She stopped by the stations to see how everyone was doing. Sid flashed her a quick smile, Angie was biting her lower lip in concentration and Terry was humming—a good sign. Madam Zolest poked her head in twice, sniffed, frowned and left—maybe she wasn’t a lamb fan. When the samples were ready, Melanie gave the trays one last look—plating was as important as taste. Everything looked beautiful and smelled even better. Taking a deep breath, she had Sid and Terry pick up the tray and Angie held open the door. They headed into the dining room.

  She’d seen it before—Madam Zolest had given her a blurry, fast tour. The palace seemed all white walls, a lot of marble, heavy portraits and gold leaf. The dining table could host a state dinner—meaning it would seat three hundred comfortably. But Melanie almost stumbled into a huge Chinese vase when Ahmed looked up from the table.

  Next to him sat a woman in a black burka, her head covered but her face revealed—and she was beautiful. Exotic and beautiful, and Melanie suddenly felt skinny and far too much the tomboy she’d once been.

  Ahmed was the groom.

  She blinked. Her chest seemed too tight with a breath caught that she couldn’t dislodge. Her skin chilled, and the nausea lifted again. But she had a job to do. She pushed back her shoulders.

  They hadn’t made promises to each other—it had been a fling.

  She glanced at the bride. With her mouth turned down and her dark eyes snapping, the woman didn’t look happy. Just what was going on here?

  Ahmed looked—well, he looked better than ever in a tailored suit and with his smooth, dark features. His seductive eyes held a gleam she didn’t trust. She put on a smile and concentrated on the professional demeanor she’d worked so hard to cultivate.

  Melanie explained the samples as Sid and Terry served them. Her stomach churned and her heart pounded as she watched Ahmed and his fiancée try a bite of this or that.

  Well, if her fling had gotten her this job, that was great. But if Ahmed thought they were going to keep things going while he got married, he was going to have a few things explained to him.

  But this didn’t seem to be a happy couple.

  The woman—Nasiji, Ahmed called her at one point—hated the fish, loved the Shawarma, and couldn’t make up her mind about the dates. Ahmed kept saying, “Whatever pleases you.” But his tone was such that it sounded more like he was running out of patience. Madam Zolest started to look more harried. No wonder, since this looked like a wedding about to blow up. What was going on?

  Ahmed avoided looking at her now—and that was a good thing. She wanted the focu
s to be the food. But the polite bickering at the table—Nasiji managed to be difficult with passive-aggressive perfection, and Ahmed’s clipped tones were giving the wedding planner a heart attack—overwhelmed everything. Nothing was decided, and Madam Zolest excused Melanie and her staff with a nod and a wave of her hand.

  Melanie went, grateful to head back to the kitchen. Once there, Sid voiced the question Melanie had been thinking, “Are those two going to get married or kill each other?”

  After Melanie and her staff had left, Ahmed stood and towered over Nasiji. They still had the wedding planner with them, so the show must go on. “I thought you wished an impressive menu?”

  “You suggested this caterer. And what is wrong with a more traditional wedding?” Nasiji’s voice hit a whine that almost had Ahmed walking from the room. How the woman managed to be a scold without ever scolding was a wonder. He now pitied the man who would ever wed her, for she would rule him without ever raising her voice.

  But he had a role to play here.

  “I know I did,” he said. He’d used this wedding as an excuse to bring Melanie to him. He hadn’t expected that jolt of attraction to shake him so strongly. He hadn’t thought he would instantly want her in his arms. She’d felt so good, so right. He wanted that again.

  But he had this damnable role to play.

  He cut the air with a hand—a gesture his father adored. “I will go ask if she can prepare more traditional dishes.”

  “Not too traditional,” Nasiji said, her voice hitting that note that had his skin wanting to crawl off his body. “I do not want us to appear backward to the world.”

  Ahmed heard the wedding planner mutter, “Traditional but not too traditional.” The woman wiped a hand over her forehead. Well, she was being well paid—wedding or no.

  Nasiji stood, her robes swirling around her ankles. “The caterer has traveled around the world to take this job. We can’t possibly send her back now. She is doing something many women here will only ever dream of doing—running a company.” She looked at the wedding planner. “We’ll hire her and work with her on the menu.”