Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3)

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Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 31

by Theodora Taylor


  But sensing that even the lightest of jokes wouldn’t be tolerated by this crowd, I fall back on my old head bowed, eyes lowered “Doing Business in Jahwar” routine.

  Holt introduces only two of the men. One is older and wears a rounded cap—it’s the cleric who will perform our wedding. The other is Rashid Zaman, one of Zahir’s many cousins who attended Beaumont at the same time as Holt—four years before Sylvie and me.

  Rashid greets me with a polite nod. “I believe you met my daughter, Aisha, earlier,” he says, his eyes soft with affection.

  “Oh, yes, she is funny and very sweet,” I reply, though meeting the little girl with the reality-show-loving former nanny feels like a million years ago now.

  An awkward silence falls over the room as soon as Rashid and I stop speaking…and as if to segue out of it, the cleric begins speaking in Arabic.

  I don’t realize the ceremony has actually begun until Zahir, who is now dressed in a white suit, comes to stand beside me and starts repeating after the cleric. I am asked to repeat a few things in Arabic, too. I do my best, and I guess it’s good enough for the small gathering, because fifteen minutes and a quick contract signing later, it’s all done. The cleric bows to Zahir without smiling, then leaves through the official doubles doors with the rest of the men and Aisha’s father.

  Holt congratulates me, but I notice unlike in America, he’s careful not to touch me. No hug, not even a handshake, and I sense another Jahwar rule in play, even though that ceremony couldn’t have lasted fifteen minutes.

  “As your wali, you’re allowed to occasionally check in with me. You’ll be given a phone to call me whenever you need,” Holt says, keeping his voice low. “And you can call me, for any reason—even if you just want me to hand the phone to Sylvie.”

  I give him a half smile. “Thanks,” I say. “This responsible husband and father thing is a good look on you, and you’re not nearly as big an asshole as I thought you were when we first met.”

  Holt winces.

  “Let me guess…no cursing in Jahwar.”

  “Definitely not. It’s not considered respectful, especially in front of royalty,” Holt answers. “I know that’s going be hard for you…”

  “Yep…” I agree.

  We exchange a few more words, but then it is way past time for Holt to get back to his new bride and children. And even though I get the sense that I can’t do it…I feel oddly compelled to hug him. After all, he’s my last touchstone to America. And as I watch him leave, I feel for the first time since I was pulled out of the airport, that this is truly real.

  The door closes behind Holt and I am alone with Zahir. In his office. Just like I wanted. Hours ago.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn and face him. For the first time as husband and wife, though we’ve yet to touch…or even so much as look each other in the eyes during the ceremony.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He regards me for a long time, and I swear I can feel the disdain coming off him in waves as he decides not to answer.

  “I’m…sorry,” I say. The words feel incredibly lame on my tongue. Inefficient and not nearly enough. “I didn’t know kissing was such a big deal here, and I know that’s no excuse. But I should not have let my temper get away from me like that. I never would have kissed you if I’d had any clue about the consequences.”

  Still nothing. So I keep going. “Anyway, that’s my apology and I’m going to stay out of your way for the next six months. No more kiss bombs, I swear.”

  I try to muster up a jokey smile to go along with my promise, but it’s kind of hard to do under his expressionless stare. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I should leave since he’s not responding to anything I say.

  But then he says, “The only reason you are apologizing to me is because your childish actions blew up in both our faces. You are not truly sorry. You are, in fact, a brat who has somehow managed to extract from me with her kiss and subsequent contract negotiation what she wanted all along.”

  Not for the first time, I wonder how I could have ever mistaken this man for Asir. Even in the dark, Asir’s voice is warm brandy and honey. Zahir’s is a cold desert night without any shelter in sight.

  And just like that, the extreme remorse I’ve been feeling ever since I got dragged out of the Jahwar airport loosens its hold on my heart.

  “Believe me, none of this was planned,” I tell him, my voice hardening. “I lost my temper and now I’m stuck here for six months with bills to pay and no job to come back to when I return to the States. I did what I had to for my sisters, but what I really wanted was for you to act like a decent human being and let them out of the contract. This weird…fake marriage…it’s not what I wanted.”

  “Hmm,” he says, eyeing me coldly. “Yet here we are…all because you kissed me.”

  “I kissed you, so I wouldn’t get sued for punching in your pretty teeth!” I answer between gritted teeth.

  He makes a mirthless sound—then suddenly steps forward, closing the space between us in one stride of his long legs. Just like on the balcony.

  But he’s even closer this time. The side of his face bumps into mine, and I can feel his beard on my cheek as he says, “I’m very much going to enjoy breaking you.” His voice is cool and monotone. Like he’s giving me a piece of information.

  My breath catches, a thousand outraged “da fucks!” popping off in my head. I step back to promise him, “You won’t break me.”

  “Ah, but I will,” he answers, his smile a mix of patronization and evil intent. “By the time our first month is through, you will beg me to fuck you.”

  I open my mouth, but before I can reply, he steps back and raps on his desk. Two female guards in black jumpsuits come into the office through the main doors and stand at attention.

  “Back to your rooms now, Prin Jones,” he says. “I must attend to some additional business matters with my family, but I will join you for breakfast tomorrow morning. And we will begin your training then.”

  “Wait…” I say.

  But he is already heading back toward the inner door, and before I know it, the two female guards have me by the elbow and are guiding me away. Like I’m something Zahir owns and has ordered them to put away until he’s ready to play with me again.

  II

  HIS TO TRAIN

  Chapter Six

  The female guards are gentle but firm. They guide me back into the elevator, then down several hallways before depositing me into a room. No, I realize as I look around. Not a room. A suite.

  Although this is only one of several rooms on the third floor of the palace, it is larger than many penthouses I’ve been in. And that’s saying something. There’s a separate section for the bedroom, a kitchenette, and a huge open seating area filled with silk-covered pillows and a huge wrap-around couch. I bet it could fit at least twenty people, easy. Everything is richly-colored in warm hues ranging from deep orange to fiery pink. And other than an ornate medallion-print carpet, every surface, including the wallpaper, features satin, silk, and/or straight up gold-leaf.

  In the middle of all the opulence are two dark-skinned women in cap-sleeved shirt dresses. They greet me with lowered eyes, hands placed over their hearts, and earnestly introduce themselves as Raima and Nabida. Both women titter when I say “hey” and introduce myself as Prin. Their “we know who you are” is implied as they place their hands over their hearts again and nod.

  Soon after, I’m led into a two-story bathroom with a Japanese toilet, marble floors and walls, and a bathtub that’s not quite large enough to qualify as an Olympic-sized pool but could easily give Michael Phelps a place to do some practice laps. It’s filled with lavender-scented water that undulates invitingly.

  “We will attend to you during your bath,” Nabida says, waving a hand toward the swimming pool-disguised-as-bath. “May I assist you with your dress.”

  “No, I got it,” I answer, reaching around and pulling down the back zipper.

  I should probably f
eel awkward about stripping down in front of two strangers…but I’m still recovering from a 13-hour flight plus three additional hours in heels. So, I kick of my white wedges and step out of my dress without a second thought. The water is warmer than I expect, and once I’m in it, I can also pick out a sweet woodsy scent, I’ll be told later is frankincense and myrrh. In any case, the bath is the perfect balm for my overused body and mind.

  As it turns out, “being attended to” in this suite means being fed and pampered within an inch of my life. Raima appears with a plate of fruit. I inhale every last piece. Thing is, I’d been so busy trying to nab a private convo with Zahir, I barely ate a thing at the post-wedding celebration. I don’t realize I’m damn near starving until all the food disappears a few nanoseconds after I dig in. Raima returns and removes the plate before Nabida approaches with a gold wire basket containing a neatly arranged selection of beauty products.

  “We will first take care of your skin and then attend to your nails,” she explains, placing the basket on a ledge beside me.

  “Hey, thanks!” I say, lying back in the warm, scented water. “I haven’t had my nails done in a salon in, like, forever…”

  But for all my enthusiasm, I doze off before Raima has even finished applying my face mask. I vaguely recall the combined scents of avocado, lemon, and honey before I succumb to sleep. When I come to, I’m still in the tub and Nabida has one hand wrapped firmly around my upper arm. She and Raima are speaking in Arabic, their voices low and urgent.

  “Wassup? Everything okay?” I ask, trying to shake off my fatigue.

  The women exchange a look before Nabida carefully says, “You are extremely jet-lagged and we fear you are in no condition to receive his highness for breakfast in two hours as instructed.”

  “We are trying to decide how best to relay this message to him,” Raima adds, her tone more to the point and brisk than Nabida’s.

  I have a few ideas how best to relay the message…beginning with “eff” and ending with “you.” But I’ve already learned too many hard lessons about respecting other cultures in the past twenty-four hours, so…

  “Breakfast is in two hours?” Truth is, I can’t believe it’s already morning.

  “Yes, you have been asleep for some time and became upset when we attempted to wake you...” Raima answers.

  “We waited with you to ensure you came to no harm in the bath,” Nabida adds with a sympathetic smile.

  Ah. That explains Nabida’s hand around my arm.

  “Sorry,” I say for what feels like the thousandth time that day. “I’m stupid bad at mornings. That’s why I have to keep my phone in the bathroom now. Lost too many of them, throwing them across the room when they tried to wake me up.”

  The women titter at my 100% true comment as Nabida helps me from the bath. She hands me over to Raima who wraps me up in an unbelievably warm, fuzzy robe.

  As a team, they direct me to a skirted ivory chair seated before a large vanity dripping in gold-leaf. More pampering. This time hair and nails. I guess my earlier tub nap wasn’t enough because only a few minutes pass before I doze off again. When I open my eyes for the second time, my nails are coated in a peach-colored polish and Raima’s put my long sew-in weave hair in one of those piled-on plaited styles favored by duchesses in BBC historical dramas.

  “We are grateful we did not have to wake you,” Nabida says, shooting me a teasing smile in the mirror before Raima adds, “We were afraid you might throw us across the room.”

  They work so well together I have to ask, “How long have you had this attendant gig?”

  “Since the sheikh returned from abroad,” Nabida answers with a demure nod.

  “So…what is this place?” I gesture to the surroundings. “Is this, like, the concubine room?”

  “You are not a concubine,” Raima points out.

  Maybe… but I note she didn’t answer my question. She leads me into a walk-in closet filled with clothes that aren’t mine. Beautiful kaftans and pants suits and at least 10 iterations on the long-sleeved maxi dress. But to my disappointment, Nabida pulls out a pair of joggers and a wicked exercise tee for me to wear.

  “The sheikh has graciously agreed to give you time to acclimate to our time zone before your training begins,” she says. “We will stay and assist you until you are less fatigued.”

  As it turns out, they are totally serious about assisting me in my jet lag recovery. After serving me a light Western-style breakfast of toast and eggs, they direct me to some gym equipment set up at the farthest edge of the room. There’s a treadmill, a stationary bike, a set of Barbie weights, and a moving staircase. I wonder, yet again, about the woman or women who occupied this room before me.

  “After the sheikh deems you acceptable, you will exercise for an hour every morning before breakfast. But for now, twenty minutes on the stationary bike will do,” Raima says, pulling out a stopwatch.

  I hadn’t planned to keep up with my gym routine during this trip. Hell, I’d barely clocked two sessions a week with a full gym membership back in Jersey. But I get on the bike figuring it’s a way better alternative than being trained by their “gracious” sheikh over breakfast…whatever that means.

  The next few days feel like a reprieve and a delay of the inevitable. I spend them almost exclusively in Nabida and Raima’s company…eating meals at a set time, exercising, and studying for the bar until my eyes start to droop. Then they take me outside for a walk around the grounds until I’m awake again. I’m allowed one thirty-minute nap after lunch, after which I don a pair of what looks like running shorts and a rash guard but turn out to be the Jahwar version of a bikini.

  A second set of female guards then escorts me downstairs to a private lagoon on the western side of the palace, and I splash around until I’m fully awake again. After that I get to squeeze in a few hours of study followed by a delicious dinner of curried chicken and rice. Then it’s back to bed.

  “Seriously, you should start a business in the States,” I say on a yawn one night after they tuck me in. “Rich kids would totally hire you to help them study for their exams.”

  It’s true. Aside from the complete lack of music, which I like to use to stay focused while I’m in the books, this regime of distraction-free study will definitely help me ace the bar exam. I’m beginning to wonder if Holt wasn’t right about my six-month sentence turning into the perfect study break.

  “What’s up with the construction project over there?” I ask Raima one morning while I’m earning my breakfast on the stationary bike. I nod out the bedroom’s city-facing window toward the incomplete commercial building hogging up the Jahwar skyline. The site is huge, spanning at least ten to twenty city blocks. But although it’s surrounded by a ton of construction cranes and towers, I can’t see any work being done on it.

  “Oh, that’s the Kingdom Mall project. It was begun by the late sheikh,” Nabida replies. She throws the dormant worksite a sympathetic look, like it is an abandoned puppy. “It was supposed to be the largest mall ever in all of the UAK. Sadly, Sheikh Majid died before it was completed, and Sheikh Zahir has put the project on hold.”

  “I wonder why?” I ask between pants.

  “It is not for us to say,” Raima answers, and I can sense her silently willing her more talkative co-worker to say nothing more.

  This is not the first time I sense her shushing Nabida, and I am sure it won’t be the last. By the end of my second recovery day, we’ve gotten into a sort of routine. I ask a question, Nabida begins to respond, and Raima cuts her off with a look and a tight, “it is not for us to say” just as Nabida gets to the juicy part.

  By day two, I know Zahir has an unfinished construction project on his hands—a joint venture between his late father, Sheikh Majid, and his maternal grandfather, Najib Zaman, an Indian billionaire who was also the grandfather of Zahir’s cousin, Rashid—little Aisha’s father. That same Indian billionaire gave Zahir’s mother to Sheikh Majid as a first wife. But only four years lat
er, the sheikh took another wife because… Raima: “It is not for us to say.”

  Anyway, Zahir and his Indian cousin, Rashid, were “thick as thieves” while growing up. However, Asir, is not related to the Indian billionaire grandfather, but because Zahir uses his grandfather’s last name while living and traveling abroad, so does he, though technically both brothers are al-Jahwari. Anyway, Zahir—not Asir or Rashid was being groomed by his grandfather to take over as CEO of the Tourmaline Group, but… Raima: “It is not for us to say.”

  In any case, the late sheikh’s unexpected heart attack gained Zahir the throne a good two decades earlier than expected. And now his cousin, Rashid, who is married to Mahirah, one of Asir’s aunt’s on his mother’s side—his mother is the oldest daughter of the Ardu Alzuhuwr sheikh and Aisha’s mother is the youngest—anyway he is being groomed to succeed their grandfather as the Tourmaline Group’s new CEO.

  “And where does that leave Asir?” I ask during my afternoon swim.

  Nabida and Raima exchange a consternated look. Nabida carefully answers, “I believe his highness is still deciding what Sheikh Asir will do when he finishes his schooling this year.”

  I arch an eyebrow, not needing the cool lagoon water to keep me awake now. “Oh? And you’re sure he’s coming back?” I ask, thinking about Asir’s now five years deferred music dream.

  “It is not for us to say,” Raima answers on cue.

  But on our way back into the building, Nabida points out Asir’s palace in the distance. “It was built for him as a high school graduation gift, but he was only in residence for the acceptable period of mourning after his father’s death. Which is unfortunate, as his mother hoped he might stay on in Jahwar and take more of an interest in royal life—”

  “Not that it is for us to question the prince’s decision,” Raima inserts before Nabida can continue.

 

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