by Leslie North
Following him, she headed into the cool canyon and back out to where the cars were parked—or rather, where her town car waited. Mr. Bashira’s car was leaving a dust trail as it sped back toward the city and Adilan’s sports car wasn’t even a red dot on the horizon. Michelle let out a breath. Just what was the problem here.
She asked the driver to take her back to the city, gave him the address of Bashira’s office, and dug out a bottle of water from the mini bar in the town car. The air conditioning was a blessed relief, and she repaired her makeup.
The town car pulled up in front of an elaborately decorated building that mixed old and new. Stone and glass blended in harmony, and the structure—only three or four floors—looked like a perfect jewel box. Asking the driver to wait, Michele got out and headed inside. She liked that even better. Sculpted doorways and classic plaster walls had been combined with modern furnishings and light fixtures, Persian rugs with the soft colors of age graced the floor. The structure had been built around a shaded courtyard that managed to pull in the least little breeze. Sheer curtains danced in that touch of cool air to create an inviting atmosphere.
She walked through the courtyard, where a tiled fountain added color and the musical sound of water. This was why she had hired Bashira—this was similar to what she wanted him to create at Al-Hilah.
Smiling at the receptionist, Michelle gave her name.
The young woman frowned. “I am very sorry, but Mr. Bashira is unable to see you just now. I do not see that you have an appointment.”
Michelle pulled in a breath of air. “We just met out at the property I own.”
Michelle swallowed back her frustration. She’d learned from her mother to hold her temper, so she fixed her smile. “There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. Don’t worry about it.” She turned, and headed straight for the main office, which had to be Bashira’s.
The receptionist protested, but Michelle was already inside and facing Mr. Bashira. The man looked rolled his neck, the receptionist started an explanation, but Bashira held up a hand. “It is all right, Samina.”
Striding into the office, Michelle put her messenger bag on a chair and stayed standing. “Just what’s going on?”
Straightening, Mr. Bashira offered a faint smile. “Unfortunately, a large project I have been waiting on just came through. I’m afraid I will not have time to help you further.”
Michelle stared at him. “We had a verbal agreement.”
“No. We had discussions. I am sorry, I am no longer available.”
She crossed her arms. “Would this other project be something for the Adjalanes?”
His face reddened. “I do not like to discuss other clients.”
“You don’t have to—that says it all. This is very disappointing, but I understand your position. You live here—they are a powerful family? Could you perhaps recommend another architect? Or just give me the existing blueprints?”
He let out a breath and seemed to deflate. Sinking into the leather chair behind his desk, he put his palms on the polished oak. “I really cannot. Your project is…offers unique challenges. I doubt any firm in Al-Sarid could undertake it.”
Without the support of the Adjalane family.
He didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air. Adilan Adjalane had gotten to the man—they’d probably talked by phone, or Adilan had ambushed the man in the city and had made it clear that he’d better not work with her if he wanted to do business in Al-Sarid.
She’d know the Adjalane family was powerful—her mother had made that clear. They not only owned a good deal of property, they were the money behind most of the development over the past ten years to convert Al-Sarid’s economy from oil—which the country lacked—to solar and tourism.
She gave a nod and grabbed her bag. “Don’t bother showing me out. But do keep your schedule open—this isn’t finished yet.”
Heading for the front door, she stormed out. This wasn’t over by a long shot. No way was Adilan Adjalane getting away with this. He couldn’t threaten her—and, hell, if she had to hire a firm from the States or anywhere else, she would do it.
On the stones steps of Bashira’s office, she stopped and glanced up at the mountains. The air was hot as ever in the city, but the mountains shimmered like a purple mirage. She could see the white towers of Adjalane palace. Jaw set, she headed for her town car.
If Adilan Adjalane thought he could push her around and win, he was messing with the wrong woman. It was time to show him two could play hardball.
Chapter 4
Adjalane Palace sat on a slight hill overlooking the city and the sea, the purple mountains above it framing the spot. On the flight to Al-Sarid, Michelle had done her research. The Adjalane family owned oil fields, had massive real estate holdings, and controlled most of the southeastern part of the country. The family wasn’t royal, but they certainly were rich. The palace had been built a hundred years ago, and was considered one of the main tourist sights of Al-Sarid. The gardens were open to the public, but the residence wasn’t.
A stone wall protected the massive structure that loomed up behind, but Michelle could see the main dome rising from the center of the structure, with several small domes to the sides. The white stone walls gleamed in the sunlight, a striking feature and an elaborate display of geometric shapes against the blue skyline.
Two large wrought-iron gates provided access to the main courtyard and public gardens. Guards held the gates open, and Michelle’s driver pulled into a cobblestone courtyard that wound itself in a serpentine arc. He pulled to a stop in front of massive, oak front doors. Getting out, Michelle glanced around, her pulse quick and her throat dry. The structure reminded her of some of the mosques and even some of the Byzantine-era buildings in Istanbul, one of her favorite cities.
Inside the courtyard, fountains and statues mixed with lush green plants, a paradise compared to the barren desert outside the city. So many colors and fragrances greeted her that she stood still for a moment, taking it all in. But she wasn’t here for pleasure—or to admire the gardens.
She headed for the front door, thinking about how she was going to handle Adilan Adjalane. Her mother would have put on a smile and a slinky dress and simply would have seduced the man out of his socks and anything else she wanted. She wasn’t her mother, however. She hated mixing business and pleasure—look where that had gotten her with the dreadful Alan.
It seemed she needed Adilan’s support in order to fulfill the promise she’d made to her mother about developing Al-Hilah into a viable property. But she wasn’t sure the best approach to take with him. Strong arm…or make a deal? Maybe she’d just have to play it by ear.
She was still in deep thought about what she was going to say when she felt someone staring at her. Stopping, she glanced around, saw no one other than her drive. She looked up and was shocked to see Adilan standing on a balcony just above the entrance.
He gave a small wave. “Salam, Ms Reynolds. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
He had changed into taupe trousers and a black, button-down shirt. The sleeves had been rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered in a light dusting of dark hair. The neck of his shirt had also been left undone, and she could see more skin and dark hair there as well. He smiled, teeth white, even and the all too charming.
He was gloating, dammit. She tightened her free hand. Don’t let emotions get in the way of getting what you need.
She was getting a crick in her neck from looking up. She took a step back to relieve the tension and told him, “Oh, I think you know. Can we talk on a little more level ground?”
“Of course. I shall be down directly. Go to the door and tell Hassan to show you into the morning room.”
He disappeared from view, and Michelle took a steadying breath. She was not going to let his charm get under her skin. She walked up the steps and wasn’t surprised when the door opened for her. A man in the loose, white robes or taub and headscarf or keffiyeh that she had seen o
n the city streets bowed to her.
Hassan, I presume.
“Uh…I’m here to see Adilan Adjalane? In…the morning room?”
Hassan held open the door. “This way please.”
Stepping inside, the cool of the room swept over her. She could hear the soothing, rhythmic tumble of a fountain. She followed Hassan through an elaborate entrance with a domed ceiling and so many things to see it would take her a week to catalog everything—rugs, vases, paintings, carvings. Golden hand rails protected dual winding staircases that rose from either side of the large foyer, and a stunning crystal chandelier caught the light. Richly colored rugs offset the stark whiteness of the walls.
She followed Hassan into a smaller room lined with books. French doors opened out into another courtyard with a pool and the fountain she had heard. The doors let in the mountain breeze, scented by flowers.
Hassan waved a hand. “Please wait. Sheikh Adilan will be with you momentarily.”
She pressed her lips tight. Sheikh, she knew, was a title given to just about anyone in the Middle East who held land and power. In this part of Arabia, you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting someone who put the word sheikh in front of his name. But it was no wonder Mr. Bashira didn’t want to get on the bad side of the Adjalane family—they could make business impossible for poor Mr. Bashira. How on earth was she going to deal with these people?
Strolling over to the French doors, she glanced out at the courtyard. At least the family had taste—the private garden was even more beautiful than the public ones. The scene of jasmine floated to her along with what had to be roses and a touch of citrus. The fountain was a tiled centerpiece in the lush gardens, and stone paths wove a tempting, curving path into secluded spots. If only she wasn’t here on unpleasant business.
Sensing she was no longer alone, she turned and saw Adilan standing in the doorway. The air seemed electrified suddenly, as if he’d swept in along with a thunderstorm. She fidgeted with the strap of her messenger bag. Adilan was smiling as if at some private joke—was he amused that he’d stolen her architect away from her? She stiffened.
He moved into the room and gestured to the low couch. “A pleasure to see you again so soon. Please be seated.”
She sank onto the cushions of the nearest chair, watching Adilan. He moved with purpose and grace—it was a pleasure to watch him. He obviously knew his body well, and knew how to use it. Michelle remembered how he’d looked at the oasis—a fantasy come to life. She frowned and reminded herself this man posed a threat.
But the sexual energy coming off him was staggering. He was a walking invitation to sin—all muscle and temptation. It was all Michelle could do to hang onto her senses. She searched for some kind of ice breaker—something to distract the man—and all she could think of was to ask, “Hassan called you sheikh?”
She winced inwardly—what a stupid thing to say.
Adilan waved a hand. “Yes. It is a title of all the Adjalane males hold. By Al-Sarid law, should the Sharqi family ever cease to run the country, my family would assume that leadership role.”
“Nice not to need elections,” she muttered.
His smile widened. “Would you like something to drink? Will you stay to dinner?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
“Excellent. The British left us with a fondness for tea. Will you have rose, hibiscus, or perhaps our family’s own blend? You will not find it anywhere else in the city.”
Michelle relaxed slightly. “Hibiscus would be lovely.”
Adilan stood and strode to the door. He said something to Hassan, then closed the doors and sat down again, crossing one leg over the other. “Did you come to accept my offer?”
Deciding to be direct, she shook her head. “No. I’m here to tell you that I have friends in the State Department and I’m well aware that Al-Sarid benefits from generous aid from the U.S.—it would be a shame if my government found out how poorly you were treating me, and that might well end any flow of funds.”
Adilan raised one dark eyebrow. “You will forgive me, but why tell me this? Why not just go to your friends with your complaint?” She opened her mouth to answer, but he held up a hand. “No, we should not quarrel before tea.”
Michelle stiffened. However, a small knock sounded and a young woman entered. She wore her hair covered in the traditional fashion, but her headdress and floor-length gown were a delicate peach color that offset her olive skin and gave it a healthy glow. She carried a silver tea service tray worthy of any English drawing room. Setting it down on the table, she gave a nod and left.
“Would you pour?” Adilan asked.
Resisting the urge to give him his tea in his face, she poured two cups, handed him his and was pleased she had kept her hands steady. Her fingers brushed Adilan’s as she handed him his cup, and she was surprised by not just the warmth of his skin but the rough edges she felt on his fingers. This wasn’t a man who sat idle.
He sipped his tea and said, “Do you have more threats to offer? Or shall we instead talk money?”
Setting town her cup, the china rattled. “Why are you so determined to stop me from developing Al-Hilah? Is this some sort of family vendetta thing against my mother because your father gave her this land?”
***
Adilan appreciated her directness, and he was also enjoying her. A faint scent of vanilla carried to him, touched with a scent that was hers. He gave himself a moment to take in her facial features more leisurely. She had almond-shaped eyes of the most brilliant blue, a pert nose, and a flawless complexion. Her uncovered, dark hair held strands of gold and red, and he wondered if it was truly as soft as it appeared.
He let his eyes drop to her mouth—the lips full and large. Generous he would call them. When she wet her bottom lip with a flick of her tongue, he tightened his hold on his tea cup. His physical reaction to that small movement startled him.
Ah, but that would not do. She was not just a Western woman, she was a Reynolds—her mother had once gotten the best of his father and he must not allow himself to forget that.
Needing to get their conversation headed in a different direction, he asked, “Why are you so intent on keeping a piece of property on the other side of the world from where you live?”
She put her hands in her lap. “I made a promise to turn the land into a sanctuary. A place to rejuvenate and restore one’s self.”
Adilan frowned. “Why isn’t your mother overseeing this project herself?” He could recall all too well what his father had said about Deborah Reynolds—a gold digging, tramp who used her feminine skills to obtain what she wanted. And then she’d left him. Was the daughter the same? She didn’t seem a seductress—no, she was too starched, too much all-business, and Adilan found himself wanting to get to know more about the woman under the wilting business suit.
“That isn’t important.”
Adilan sipped his tea and said, “Does it have anything to do with her accident. The car wreck three years ago?” Cheeks turning pink, Michelle stiffened. Adilan knew he had struck a nerve. He had gotten her emotions in play. Now what else could he discover? “Do you plan to reside in Al-Sarid then?”
Michelle shook her head. “Again, this is irrelevant.”
“Oh, but it is not. It is no easy thing for a foreigner to build in Al-Sarid. This is why most projects have the backing of either my family or the Sharqi family.”
She smiled. “Perhaps I should pay them a visit.”
Adilan forced his smile to remain in place. However, he did not want Michelle Reynolds getting ideas about going to the Sharqi. At present, the two families were at peace with each other, but that had not always been the case—and it was far too easy to upset the balance between them.
“Perhaps. But I will warn you they will only warm to your plans if you bring a great deal of money with you.”
“Bribes, you mean?”
Her mouth primed. Adilan’s smile relaxed a little. “You disapprove? Ah, you are too accustomed t
o your own country, where the price is fixed and that is that. But so much of the world runs on well-greased palms.”
“It’s not about approval, it’s—”
The doors were flung open. Michelle broke off her words, and Adilan glanced over, frowning when he saw his father in the doorway.
“It seems you forget to announce we had company.” Nimr Adjalane came into the center of the room. He was still in a suit, meaning he must have come from the office. Adilan wondered who had called him to inform him of a visitor—Hassan perhaps?
Adilan put down his tea, stood, gave a small shrug of apology to Michelle Reynolds, and made the introductions. Then he braced himself for one of his father’s moods.
Chapter 5
Chin lifted, Michelle gave back Sheikh Nimr Adjalane’s assessing stare. Nimr shared his son’s perfect features, although age had roughed Nimr’s features slightly. His jaw line was not as sharp, his nose seemed even stronger on his face. He also shared his son’s dark hair and olive skin, but unlike Adilan, Nimr’s eyes were a deep, dark brown that almost seemed black.
He wore Armani as if he’d been born in a suit—a dark, charcoal gray with a pale pink shirt. The shirt was open at the neck and a pink handkerchief peaked from his left breast pocket. She had to give it to him—not many men could or would wear pink and pull off the look.
Standing, she held out her hand to shake his. “Sir.”
His mouth curved in a smile and Michelle could see where Adilan got his charm—that smile was lethal. She remembered her mother’s warnings about Nimr.
‘He’s a smooth talker and an even smoother operator.’
Instead of shaking her hand, Nimr bowed over it, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand, then held her hand between both of his. “You look like your mother.”
Michelle blinked. No one had ever said that before. Deborah Reynolds was a stunning beauty—even after the crash that had left her in a wheelchair, she had the cheekbones and skin of a woman half her age, and worked hard to keep her figure trim. She also had a sensual grace Michelle had never been able to copy.