The Sheikh's Illicit Affair

by Lara Hunter

  “You’re an only child?”

  She nodded.

  “I can’t imagine what that would be like. I have ten siblings.”

  Megan’s eyes widened. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

  He chuckled softly. “Hectic. But because we lived in a palace, we had plenty of space and saw less of each other than you’d expect. We had individual tutors much of the time, so aside from meal times and evenings, we were often on our own.”

  “A palace?” Her mouth hung open slightly; it seemed that the sheikh thing was more than just a title, as he’d made it seem. “Why would you come to New York if you’re Al-Sharrabian royalty?”

  “I’m there about half the time. I divide my time between home and the States. Sometimes it’s just nice to be treated like any other businessman.”

  “I get that,” Megan said thoughtfully. “It’s why I don’t tend to mention my last name until I have to. It’s too well known, and too many assumptions are made on the back of it.”

  “We have much in common, then,” Zaakir said warmly. His eyes held hers and she felt him gazing too deep.

  He’s taken, Megan reminded herself for the hundredth time.

  She looked back to their reflections in the mirror. “Oh? Do your parents not speak to you, either?”

  “You don’t talk to your parents?”

  Megan looked back at the Sheikh; his face was visibly disappointed.

  “No, we haven’t spoken in almost a year. When I moved to New York and opened the studio, they refused to accept my career choice.”

  “That’s quite sad.”

  “It’d be nice if they would finally recognize that I’ve made it, but I did receive Christmas and birthday cards this year.”

  “Well that means there’s hope, at least. I hope that one day you’ll be able to renew your relationship with them.”

  “Yeah.” She took in a long breath and let it out slowly. Any excitement from earlier in the day was long gone, and now she just felt sad. This was why she generally avoided thinking about her parents; she felt the weight of their expectations, of their disappointment, pressing down on her.

  With her thoughts so wrapped up in the possibility of having her own child, Megan found her relationship with her parents snapping into sharp focus. They had done so many things she’d never do to her own child. She would love him or her for whoever they wanted to be, and she’d be supportive of whatever they wanted to do. But, even as difficult as her parents were, she still longed to have a relationship with them, as Zaakir had said. Her child deserved to have grandparents. Didn’t she owe it to her child to try to repair things with her parents?

  “Well,” Megan said, walking over to the stereo, “enough of this heavy talk. We’re here to tango.” She pressed play and spun around, ready to release her unease with her first dance move.

  The Sheikh straightened up and readied himself, giving her a light smile. “Then let’s dance.”

  She walked toward him, taking long marching steps. They held gazes as she passed him, spun around, and stalked back. When she neared him again, he took her hand and put his other hand on her back, leading her gracefully into the first step.

  They practiced all the steps they’d covered the night before, and Zaakir performed each one as if he’d done it a hundred times. Megan taught him some more advanced steps and he picked them up as quickly and easily as he had the others.

  “I’m starting to think you’re as much of a natural as they told me I was when I first started,” Megan said.

  “I take that as a high compliment.”

  They paused to drink some water. The more advanced moves were faster than the beginner moves, and they’d worked up even more of a sweat than they had the previous night.

  “Have you have a chance to practice with your fiancée today?”

  Zaakir broke eye contact to inspect his nails. “Do you think I need much practice?”

  “No, you don’t, but I’m guessing your bride isn’t a dance instructor. Has she had any lessons?”

  “Well they say it’s all in the leading, no?”

  “Sure, but…” She gave him a questioning look. Was he avoiding the topic? “If your partner doesn’t know how to follow, you might end up stepping all over her.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “How long have you known each other for?”

  He seemed to weigh his answer before he spoke. “In my country, it’s traditional for there to be very little contact between bride and groom before the wedding day.”

  “Oh. But you have met her?”

  “Yes.” He looked away again, then took a sip of water. “Are there any more moves you wanted to show me? I’d be happy to pay for an extended session.”

  “Oh! That reminds me.” Megan hurried to her office, her heels clicking on the hard floor. She opened the safe and removed the envelope from the locked box. She walked back into the studio and handed it to him. “You paid me far too much last night. And your lesson tonight is already covered, so I’d be happy to teach you a few more moves.”

  He held up his hands. “Oh no, that was payment for last night only. For arranging everything so last minute, and for having you set up for 30 when it was only me.”

  “It’s far too much, Zaakir.”

  “It’s anything but. And while we’re on the topic…” He went to his jacket and took out another stack of bills. “This is for this evening’s class.”

  Megan shook her head. “I can’t accept that.”

  “Well, I was under the impression you accepted tips in this country and that when someone provides an outstanding service, you may tip them more.”

  Megan’s cheeks grew warm. “Well, yes, and thank you, but this is much more than an excellent tip.”

  “And you are much more than an excellent teacher,” Zaakir said, and the grin he gave her was startling in the way it made her stomach quiver. He put the money in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Please. Accept this as a symbol of my deepest gratitude.”

  Megan blinked at him in shock, then went in a daze back to her office, placing the envelope and the new stack of cash—the same amount he’d given her the previous night—into the safe. She realized as she closed the safe that she certainly wouldn’t have to worry about covering her bills for a while—at the very least she could give him a longer lesson.

  Back in the studio, Megan straightened her shoulders and addressed the Sheikh. “Are you ready to learn some serious tango?”

  “Absolutely.”

  They danced together for another half hour. Megan taught him some of the most advanced moves she knew, and all of them he picked up easily. In the entire evening, he made at most two missteps, both of which he quickly corrected. His skill was beyond impressive. They spun to a close as the final song ended, and she beamed at him.

  “You are a fabulous student, Zaakir,” Megan said with a grin. Breathing heavily, she downed a cup of water and refilled it.

  The Sheikh did the same, but he wore no smile.

  As her heart rate began to settle, Megan noticed that her student seemed sad; his mouth drooped and he didn’t seem to want to look at her.

  “Have I worn you out?” she chuckled.

  “No.” He shook his head and downed another glass of water.

  “Did you want to go over any of the moves one more time?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Well I think you’re more than ready for the big day. Your bride will be thoroughly impressed by your tango skills; I can guarantee that much.”

  “Thank you.” He set down his empty cup and picked up his jacket.

  “Is everything okay? Have I said something wrong?” She couldn’t place his sudden shift in mood. All evening, he’d been talkative and smiled easily, and right up to their last dance, he’d appeared alive and energetic. It was as if someone had flicked a switch.

  “Megan.” He turned to her, staring deep into her eyes. “Will you join me for a
drink?”

  FOUR

  Megan felt the shock of his question like a kick to the gut. She wanted more than anything to get to know him better and spend the rest of her evening gazing into the those alluring eyes. But he had a bride waiting for him. It would be highly inappropriate for her to go anywhere with him—it was maybe even inappropriate for them to be alone in her studio, dancing a dance meant for lovers, so late into the night.

  “N-No,” she stuttered. “I can’t, it’s… It wouldn’t be right. You’re getting married. I’m sure your fiancée wouldn’t be happy about it.”

  “Megan, you are the most wonderful dancer I’ve ever met. You move like water and music and when you teach, it’s like you’re telling my feet how to move and they obey. I have been the luckiest man to spend these nights with you, and in exchange I’ve kept you late, and you’ve missed dinner. Please, let me make up for being so inconsiderate. I assure you, we would be going just as friends.”

  Megan considered this. Maybe if she saw Zaakir as just a friend, she would feel better about it. Nothing would happen between them—it couldn’t, what with his impending marriage. And since that was the case, then his intention now must be only honorable.

  “As friends,” he said again. “I insist.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked down at her leotard, chiffon skirt, and tights. “I’ll just need to change first, and I’m afraid what I have with me to go home in isn’t exactly an outfit I’d wear to go out in.”

  ***

  Megan went into the small bathroom and looked in the duffle bag in her closet. She’d come to the studio wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. There was no way could she go to a bar in that. There were a few costume pieces in the closet in the back of the studio, however. Maybe something in there would work.

  She thought quickly, trying to recall what was there. None of the dresses would work; they were all made for dancing and included sheer skirts. The top of her leotard under her jeans would be slightly better than her T-shirt, but the shoes? She had an idea, and hurried back into the studio.

  “Just a minute,” she said as she rushed past Zaakir and went to the closet in the waiting room. At the bottom she found what she was looking for: a pair of black jazz shoes. Those would be much better than sneakers. She dug through the hangers, seeing what else was there, and stumbled upon a red dress. This had been an outfit for a lyrical number, and the skirt was the same stretchy fabric as the bodice. She’d forgotten all about it. It had a low, asymmetrical cut that hung at her knees. The back was wide open and scooped low—too low—except that her black satin crop jacket from a hip hop number was there as well.

  Megan took the items back to the bathroom and changed. It still wasn’t anything like the simple black dress hanging in her closet at home that she would have worn had she known she was going out, but it was better than jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. She touched up her makeup using the compact from her purse and shook out her long, wavy hair, running her fingers through it to get out any tangles.

  She walked down the hall to the waiting room. Zaakir stood as she approached, his eyes widening as he saw what she was wearing.

  “This is what you travel to work in?” he asked, bemused.

  “No. This is what I had in the costume closet.”

  “You look fabulous.”

  The heat in his gaze brought warmth to her cheeks and chest. She managed a “Thank you,” then walked through the door as he held it open for her.

  The black car was there, waiting for them at the curb. Zaakir opened the door and waited as Megan locked up, then took her hand to help her in when she reached him.

  They’d been traveling for a few minutes by the time Megan asked, “Where are we going?” A clear panel separated them from the driver, but she could see the streets and buildings flying by. They were still in Manhattan and there were plenty of upscale bars in the area, but they didn’t seem to be slowing down.

  “Just a little place I like to take friends sometimes,” he said.

  A few minutes later, the limo came to a stop in front of a building with no name over it. Zaakir opened the car door, took Megan’s hand again to help her out, and led to her a plain silver door. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have even noticed it, or known it was any sort of establishment. Zaakir held the door open for her and Megan walked into a small, unremarkable room where a portly, middle-aged man was standing in front of another door.

  “Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini,” the man said, nodding his head slightly. He opened the second door and Zaakir motioned for Megan to walk through first.

  The space Megan then found herself in was unlike any bar she had ever been in before. There was a long, lighted bar where an attractive blonde stood, mixing drinks, and immaculately-dressed waiters and waitresses were carrying plates of food out to the tables. The space glittered in silver, gold and white. It looked pristine, and prestigious—like it must be frequented only by the rich and famous, and those in the know. In that moment, Megan felt very, very glad she hadn’t just worn jeans and sneakers.

  A woman with silvery blonde hair approached. “Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. Would you like your usual table?”

  “Yes, please, if it’s available.”

  Megan raised an eyebrow at him. The woman walked away before Megan could say anything and Zaakir held out his arm, indicating she should follow.

  The hostess led them to a small table near the edge of the building. It sat under a glittering chandelier and at the center of the table was a thin vase that held a single rose.

  Zaakir held out her chair and Megan slid into it. He took the seat across from her and leaned in. “So, how do you like it?”

  “You must come here a lot,” she said. “They all know you.”

  He shrugged. “The staff are paid to remember the names of those who spend the most money. Or who hold any sort of title they deem important.”

  “And you’re both?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, it’s a very nice place. I’m glad I had something to wear besides sneakers and a T-shirt.”

  “I would have never put you in a position to feel uncomfortable.”

  Did that mean they would have gone somewhere else if she had no choice but to wear her street clothes?

  Another woman came to the table, this one tall and pale, with dark hair that hung to her shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. What can I get for you tonight?”

  Zaakir looked to Megan. “Order anything you’d like.”

  “Oh, just a glass of wine. Red, please.”

  “Bring us something from my private collection,” Zaakir said to the waitress. “We’ll take the bottle.”

  The woman nodded and walked away.

  “Your private collection?”

  He shrugged again. “It sounds so much fancier than it really is. I have my own wines shipped in and they keep them in the cellar for me. It’s simpler that way; I don’t have to look at a wine list and wonder about authenticity, or if a certain vintage will work with the food. I have my personal collection available at a few places in the city. It just makes things easier.”

  The waitress brought the bottle of wine and uncorked it at the table, then poured two glasses. Megan looked at the dark bottle. It wasn’t a label she recognized, but usually she drank bottom-shelf wine and didn’t give it much thought. She watched Zaakir swirl his wine in his glass and take a long sniff, then a small sip. He nodded at the waitress and she walked away.

  Megan sniffed at her glass, but it just smelled like wine to her. She took a sip. It was good – really good - but it didn’t taste obviously expensive. Her mother surely would appreciate it, but Megan had never had much interest in attending the wine tastings her mother frequented. There was always another dance class to take.

  “Do you like the wine?” the Sheikh asked.

  “Sure. But I’m not much of a connoisseur. Just don’t tell my mother.”

  “Nev
er,” he said with a grin.

  She looked around at the people seated at nearby tables, all expensively dressed in designer labels. “This seems like the type of place my parents would frequent if they lived in the city.”

  “Oh yeah? Where do they live?”

  “In New Hampshire. That’s where I grew up. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”