The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3)

by Leslie North

  The knot loosened in her stomach. “Well, Daddy’s not much of one for punching, but he did teach me to box when I was twelve.” Turning, she led the way down the hall and to her corner office. A few days and she’d already turned it into her space—meaning lots of mess. Papers cluttered the rosewood desk, books spilled from the shelves, and the only feminine touch she’d allowed herself was an exotic carpet, locally made and antique. She loved the rose and tan hues in the carpet and had bought it despite the ridiculous price charged. This was her space now—and she firmly shut the door.

  Malid walked to the large wall of windows behind her desk. She had a silver tea set on a table near an overstuffed sofa, but he ignored comfort for the view. “This city is amazing—I never tire of visiting.”

  Joining him, Nigella folded her arms. She made sure to stand a few feet away. He looked even more the dashing sheikh today, with his robes and the headscarf she’d seen on other men. He also smelled good—like sandalwood or something else exotic and spicy. For some reason, she’d thought he’d show up in a suit—and he had. But the addition of the traditional clothing left him…well, looking very much a prince of the desert.

  She’d tried to pound that part of it into Daddy’s head—the Adjalane family was just about royalty in these parts. But Daddy was a Texas son through and through—it wasn’t so much that he believed all men were created equal as he thought princes were something that belonged in story books.

  Giving a nod to the view spread out below them—blue water and high rises all sparkling in the sunlight—she said, “Your part of the world is beautiful in such unexpected ways.”

  Malid nodded and turned to face her. “You are quite certain your father has agreed to let you handle the negotiations from here on out?”

  “Daddy had a point. Tawzar is an option—I’m not taking it off the table. But I’d like to think there’s some way we can work out a deal with your family that makes everyone happy.”

  He seemed to consider the idea. Nigella held her breath. She hoped Malid hadn’t figured out that Tawzar was a last resort for Opall Oil—the place was notoriously unstable and she didn’t see that changing in the future. Daddy might think the good old US of A would come in guns blazing to help protect a U.S. company, but Nigella would prefer dealing with a stable country.

  Stepping over to her desk, Nigella spread out some photos. “I flew over Tawzar yesterday by helicopter. It was barren, but I could see some good potential spots for a pipeline.”

  “What did you say about vinegar and honey? Is it not vinegar to talk of Tawzar? And you would have to add thousands of miles of pipe. Have you done the same…fly over with Al-Sarid?”

  She shook her head. Did he have to stand so dang close. She could feel the heat of his body and smell that teasing spicy scent. “The piece we saw a few days ago was all I’ve seen.” Pressing a hand to her stomach, which was already rolling at the thought of another helicopter ride, she admitted, “Have to say, I did not enjoy all that dipping and diving. Not at all.”

  Malid smiled. “There is so much more to see in Al-Sarid. And better ways to see it. What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

  Nigella cocked her head to one side. Just what was he planning here? “My calendar’s clear. I wasn’t sure how long our meeting would take.”

  “Then let me show you my country. Let me prove to you why Al-Sarid is the perfect place for your pipeline, and also show you why a lease would ally you to my family, which would be of greater benefit to Opell Oil. I promise we will not be taking any helicopters. What I have in mind is something much more…traditional. Old school, if you will.”

  “Don’t tell me—camels?”

  Malid lifted a hand. “For part of the journey. Clear your calendar for tomorrow as well—and the day after” He offered up a boyish grin. Her stomach gave a flip. Damn, but when he wanted to put on the charm it came out hot as the sun in the desert. She couldn’t help but stare at him like she was fourteen with her first crush—those amazing, dark eyes, and those lush lips that curved right now and looked all too inviting.

  Heat tingled on her cheeks. And what was she thinking? Three days with him in the desert? Why would that be so bad?

  She knew the dangers of mixing business with pleasure. She’d had one office fling, had it go sour, and had to endure seeing the guy for another six months as he charmed his way around through half a dozen more affairs. HR had finally booted the guy for sexual harassment.

  But Malid—this was a deal that would be done, and if getting him in bed got the deal done faster, nothing wrong with that.

  She smiled back at him. “Don’t tell me you’re going for the cliché of a sheikh who carries a woman off to his desert tent?”

  Malid stepped closer. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”

  She gave a laugh then realized he was serious. Shaking her head, she told him, “I can’t possibly be ready by then.”

  “I will have everything you need waiting for us when we reach the border. What use is my carrying you off if I can’t…well, carry you off.” He tapped one finger on her cheek. “I promise you will not regret anything.”

  Nigella pressed her lips tight. She never acted without looking at things from all sides. Never. Going away like this was not something she’d ever done—or did. She’d dated plenty, but it was always with a plan and a schedule and a…and boy had those all worked out badly.

  She sucked in a breath and let it out. It was not how she operated and this was so far outside her comfort zone, it took everything within her to actually nod at him and give him a smile.

  ***

  Malid strode from the room and was already on the phone by the time he stepped into the elevator. Arrangements would need to be made, but this gave him an excellent reason to return to Al-Sarid. After speaking to Fadin about what was needed, he called his father’s private line.

  “Malid, I assume you are calling to say the deal is made?” Nimr sounded tired—exhausted in fact.

  Malid pushed down the urge to ask about that. His father would admit to nothing, and that was not the purpose of this call. “I need to bring Michaels into Al-Sarid.” He intentionally did not say which Michaels. “I need a few days.”

  Silence stretched out, and then Nimr said, “Very well. I will ensure you are not bothered.”

  Wetting his lips, Malid wondered what else he should say. He could think of nothing, so he asked, “How is she? How is mother?” He smoothed his tie. He felt like cursing his father, but he had to admit he had brought this on himself. He had been the one who had wanted Al-Hilah back at any cost. Bitterness rose in his throat. He pulled in a breath and said, “Give mother my best and tell her I will see her shortly.” He cut off the call before Nimr could.

  Outside, Fadin stood waiting next to the SUV. “Everything you asked for is in order. Did you speak with your father to clear the path?”

  “I did.” Malid stuffed his hands into his pockets. “That man would keep me from seeing my mother before she dies.”

  “Are you so sure she is that ill? Nimr, as you know better than most, is a master at deception—who else taught you to lie if you must, so long as you do not lose control?”

  Malid frowned. Had his father really taught him that? Or was that something he had learned on his own? As the eldest of three boys, Malid had grown up competing for attention—to be the best. It had become an obsession, Malid knew, and now he wondered if perhaps he had learned the wrong lessons from his father. He shook his head. “I cannot lose focus. Gordon Michaels decided to come look over his daughter’s shoulder—and he is an American version of my father—arrogant, stubborn, certain his way is the only way.” A grin spread across Fadin’s face, and Malid demanded, “Why do you smile?”

  “Forgive me, but it sounds as if you describe yourself. And now…what are you going to do with this American woman for three days?”

  Malid smiled. “I am going to drag out negotiations until I get what I
want, of course.”

  Chapter 5

  Nigella was having the time of her life. Malid had taken care of everything, food—they ate a lovely picnic lunch on the road—water, and traditional clothing waiting for her when they reached the border of Al-Sarid. From there, they had driven for well over an hour before coming to a small, Bedouin encampment where several tents had been set up. Malid spoke to the nomads, and then told Nigella he had asked the two women to accompany Nigella and help her figure out traditional dress.

  “It may seem strange to you, but I promise you will be more comfortable,” he’d told her.

  She’d been amused, and had jokingly whispered to him that he could have helped her. His response still echoed in her ears. “Nigella, when I help you remove your clothing, it will not be to immediately put different ones back on your person.”

  Face hot, she’d hurried into the tent, grateful the women helping her hadn’t understood any of the English—or so she hoped. The Bedouin in their black robes helped her remove her clothing, insisting she also remove her undergarments with their gestures and fast Arabic. She had tried to wave them off, but the older of the two women had scolded her in terms that were clear in any language and pushed the clothes into Nigella’s hands.

  Reluctantly, Nigella had taken the light, cotton garments and quickly changed. The cropped shift and a pair of boy’s briefs hung loosely on her, and were immediately cooler than her western underwear. She would need to do some shopping if she was going to spend more time in this region.

  They handed her a thin pair of loose trousers, a long-sleeve shirt of lightweight linen and several other layers. She had thought the black robes would be heavy and hot, but instead they seemed light and somehow managed to catch any breeze and allow it to slip onto her skin. Finally, they insisted she done a head scarf. She tried to resist, but the women wouldn’t let her out without the scarf. When it was done, the two women giggled and clapped their hands, then threw back the tent flap and gestured for her to follow. Nigella wondered what Malid would think of her new look.

  She stepped from the tent, and he turned, his eyes brightening. He took her hand. “You are more beautiful than I could have hoped for.”

  “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  Malid had changed as well, into the black tunic, loose trousers and robes of a nomad. The scarf that covered his head fell down to his waist. He tugged at her head scarf, arranging the folds of fabric around her shoulders and told her, “The length of the sides can be used to shield your face and mouth should it become necessary in case of sandstorms. We are going to be travelling by camel. Keep your hands and face covered as much as possible to shield your skin.”

  The three Bedouin men led two, single-humped camels to them, and Nigella slipped a little bit behind Malid. The animals seemed dangerously tall and didn’t look at all friendly. “I’ve heard they spit,” she said.

  Malid grinned. “Yes. So don’t stand in front of them. They also have terrible breath and can go for days without water. Is there a problem?”

  She didn’t want to ruin the excursion, but common sense and self-preservation had gone to high alert. “I don’t think I can ride one of those things by myself.”

  “Of course you can. But would you feel better if we rode tandem?”

  Relief swept into her. It would be just her luck to get the bad-tempered beast and have it run off with her. If Malid was driving, she was not going to end up looking like a silly, screaming girl.

  Malid turned and gave instructions to the camel handlers, who shrugged and swapped saddles.

  Several satchels were fasted to the second camel, and when Nigella asked about that, Malid told her, “Supplies. I intend for us to reach our destination around dusk, but one never travels in the desert without survival in mind.”

  “Uh, maybe we should just take a vehicle?”

  “Nonsense. Wheels more easily become stuck in sand. And I want you to experience my country in all of its glory. This is the best way to do that—you cannot know the land without becoming one with nature. Now, let me assist you up and I will follow.”

  Malid tapped the camel’s front leg. It let out a donkey-like bray but went down on its knees and lay down. The camel had rich, long lashes over big, dark eyes, but Nigella wasn’t fooled. The beast was chewing something and kept giving her sideways glances, as if just looking for an opportunity to purse its thick lips and spit at her.

  She scrambled onto the saddle, which seemed more like a large pillow with a wooden frame and railings, or a sideways couch. Malid climbed up behind her, pulling her back against him to sit in the cradle of his thighs. She could smell the spicy cologne he used, and a hint of pure, male musk. Her pulse kicked up and she started rethinking the wisdom of this adventure—but she was committed.

  “Relax,” he said, and his breath brushed her cheek. “I’ll keep you safe.” He tapped the camel again with the long stick that seemed made for this purpose. It rose—front first then the hind end coming up. Nigella clung to the wood in front of her. Her heart was pounding now, and she swallowed hard. She did not want to look weak, but right now that helicopter was sounding pretty good.

  Malid took up the reins in one hand and wrapped his other arm around her waist. “Hold on.” Suddenly, everything was shifting, and the camel was moving, and Nigella wondered if she could possibly turn and simply bury her face in Malid’s broad chest. Instead she closed her eyes and the camel lurched forward into a bouncing trot.

  ***

  Malid could feel the tension in Nigella’s slim shoulders. Gradually, it eased. The Bedouin encampment became a dot on the horizon and the desert began to work its magic. The sounds of the city had long ago vanished. The distant cry of a hawk hunting a meal carried to them. A light breeze brought the dry smells of the desert plants—faint aromas that promised an oasis ahead. The mountains—purple and jagged—rose before them, still distant but in the desert one could see for miles. The ground shifted from rocky to sandy, but Malid knew this track well, even though it was poorly marked.

  This was his homeland, and it was as beautiful as it was dangerous, which was probably why it appealed so much to him. The rocking gait of the camel meant Nigella had to lean against him—he liked the motion, and the feel of her body against his. In general, he did not care to mix business with complications—however, Nigella seemed to him an exception to any rule. The truth was he wanted her—and he saw no reason they could not make the next few days a pleasure. And she might also then be more willing to make a deal that pleased him fully.

  Leaning forward, he asked Nigella. “Well, what do you think?”

  Nigella turned her head slightly and met his eyes. “This is all…just—”

  “New? Exciting? Exhilarating?” Malid gave her a grin. “You smell as sweet as an oasis, you know.” He used the arm around her waist to pull her closer to himself. “Look to your left.”

  A plateau rose up from the small rolling hills around them. “There are many parts of the desert that are nothing but dunes, but in this part of Al-Sarid, the land varies.”

  “How do you navigate all this?” She waved a hand at the open space around them—at the rocks and sands and distant hills.

  “You should learn land marks—that plateau, the sun’s position, where the moon rises. The day’s heat is fading and the stars will help as well.”

  “Just where are we headed? I mean, we’re not going to spend the night under the stars, are we?” Nigella asked.

  He heard the slight quiver in her voice and frowned. “What—you would miss having a bed and a four-star hotel?”

  “It’s just…well, okay, I have to admit I ended up getting lost in Jamaica for a couple of days.”

  He gave a laugh. “That doesn’t sound a hardship.”

  She stiffened and slanted a glare at him. “It is if it’s jungle, wet, horribly humid with very large bugs. I’m still sure some kind of big cat was looking to make a meal of m
e.”

  “And where was your father?” Malid asked. “Hunting for you and worried?”

  Nigella let out a breath that was more of sigh. “In negotiations. He was trying to mix a vacation for me with work, and my nanny at the time quit without notice. I got bored and started chasing butterflies and succeeded in getting utterly lost.”

  “Ah, then you should like the desert. The sky is always visible and can always guide you safely. But since you have told me your dark secret, I will tell you mine—my father intentionally took me into the desert when I was eight to teach me the old ways, and on the fourth morning I woke to find myself alone with a tent, two skins of water and a knife.”

  Nigella turned halfway around to face him. “Oh, my god—how long were you out there?”

  “Three of the longest days of my life. But I never forgot the lessons I learned during those three days—never to trust my father again and that I could handle whatever was thrown at me. The desert became my sanctuary.”

  She shifted in the saddle, her hips rubbing against him in a distracting way. He glanced at her, but she was staring out at the horizon now, where the sun was starting to dip behind the mountains. “Myself, I was left with a profound desire to stay far from any jungle. That’s a huge advantage you have here. And is that…okay, is that a real oasis or a desert mirage.”

  He leaned closer. “That, Nigella, is one of the many blessings of Al-Sarid. We have springs across much of the land—including several that would be near where your pipeline would be built. These are what make travel in Al-Sarid possible.”

  The camel seemed to know they were nearing water, for it quickened its speed. Malid let the camel—and the second one whose reins were tied to back of the saddle—pick up speed. As per his orders, tents had been made ready for their arrival. An older man in traditional garb, but in loose white robes—met them, taking charge of the camels and unloading their supplies.

  Malid offered up greetings, and he could smell a meal cooking. Malid turned to escort Nigella to their tent, only to find that she had wandered off. She was ambling around the spring that watered the date palms here and the grasses.