Indebted To The Sheikh (You Can't Turn Down a Sheikh Book 5)

by Ana Sparks

  “Hmm.” I tapped the end of my fork pensively against my pursed lips. “Would you have had anything to do with this epiphany?”

  Salman shrugged with an air of studied innocence. “Sometimes, miracles happen, you know? I guess even the most calloused heart can be made soft.”

  I smirked skeptically, though the glow in my face betrayed my appreciation.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “you’ll be seeing him tomorrow. He volunteered to help us with the packing and moving and whatnot.”

  I’d finally received confirmation of my inheritance from the lawyer’s office, after a tense period of waiting, in which I had worried that Asar was going to refuse me the estate.

  “He won’t hassle you, I promise.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  When we met up with Mr. Khan at the office the next morning, he was even more effusive than Salman had warned. With galumphing strides, he came running toward me, grabbing my hand in his and shaking it with all the enthusiasm of a dog begging for a bone.

  “Cassie—” he said fervently, “do you mind if I call you Cassie? Salman has had nothing but good things to say about you lately.”

  “Has he really?” I replied, raising a cool brow at Salman.

  “I want you to have this,” said Asar, gesturing at the various papers and objects belonging to my father—an old pile of National Geographic magazines, an Italian pastry dish, a chest made out of sandalwood with a bronze lock—that stood in the back of the office. “It belongs to you, anyway. It should have gone to you all along.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Khan,” I said with a slight bow. After talking it over with Salman, I had decided it was better to be gracious than spiteful. “What a relief to be finally reunited with the elk’s head that used to hang over our fireplace. Will you stay and help us?”

  “Of course,” said Asar, with a touch of hesitation, presumably sensing that he couldn’t get out of it. “I’d be more than happy to help.”

  We spent the next several hours carefully boxing up what remained of my father’s estate that had been left to me, only breaking the silence to ask questions.

  By the time we had nearly finished, it was past noon, and a light rain was falling on the bike stands and lilac hedges outside, fogging the windows with its warm breath. I had just finished enthusiastically packing a large box of books—it contained a Joseph Campbell book on mythology and a paperback copy of Anna Karenina, which I had been meaning to read for ages—when a sealed envelope fell out of a nonfiction on journalism and fell to the ground.

  “Salman?” I asked as I reached to pick it up. “Did you see this?”

  “No, what is it?” he called from the other side of the room.

  The envelope had fallen over on its back. I turned it over with a swelling of curiosity that only grew at the sight of my name: “For Cassie.”

  Without bothering to answer Salman, I tore open the envelope with my thumbnail and pulled out a letter.

  Dear Cassie,

  By the time you read this, I will have passed on to wherever I’m headed. I’m leaving you the whole estate, or as much of it as you can keep the creditors from confiscating. I wish I had more to give you. Somehow, it still feels inadequate.

  Being out of work and on the brink of death gives you a lot of time for thinking over the mistakes you’ve made. I wish I could say I had fewer regrets. I wish I had done right by you and your mother. The biggest mistake I ever made was walking out on you and her that morning. I should have stayed in touch. I should have reconnected after your mom’s death. I should have brought you back here instead of leaving you an orphan. So many “shoulds.” But I was too ashamed of what I had done. I wish I had my whole life to live over again. I wish I had lived it with you, and I’m sorry.

  Love always,

  Your father, Raymond

  “Cassie?” Salman came striding over, pushing a chair out of his way. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” Quickly, I slid the note back in the envelope, taking care not to let him see the tears in my eyes. “Just boxing up the past, is all. Are you and Asar about ready to go eat?”

  That night was our last in Paris before Salman had to return home to Qia to complete a business deal. To commemorate the successful transfer of the estate into my name, we enjoyed a moonlit champagne picnic in the cabin of his private luxury boat, then ascended the deck to watch Paris drifting past, arrayed in all its jeweled glory.

  “It looks so different at night, and from the river,” I told him as he stood with his arms around me, the warm wind on our faces. “This isn’t a side of Paris I’m used to.”

  “Too romantic?”

  “Almost.”

  I’d never fully recovered from that first walk, where the city had imprinted itself on my heart with all its mundane glamor. Postboxes, awnings, rain-washed stones caked with the mud of a thousand shoes, gargoyles looming from the roofs of vermiculated buildings…there was magic to it, even in squalor.

  “I suppose everyone has to choose the Paris they like best.”

  “I like this one,” said Salman, leaning forward until we were one body. “A city of nearly three million people, and yet, it was so lonely before I met you.”

  “And to think that when I got here, I had no idea who you were.” I turned until I was facing him. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “I don’t think you could, even if you wanted to,” he said, smiling. “What’s done is done.”

  “Too bad.” Cupping my face in his, I kissed him twice, fully on the mouth. Salman returned kiss for kiss as a flock of pigeons flew past us.

  “Have you ever wanted someone so much,” he asked, “that you could have happily thrown off your clothes and done it right there, in public?”

  “Hmmm, I can’t say that I have,” I said, teasing. “I’ve never been much of an exhibitionist.”

  “No, and I don’t like to get arrested. But as long as we have a room to ourselves—or a boat…” I could sense where the conversation was drifting. A feeling like a hundred butterflies bloomed in my stomach as he nuzzled my ear and said, “Would you like to? Here, on our last night?”

  “I suppose the occasion does need to be commemorated…” I said coyly. “And I can’t say I’ve ever made love on a river…”

  “Then, this will be a new adventure for both of us.”

  The initial wave of nerves and excitement gave way to a settled feeling. Somehow, this felt right. It felt like us.

  “But, of course, it won’t be our last night,” I said aloud.

  “Pardon?”

  “A minute ago, you said it was our last night.”

  “I meant our last night in Paris. For now, at least.”

  “Good, because I don’t have any intention of letting you go.” I reached for his arm shyly. “As long as you feel the same way.”

  “I do.” Smoothly tracing the side of my face with one finger, Salman said, “I love you, Cassie.”

  The words startled me. Once more, I had that dizzy feeling, like I was standing on the edge of the canyon looking out over the water.

  “I love you, too,” I said finally, so faintly it was almost a whisper.

  Looking elated, Salman took me by the hand and was leading me downstairs into the cabin when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Glowering, he pulled it out. “It’s Asar.”

  “What could he possibly want at this hour?”

  Salman scanned the text. “He sent me a link to a video. He said, ‘You have to see this! It will make your whole night.’”

  I stood close to him in the glow of the phone while he opened the link. There was a video of David Icarus wearing orange scrubs and being marched into a courtroom, in handcuffs, by a phalanx of policemen.

  “What did he do?” I asked, eyes wide. “What is he charged with?”

  “Three counts of intimidation, looks like,” said Salman, not sounding at all sorry. “I guess he just couldn’t keep his hands off people.”

&n
bsp; I rested my head on his shoulder, watching Icarus scowl into the camera with a feeling of immense delight.

  Salman returned his phone to his pocket, setting it on silent. “Guess he won’t be interrupting us tonight. Now, my love. You and I are the only two people on this boat, and personally, I think it’s time we took advantage of that fact.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Offering him my hand with a decorous flourish, I said, “Lead on, good sir!”

  Salman took my hand in his, and together, we descended the stairs to the bedroom, ready to finally take the next big step in our relationship. We had a whole future, a whole lifetime together, and I couldn’t wait to continue on our incredible adventure.

  No longer did I want to click my heels together three times and return home. I’d found Oz, and it was even better than I could have imagined.

  The End

  We hope you’ve enjoyed Cassie and Salman’s story. Sign up to Holly’s mailing list and get news, freebies and more!

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  The Sheikh’s Bride Bargain

  Time for a tease!

  Up next is the first chapter of another book in our You Can’t Turn Down a Sheikh series, The Sheikh’s Bride Bargain

  Happy reading!

  Ana & Holly x

  Copyright 2018 by Holly Rayner and Ana Sparks

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  As the sun sank low over the city of Kezab, highlighting the downtown skyscrapers with hues of orange and rose, Dakota Lee stepped out onto the patio of the palace, cocktail in hand, and sighed disconsolately. Tonight hadn’t been nearly as much fun as she’d hoped.

  Events at the Baraq Royal Palace were always a bit of a gamble, she knew, having attended several in the five years her family had lived here.

  The food was always spectacular, of course, and there were drinks and dancing after dinner; Dakota always relished the opportunity to put on an expensive ball gown, have her long, honey-blond hair done, and get her picture taken.

  The problem tonight was simply that it was New Year’s Eve, and Dakota hadn’t managed to find a date. At first, this had seemed like no problem at all—the royals would be playing host to many of the most wealthy and prominent families in the nation of Baraq, as well as several foreign dignitaries. Everyone would be drinking and dancing and looking for someone to kiss at midnight. What better way to ring in the new year?

  But now it was quarter to eleven and time was running out. Dakota had done several laps of the party, checking for eligible bachelors, and had found none. Well, she amended inwardly, none worth talking to, at any rate. Looks like it’s just you and me, vodka, she thought, sipping her martini. Here’s to another year.

  She didn’t know why she was feeling so glum—the past year had been a great one. Dakota had been promoted to Executive Communications Officer at LeeWay Corp, her family’s aeronautics manufacturing company. It was a huge step up from her previous role as Junior Communications Executive. Dakota now managed the entire communications team, and her salary had more than doubled.

  She had also begun to feel truly at home here in Kezab. The city of Seattle and the home she and her family had left behind when they had moved here seemed a long way away, and she no longer missed it. In fact, Seattle had taken on a dreary cast in her memory. Looking out at the glorious sunset, she couldn’t remember what she had ever liked about the rainy, perpetually overcast city.

  So why wasn’t she feeling happier? The party hadn’t been that bad. Dinner had been delicious, and Dakota knew she looked amazing with her svelte figure in her teal-colored gown. She was being ridiculous, she decided. Looking for problems where there weren’t any. She needed to relax and allow herself to enjoy this night.

  “Hey,” came a familiar voice from behind.

  Dakota turned and saw her older brother, Dylan, emerging out onto the patio. A wiry, perpetually tousle-haired blond, her brother was two years her senior, at twenty-nine. He walked with a saunter that women generally seemed to find irresistible, but as he approached the rail of the balcony where Dakota was leaning, he stumbled into it.

  She caught him by the arm. “Are you drunk?”

  He shrugged. “Probably. It’s a party.”

  She gestured to his glass of champagne. “How many of those have you had?”

  “Six. Seven?”

  “The truth, Dyl?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Dakota groaned inwardly. This was exactly like Dylan. His drinking got out of control at parties, and it always seemed to fall on her shoulders to corral him so he didn’t embarrass the rest of the family too badly. Part of it was her responsibility as the head of communications at LeeWay Corp, but it also stemmed from the fact that her parents frequently turned a blind eye to any wrongdoing on Dylan’s part. He never seemed to learn because he was never held accountable for anything.

  Dakota drained her drink and set the glass on the rail. She took her brother by the arm. “Let’s go back to the table, okay? We’ll order you some water, and maybe a coffee.”

  “I’m not driving,” he said, laughing.

  “No kidding, hotshot.”

  She parked him at the circular table where the two of them had eaten—her parents had been seated elsewhere, with the CEOs of other corporations important to the royal family—and went to the bar to fetch another martini for herself and a glass of water for Dylan. So much for trying to meet someone, she thought, forgetting in her frustration that she’d abandoned that idea before Dylan had intervened. Maybe the bartender will be cute, at least.

  But the bartender was not especially cute, nor did he give Dakota more than a cursory glance as he prepared her drinks. She placed a few coins in the tip jar, took up the drinks, and made her way back to the table.

  Dylan was gone. Of course.

  Dakota was beyond irritated. He isn’t my problem, she told herself, resisting the urge to tap her foot on the marble floor. If he wants to make a fool of himself, let him. It wasn’t her problem that the press were here, that there would be photos of anything he did tonight all over the internet tomorrow, that she had just been promoted into this job and she knew her father was still keeping a close eye on her, making sure she would be able to do it…

  Oh, hell.

  She had to find him. She was going to have to tail him for the rest of the night to make sure he behaved himself.

  Quickly, she gulped down the drink in her hand and set the glass on the table. She was beginning to feel tipsy herself now, but that was probably a good thing—it would help her find her brother amusing instead of annoying.

  She was tempted to climb on a chair to see over the heads of the other people in the room, but she knew that as soon as she did, a photographer’s flashbulb would go off, and she’d see a story about herself dancing on chairs at the New Year’s Eve ball in tomorrow’s news. Then she’d have even more to explain away.

  Finally, she caught sight of Dylan. He was on the dance floor, and he’d picked up another flute of champagne. He was now weaving his way among a throng of young women, and as Dakota watched, he took one by the hand, spun her, and dipped her.

  And then he stumbled.

  It seemed to unfold in slow motion. Dylan pitched forward, the girl still draped over his arm, and for a paralyzing moment Dakota thought he was about to drop her on her head. At what seemed like the last moment, he pulled her up, saving her from impact, but as he did so he dropped th
e flute of champagne he’d been holding. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, and the drink spilled all over the front of the girl’s dress.

  Silence fell. Even the band stopped playing.

  Dakota ran out onto the dance floor, snatching up a cloth napkin from a table as she went, but before she could reach her brother and the girl, a man had made his way over. He was barrel-chested and thick-bearded and wore ivory robes with gold trim. Dakota recognized him at once, and her heart sank—Sheikh Ubaid bin Ayad.

  Crap.

  The bin Ayads were the Lee family’s fiercest business rivals.

  It all went back five years, to when the Lees had first come to Baraq. Her family had bought out a small private plane manufacturer with the intent to absorb its employees, premises, and capital into LeeWay Corp. It had been a minor but fruitful move for Ben Lee, and Dakota felt her father had done the right thing. Unfortunately, the bin Ayads had been on the verge of signing a contract with the plane manufacturer to make them their sole aircraft provider, and they had taken it personally when the company had been bought out. Dakota couldn’t see what the big deal was—so they’d have to buy their planes somewhere else, who cared? But apparently it mattered to Sheikh bin Ayad because he had been perpetuating the feud with the Lees ever since.

  If she were honest with herself, though, Dakota would have to acknowledge that her family was not entirely innocent when it came to keeping animosity alive. Small planes cost more now than they had before the Lees had come to Baraq. Of course, they were also better—no one made a plane like LeeWay—but if you couldn’t afford one, Dakota supposed it didn’t matter how good they were. And her father was always saying things in interviews that he must have known would provoke bin Ayad. Just recently he had taken credit in a magazine for bringing the twenty-first century of air travel to Baraq. Even Dakota was willing to admit that was a bit rich.