“So what did you do?”
Now she had started eating, she was ravenous; Jane devoured her vegetables and helped herself to a slice of the raspberry cheesecake set on a silver platter in front of her.
“First, I joined the Y and started lifting weights. I waited till I was big enough to kick a little ass myself.They say violence never solved anything. Bullshit.”
Jane grinned.
“Next I sat down and figured it out. If I wanted to get into Wall Street other than on the subway, I’d need to be a broker. So I started buying the Wall Street Journal with my allowance. Next I started figuring out the numbers, and the charts. Seeing patterns. Looking at stocks. I quit school early and my parents cut me off, but by that time I had a job as a gofer in a brokerage house. I used to give them tips—and they worked.They thought I had insider info.” He smiled.“Nothing they couldn’t have figured out if they were paying attention. But at eighteen I was a trader. Before I could drink, I owned my own apartment. Sound familiar?”
“So far,” Jane said, inclining her head. “But I’ll never be as successful as you.”
“That’s true,” he said, cool as you like, and she thrilled to it. “You never will.”
“Your parents forgave you?”
“Soon as they knew I’d be okay. I was a senior broker at twenty, VP at twenty-one. Had a nice little brownstone in the Village at twenty-three, drove a Ferrari. At twenty-four I quit. Started to put together a fund.You know most of the rest.”
“I heard you were a workaholic.”
“I don’t see it as work.” His eyes lit up, and she responded to his passion. “I love business, I love numbers. I can just … I see stocks. I don’t know how else to explain it. For me, trading is like a computer game. Winning is fun. Money is fun. Five chefs—I always wanted this, I wanted to live like my house was a hotel. Got lots of staff and I pay them outrageous wages. Give lots to charity. My parents are in Florida now, in a mansion with a private beach. I keep my head down, I don’t talk to the press, I just play the game. And I win, nineteen times out of twenty.”
“And the twentieth?”
“Maybe I sabotage myself sometimes. Just to make it interesting.”
“So.” She spooned up the last of the cheesecake, meltingly sweet, the tartness of the raspberries a perfect contrast. “Tell me about your personal life.”
“I thought I just did. Oh—you mean women?”
“I mean women,” Jane said, her eyes narrowing.
Levin smiled. “There have been a few girls. I like beautiful women. I never promised any of them anything serious, unless I meant it. I’ve had three proper girlfriends—one for six months, one for two years, another for a year. It just didn’t work out in those cases.”
“Why not?”
“If I knew that, I never would have asked them out,” he said, reasonably.
“And me?”
“You’re different. Incredibly so.”
“Tell me why.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Before bed.”
“Don’t trust yourself, in my arms, to be objective?” Levin grinned.“Very well.You are more intelligent and more independent. I never dated fluff—maybe when I was younger, there were a couple of trophy dates, cheerleaders for the New York Giants, that sort of girl. Later on, models, but always smart ones. One of my long-term girlfriends was a lecturer at Vassar.” His eyes flickered across her. “None of them were like you. In business, a self-made woman. One who came back from a tragedy—an orphan. What you did with Shop Smart was amazing. And leaving your job was pretty great, too. Maybe it’s vanity; I saw something of myself in you.You didn’t want that comfort trap. A house in the suburbs or a vice president’s salary, it’s all bull if you know you can do better. And of course, there just aren’t that many women who do well in business.”
“Sexist pig.”
“Come on.” He defended himself against the accusation. “I respect you too much to bullshit you. It’s the truth, and you know it.You and your girlfriends have something here. A good model. Excitement. Achievement. You’re more than beautiful, and sexy, with that British accent—”
“English.”
“Whatever. You’re like me. You’re in this game. You’re”—he paused, then smiled—“not a civilian.”
She smiled back, and stood up from the table.
“Not to mention that you’re breathtakingly lovely,” Levin added.
Jane held out her hands to him. She sensed she was in great danger, that he already had her heart, and she had surrendered every part of herself. Because she wanted so badly to believe that she was the one, she was the woman who could take him out of this life.
But her body was a traitor; it wanted him. Now.
He came over to her, leaving the rest of his food untouched.
“I thought you just wanted to sleep,” he murmured, whispering into her neck, kissing it, his tongue tracing the line of the caress.
“That was then,” Jane said. “And at least now we’ve had the first date.”
The next day, he drove her home himself. Then called and asked her to lunch. And dinner.
Craig Levin was perfect. He talked with her, he made her laugh, he dissected some of his business deals with her, asked her advice.
They relished each other’s company. He complimented her all the time. Made Jane feel seven feet tall.
Soon, he became one of her best friends, as well as her lover. And that was fatal. It didn’t matter what barriers she tried to keep up. He was great in bed, he made her laugh, and he appreciated everything about her.
Jane Morgan fell more in love as every day passed.
“You can trust me.” Mrs. Wilkins—Emily—was firm. “She’ll be fine.Won’t you, princess? Who’s a clever girl?”
Noor waved her little clenched fist and gurgled happily. She gave a gummy smile to her mother and her nanny.
“Do you know about warming the baby food? And don’t use those commercial wipes. Just tissues in warm water, or she gets a rash …”
“Ma’am, I’ve brought up four of my own.” The Irishwoman shook her head. “Now get in the cab.The sooner you go and do your trading, or whatever it is, the sooner you can come back to her.” She gave Haya a shove. “They need you at work, too. Now go.”
The limo driver honked his horn, and Noor scrunched up her face. She started to wail, and Haya wanted to, as well.
“Go,” Emily Wilkins insisted.
Haya did as she was told, and as the limo door shut behind her, she watched the nanny put her baby comfortingly over her shoulder.
“LAX?”
“Just drive,” Haya snapped. She turned her face to the window, so that he would not see the tears splashing out of her lashes.
Being a single mom and a businesswoman could be hard sometimes.Whenever she had to leave Noor, she hated it.
Everybody in L.A. knew who Haya al-Yanna was now. He said a quick “Yes, ma’am,” and stepped on it. Suited her fine.
The last year, she had been there for all Noor’s important milestones. When she sat up, her fat chin wobbling. When she was weaned.The glorious moment when she crawled. But combining it with buying for the store, then the stores, was exhausting. Haya inspected, ordered, and arranged as best she could from Los Angeles, either from the GLAMOUR headquarters or her home office. And Noor sat and crawled with her.
But the business was expanding so rapidly, Haya knew she’d have to let her nanny take a little bit more of the slack. She wanted to keep her place at the top table, by right. Noor was older now, a confident and happy toddler. And Haya felt the old tug, the challenge, of her career pulling at her.
It was time to step things up. She had to leave her comfort zone for a few days, go to the source of her goods, her commerce. And it was exciting that the first stop was Ghada.
She knew she had no choice. Haya couldn’t stay in the States forever. Not with the way GLAMOUR was going. They had lines at the store daily, just to get in
. Jane was negotiating with some defunct American chains, trying to buy up real estate, looking for a good lease on Fifth or the Avenue of the Americas, jetting off to Paris and London. Sally, when she took an evening off from the ballpark, was turning into a bona fide star; her days were spent designing, her nights at glittering premieres, jetting off to talk shows, or giving interviews for magazines. They called her “fashion’s Martha Stewart” and, more cruelly, “Business Barbie.” But Sally rode it all like a pro, and every single item she wore in public was sourced from the GLAMOUR store.
Their next opening was to be New York, and Jane and Sally had personally begged Haya to come back. Ethical business was a money-spinner—the women’s magazines loved what they were doing with local craftswomen, and when Sally posed in Women’s Wear Daily wearing her own new trademark, a floor-length red velvet sheath, with one of the Ghadan necklaces draped around her long neck, orders had just gone wild.
“We have only a few hundred carpets—we’re on a waiting list.”
“The jewelry sold out weeks ago. We’ve got empty sections of the store.”
“Haya,” Jane insisted, “you can’t just go on buying trips; what you have to do is find staff—buyers—people you trust.They can purchase the ethical trade in bulk as long as it’s up to standard.We can’t jeapardize the brand.”
“Jane found a spot in Venice, too.We have to have enough for six new stores. By year’s end it’ll be twelve.” Sally grinned. “Say hello to GLAMOUR Tokyo.”
“I suppose you’re right. There’s just no way I can fulfill that number of orders.” Haya was excited. “Is it really that busy?”
Sally groaned. “Please come back.”
Haya glanced around her nursery, at the infant toys everywhere. Of course she adored Noor, her little sunshine, but … it was time to get back to adulthood; Haya had missed her friends, missed her business.
“So, recruit buyers?”
“At least twenty. I can give you a salary structure. Please don’t deviate from it,” Jane said.
Haya spread her hands.“Staffing is your baby.They have to be the right women, though, people I trust not to buy any old junk, and only to pick the right suppliers… .”
“You could hire male buyers. As long as we maintain the policy of sourcing from poor women,” Sally said,“our customers want that. It’s a little bit of sisterhood in with the designer jeans. Like fair trade chocolate.”
“Okay, then.” Haya nodded; she would need the help.With a baby, no way could she go back to full-time jet-setting. “I think I’ll pick buyers in every country—you know, somebody in Egypt, in Morocco—to look for the different goods.”
“It’s your turf,” Jane said. “Handle it however you want.”
Haya agreed. The frazzled faces of her girlfriends had added the coda: but handle it.
Fair enough. And so now she was on her way back, to Ghada City. Leaving Noor behind for four whole, brutal days.
It had to be done; but she didn’t have to like it.
“Welcome, Ms. Al-Yanna.” The desk clerk was all smiles.“It’s good to have you back, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay in Ghada.”
“Thank you.”
“Your meetings have been arranged in the Roosevelt Conference Room for nine a.m. tomorrow, as requested.”
“Great. If I could just get my room key …”
Haya was very tired; it had been a long day, and she was looking forward to a quick TV supper and then bed.
“Here you are.The presidential suite—take the penthouse elevator, second on the left.”
“I didn’t book that suite … ,” Haya said wearily. She hoped that this wouldn’t delay her all that long; tomorrow’s work started early.
“No, ma’am. It is a complimentary upgrade. And we have a message to deliver to you,” the receptionist said with a coy smile, “from His Highness, Sheikh Jaber.”
Haya blinked with shock. He remembered her?
They had negotiated with the Ghadan palace through the office, and over the phone; Haya had sent documents via one of Jane’s assistants. She had never expected to hear from Jaber again.
“Here.” The receptionist handed her over an envelope: thick vellum, with a small gold crest, a stylized palm tree, on the back. “Shall I have a bellhop show you to the suite?”
“No, thank you, I’ll manage.”
Haya walked into the elevator, barely noticing her surroundings; her case was compact, neatly packed with lightweight, long dresses. She rode up to the presidential suite; it was incredibly luxurious, with tinted windows on four sides looking out over Ghada City. Haya gave it a cursory glance, dumped her suitcase on the bed, and ripped open the note.
Dear Ms. Al-Yanna,
Congratulations on the birth of your daughter.The Office of Protocol has kept me up-to-date with developments with your company; His Majesty’s government is quite satisfied with the funds that have flowed in to our citizens thus far.We are willing to consider further involvement of the royal family in exchange for more significant orders worldwide.
I would, however, prefer to discuss such matters with you personally. Could you call the palace and confirm if you are free for lunch on Saturday at one o’clock?
Wa-es salaam,
Jaber
Stop it, Haya told herself. You’re reading way too much into this. He is a handsome young sharif, not a man to be tempted by a widowed single mother. And anyway, what if he was? She was a partner at GLAMOUR, Inc., and he worked for the government here.They could hardly form a relationship flying back and forth across the Atlantic.
But it was no good; her heart pounded as she dialed the number on the stationery. She should just see it as a business success.
Whatever. It was thrilling. Haya gave herself permission to enjoy that. She thought of Ahmed, her love. He would not mind, if anything was to happen. Before, she had felt guilty; now that she had his Noor to love and cherish, she felt, instead, an overwhelming peace.
Haya looked round the suite, properly. She understood at once why she had been given the best room in the hotel. As hot as GLAMOUR was, there were other rich businessmen here. No, this came from the favor of His Highness. And she took every lavish inch of it as a compliment.
“Good afternoon,” said a voice in Arabic.
“Hello. My name is Haya al-Yanna—”
“Oh, yes, thank you for calling, madam. Will you be able to join His Highness for lunch?”
“Yes, I will,” Haya said, taken aback that the operator knew so fast.
“That’s wonderful news. We will send a government car to your hotel at twenty to one, if convenient. If you could bring your passport for identification.”
“Thank you,” Haya said. A government car! She couldn’t believe it.Why was he laying out the red carpet?
“We’ll see you tomorrow, madam, insh’Allah. Have a wonderful day.”
She hung up and went into the suite’s sumptuous bathroom; it had a stand-alone tub made of pure copper that you could almost swim in. Tomorrow morning she had interviews, eighteen candidates for six positions, and they would have to be done by twelve forty.
Haya could manage it. She had learned to trust her instincts. Those with a love of beauty and of Ghada would stand out.The important thing was to get them hired, fast, lose the deadwood, and then come back here. Whether she was right about Jaber’s interest or not, she had to look fabulous. If she could get a true princess of this country involved … forget it! GLAMOUR’s PR and marketing would explode just as Jane was opening the new stores.
Haya had been out of commission for a while. She wanted to contribute, to be as much a part of this as Sally and Jane. Originally, they had been the two friends; Haya had come in late. She did not want to be an outsider, the third wheel, in GLAMOUR.
If she could bring more sizzle than Sally … then nobody could accuse her of being some kind of afterthought.
“Here we are, ma’am. Passport, please.”
Haya meekly handed it over. The c
hauffeur—or was he a soldier, in his Ghadan uniform with the palm trees on his epaulettes?—passed it across to the guard at the gate. Haya leaned forward, out of the window, and looked down the drive to the palace complex.
It was exquisitely beautiful. Vast, and covered with blue and gold tiles, like the decoration on a Pharaoh’s headdress. It glittered in the sun like jewelry, and the gardens they had driven through on their way here stretched ahead of her, lush and beautifully stocked. There were fountains playing in the courtyards, and Haya noted the brickwork, old and red. There was something of the Alhambra about this place. She shivered with tension. Did she look good enough? She had selected a traditional Jordanian caftan, red silk, embroidered with gold thread, antique, stretching down to her ankles and flowing beautifully about the body; almost no makeup, just a touch of foundation and some lip gloss and mascara; and a delicate scent, Chanel No. 19, one Haya had always favored, fresher and greener than the more famous brand. Round her neck, she wore a jangling, original Ghadan coin necklace, one from GLAMOUR’s own stock; it was disturbingly sensual, she thought, like bells on her when she moved.
“Thank you.” Her passport was returned to her, and the limo pulled through the ornate carved gates, covered in Moroccan-style mosaic work. Haya tried not to stare as the driver took her around the left wing of the palace, past marching guards, into a small courtyard, and parked in a spot they were waved to by a saluting guard, who came round to open the door.
“Greetings, madam,” he said in thickly accented English.
“Thank you,” Haya responded in Arabic. The soldier smiled, and lapsed into his native tongue.
“Sidi Jaber is waiting in his office… . If you’ll come this way.” Haya nodded, and was led through marble corridors of unimaginable opulence, set about with wooden panels carved in an intricate Islamic design, to a small, modern room—part of a cleverly designed extension—where Jaber was sitting.
He jumped to his feet.
“Your guest, Highness,” the soldier said, bowed slightly, and withdrew.
“Haya.” He came forward, and clasped her shoulders warmly, kissing her on both cheeks in the Arab fashion; Haya, feeling awkward, clumsily dropped a low curtsy.
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