Sheikh's Scandalous Mistress

by Jessica Brooke

  “Even if they’re not the best or most enthusiastic partners, I appreciate every woman who shares my bed,” Amir objected, folding his hands behind his head and leaning even further back. “I just have a tier system.”

  “And the sheikha thinks that you should, perhaps, engage in that final top tier and, as the Americans say, put a ring on it.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to speak more to Mother when she’s here for the opening gala this week. I’m sure she’ll talk my ear off about how I’m ruining the family, breaking her heart, and being an utter cad about town.”

  “Oh she used a far more colorful word for you, my sheikh,” Mafir said with a smirk.

  “Quite. Just get Svetlana up and thank her kindly. Also, what’s the next thing on my schedule? I’ve been slammed going over the final plans and financials for the art gallery opening—”

  “Let it never be said that your luxury resort doesn’t have a bit of everything,” Mafir conceded.

  “Exactly, but what’s next on the docket? I know that the sous chef at Sayonara has been clashing with Yoshi. Also, I’m still not sure I’m happy with the Gucci display in our retail venue. I think it could do better, be more eye catching.”

  “Sir, you can exercise your micromanaging tendencies soon enough. Right now there’s a reporter from the Style section of, I believe, the Washington Sentinel here to interview you.”

  “Can’t Kantaya do another one? That’s what the press secretary is for.”

  Mafir shook his head. “Market research indicated that at least twenty percent of interviews should be done with you directly. Since this is an American outlet, and we’re trying to make sure the whale gamblers from the United States feel safe and secure here, you know that speaking with Miss Sinclair will be best.”

  “You say that now, but I find those interviews mind-numbingly boring.”

  “Yes, but unfortunately, the property won’t sell itself,” he said, bowing low again. “I’ll take care of, uh, Svetlana and see Miss Sinclair in. Be nice, my sheikh.”

  “I’m always nice. I’m practically a teddy bear,” he replied gruffly.

  “Quite, how could I have ever been mistaken?” Mafir said before disappearing out the door.

  He really had to find a way to get his assistant squarely on his team. He’d be damned if he’d be getting the responsibility spiel forever from every corner—even from his freaking manservant! Shaking his head, Amir rose and came to stand at the huge bank of windows that were the main focal feature of his office. The casino was a massive structure, standing as the tallest high-rise in Abu Dhabi. It wasn’t just a casino; it was an entire compound of fine dining, shopping, and entertainment. Ali Babba Casino’s boasted three separate concert and entertainment halls, as well as a gallery featuring a collection showcasing the most beautiful art from the ancient world and his own personal favorites. It was a huge gamble—something bigger than any of his father’s or grandfather’s holdings—but if it all worked, it would put the Bahan family on the map in the same way that the American casinos were so closely tied to the Maloofs.

  Of course, if it failed, he’d be the laughingstock of Middle Eastern business.

  He wasn’t about to let that happen.

  “Ahem, are you going to stand there all day?” a clipped voice rang out.

  He turned and was about to send the reporter away for being so rude when his breath caught in his throat. The woman before him was not traditionally beautiful. While she did have long, blond hair that was the color of spun gold and blue eyes that reminded him of cut sapphires, she was barely five feet tall and curvier than he usually liked. Yet, there was something about her that stirred him deeply. Perhaps it was those soul-searching eyes or the amused quirk of her lips, but he was pretty sure the thing that drew him most was the defiant jut of her chin, the way she seemed to be daring him to cross her. It didn’t seem to make her pause in the least that she was standing before both a billionaire and royalty.

  And that was a damn sexy turn-on.

  “Excuse my manners then, Miss Sinclair.”

  “Just call me Amanda,” she said, sitting down in a chair and pulling out her recorder. “I’ve given up on any pretense of formality.”

  He arched his eyebrow back at her, intrigued again by her flippancy. After all, it was so rare for him to feel amused by anything. Women could be alluring…for a time. It was just that so few ever held his attention. Even if she were just here on business, Miss Sinclair was off to a promising start.

  “Would the Sentinel be happy with that, Miss Sinclair?”

  “I told you we could be informal.”

  “Then if we’re being informal, I have to confess that I love the way your last name rolls off my tongue, Miss Sinclair,” he said, enunciating each syllable slowly to help convey his point. “Still, I’ve rarely had a reporter come and question where I was even standing in the interview. What’s your story?”

  “That’s not part of the interview,” she said, her tone clipped. “I think the only thing that is would be a plethora of airhead questions about what the best sushi dish will be and how you were able to get Lagerfeld to set up a store for you. I have that all prepped. You give me the pat answers, and I can be out of here in five.”

  “Where would the fun in that be?” he purred, as he circled her chair. She sat up straighter, and the way he was clearly getting under her skin only encouraged him. “Let’s do a bit more quid pro quo.”

  “Well, I’m not Clarice Starling, and you’re not Hannibal Lecter, so I’m not sure that’s what I want to do,” she said.

  “You know some actual honesty would be more interesting than ‘puff-piece bullshit,’ as you put it.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she said, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. That hint of pink only served to make his heart race and push blood to places farther south.

  “But you were thinking it,” he added as he passed behind her again. Reaching out, he swept her hair back from off her shoulder. Dear Allah, it felt like silk against his skin. “I’m thinking it too. I’ve done at least two dozen of these this month, and we both know I’m not going to tell you anything you can’t get from the press release or that hasn’t already been said by my press agent.”

  “Exactly, so if you would just give me whatever spiel you need out there, then I’ll be happily back to my room.”

  “Oh, so you’re staying here?”

  “I’m sure I’m not the only reporter here who’s being spoiled,” she said, tilting that chin of hers back up at him. “You’re sparing no expense to wine and dine potential critics and naysayers. Are you nervous about the speculation? The thoughts that tourism to Abu Dhabi doesn’t merit a spectacle like you’ve created?”

  He stopped sauntering and leaned back against his desk. “That’s not the usual question someone from this beat would ask.”

  “Maybe they want to, but all of them are too scared and keep kissing your ring,” she said, her chin jutting up sharply.

  Her blue eyes sparkled with intensity, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep everything off of his desk and have his way with her. At least she’d be more rewarding for him, help him ease off more tension that Svetlana had. He was on edge; that was all. If Svetlana had been up to her reputation, then he wouldn’t be taking a second look at this plump reporter.

  “Then tell me more. What do you actually think about the casino and resort?”

  “I just flew in yesterday. So far, I do find the pool the best spot. It’s hot as hell out here, and I don’t have any patience for it. I think there’s sand in every crevice of my body and definitely in my mouth. I don’t think I was ready for Abu Dhabi at all. I used to think that one family vacation I had once in Texas was too much. This is like trying to murder me in a sand sauna.”

  “Alright, so the pool’s a hit. You don’t care for the rest?”

  “I haven’t had time to window shop with designer labels or see shoes I can’t possibly affor
d. I also am not a huge sushi fan.”

  “We have traditional Middle Eastern and French dishes as well. These are all Michelin chefs who are beyond amazing,” he countered.

  “Yes, and yet you named it Ali Babba’s. That’s beyond cheesy,” she objected, wrinkling her nose up in a way that was equally annoying and adorable.

  “To be fair,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “my PR department decided that naming it something that could be a nod to tales that Americans and other Westerners would know would help with tourism. You’d be surprised how hard it is to get Westerners out here, even though we’re a completely safe area.”

  “Well, most Westerners can’t tell Dubai from Abu Dhabi if you held a gun to their heads,” she admitted. “But this is completely off the record. You have to admit that it’s a terrible name.”

  He nodded, rejoicing in her candor. It was so rare for even the press to be forthright with him. “I wasn’t in love with it. I wanted to name it after my little sister, but the focus groups were against it.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister. The briefing materials didn’t list anything on that, and neither did my online research.”

  “Well,” he said. “I suppose you don’t know everything then, Miss Sinclair. I was a twin, but she died of a fever when we were seven. As for the name, I went with what I thought would sell because the old axiom isn’t wrong. Everyone has a price.”

  She frowned, and for the first time, something besides hardened skepticism glinted in those blue eyes of hers. Maybe it was understanding; he just hoped it wasn’t pity. He never should have said as much, but he’d always loathed himself for letting go on that one point. He shouldn’t have budged on the name.

  “You shouldn’t have sold out on that one thing. It’s a sweet gesture, and frankly, it would have made a great story.”

  “I wanted to honor Farana, but maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know if I have the strength to explain about her to everyone. Perhaps I should, though. It’s a shame how easy it is for family to grow forgotten.”

  She nodded and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I get that. I love my dad, and my stepmom has always tried so hard. God knows I gave her so much crap as a teenager. Still, there’s something about my dad remarrying at all that burns me up. I know it’s selfish, and still childish in some small part of my mind, but I sometimes feel like even that much moving on makes it seem like Mom’s been buried a second time.”

  She surprised him then by reaching out and touching his hand. “Don’t ever hide the truth about someone you care about. Trust me, I know that way too well.”

  “But I am led to believe,” he continued, “that you find the kitsch of the ‘Ali Babba’ name as ridiculous as I do?”

  “I think it’s a bit degrading. I suppose it’s better that you didn’t call it ‘Aladdin’s’ or make a ‘1,001 Arabian Nights’ pun,” she replied, smirking.

  So the intrigue continues, does it not?

  “Do you have other questions for me?” he asked. “I can tell you about the specs for the restaurants and our chefs. I can talk about the amazing magicians and stage shows we’ve hired for the night entertainment. I can even tell you about the literal, arduous process of creating this skyscraper girder by girder.”

  He couldn’t keep the pride from creeping into his voice. No matter how risky this maneuver was or how much his father had frowned at the idea of going big with their next building venture, the resort and casino had been a complete labor of love for Amir. It was almost like his child, something he’d fought for in order to bring lovingly into existence. Considering he enjoyed his bachelor lifestyle, he figured this would be the closest thing to a legacy he’d leave on the world…assuming the casino survived and flourished the way he sincerely hoped it would.

  “I suppose you’ll have to tell me.”

  He frowned back at her, still intrigued by her utter lack of care. He’d dealt with reporters for years. It went hand in hand with being a royal and with his family’s vast financial holdings. He’d rarely met one who couldn’t fake enthusiasm or even politeness. Whatever else were true about Miss Sinclair, she had a serious stick up her bum, and he wasn’t sure where it had come from. Yet, her acerbic nature was refreshing, something that toyed with him.

  “We can keep talking about you. I have a feeling this isn’t the assignment you actually wanted at the Sentinel.”

  “I’m trying to be polite. I just…and don’t take this the wrong way,” she said.

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  “But this is a puff piece. I could be easily asking the same questions for Us Weekly or People. This is not at all my type of journalism. To be perfectly frank…” she started, biting her lower lip a little.

  “Why stop now?” he asked, chuckling.

  “Look, usually I’d be covering political news in America’s capital. This is a side diversion, so I really just have to type whatever gets the inches filled and record the right quotes tonight at the press conference. If you can just go through the spiel for my recorder, then we can both be closer to freedom.”

  He leaned lower and traced a finger over her shoulder, smoothing back her golden hair. “Of course, if that’s what you actually want, Miss Sinclair. We can go by the book…but perhaps one day you should learn to hide your disdain for the assignment you’re currently on. It’ll get your subjects to open up more,” he said, leaning so close that his lips were hovering over her left ear. “I’d open up so much for you.”

  She stood up fast and swallowed hard. “I think I’ll just get what I need from your press secretary. I….until tonight at the press conference, Sheikh Bahan.”

  “Yes, we meet again, Miss Sinclair,” he finished, enjoying the view as she walked out of the office.

  Chapter Three

  It took almost fifteen minutes before Amanda felt her heart rate return to normal back in her hotel room. Surely what she thought had just happened hadn’t. It wasn’t unusual to be hit on while covering her beat. She sometimes spoke with mayors or even older senators and congressman on the Hill. Often it was just a wink in her direction. One eighty-year-old senator had even said he had a room permanently downtown at one of the premiere hotels. Still, this was different. His lips had been practically on her ear, even as he teased her about “opening up.”

  But the thing that made this encounter so distinct, what had her heart hammering like crazy, was that he wasn’t some crusty old senator or some lecherous mayor. Sheikh Amir Bahan was seductive—at close to six-foot-five, with eyes the color of amber and a neatly trimmed dark beard that highlighted his sharp cheekbones, he was pure sex incarnate. He had her thinking thoughts that she’d been too busy to even think about in the last six months. Her poor battery-operated boyfriend had long ago been shoved into a drawer and forgotten about. Her six-month-long investigation of Senator Jackson’s corruption had consumed her. She’d been all business, all the time.

  But now, maybe Margery’s and Harris’s words were influencing her. She’d have to wait out the next six months or so in journalistic purgatory. Currently, she was still reaching out to gather more sources, and as soon as she was back in DC (whenever that would be), Amanda would be finding every extra witness she could wrangle into helping her build an even bigger, more solid case against the senator. However, right now, she’d be in Abu Dhabi for the next two weeks or more, covering the ins and outs of the casino’s opening. Maybe it would be okay to let herself relax for just a few days, to let herself give in to her own urges and needs. Who knew if she’d even interpreted the Sheikh’s overtures correctly?

  God, what did she know?

  Maybe Sheikh Bahan was like that with every woman. His reputation certainly preceded him. It was quite possible that Amanda was reading things that weren’t there, seeing hints of attraction that were only in her addled and exhausted mind. So he’d swept her hair over her shoulder—so what? He’d whispered in her ear and smirked down at her with that delicio
us, crooked smile of his. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. It could be no more than his default temperament. And then there was the fact that it would be nuts. He was a sheikh—royalty and a man worth billions—and she was just the reporter with two big hips who was covering him for a fortnight.

  She just needed rest. Besides, the press conference was going to start in less than eight hours, and she still had to prep for a teaser piece to go out before tomorrow’s news conference roundup. Amanda still had to go over everything she needed with his secretary beforehand. She didn’t have time for fantasies brought on by far too much deprivation.

  But maybe she did have time for some mindless white noise.

  As she flipped the TV on, she grimaced when CNN came on first. Granted, as a newshound, she needed to stay on top of what was happening, but she’d also been on an international flight, exhausted from travel, and was just now trying to get her head in the game to write her next piece. As she looked up, though, her stomach scrunched up and bile rose in her throat. It was a flash of a headline from El Salvador, where two dozen people were killed in a cartel shootout.

  It all leads back to Jackson, damn it.

  So much for getting work done immediately. She needed to get to the scotch and blot out her guilt. None of this would be happening if she’d stuck to her guns, just like her mother would have done. As long as she stayed silent, those people and all the machinations in Central America were on her mind. Pouring the scotch into her first tumbler, she took a quick shot, letting the amber liquid burn its way down her throat.

  God that felt good. Hopefully it could take an edge off her guilt and give her just enough liquid courage to get through tonight.

  ***

  “And so,” he said, smiling as best he could for the assorted reporters, “that’s the basic presentation on our facilities. Do you have any questions?”

  His eyes drifted over the crowd of assorted and somewhat sleepy faces. He caught sight of those piercing blue eyes and that shiny mane of golden hair in the back of the room. Amir wasn’t sure why he needed so badly for her to come back. It was more than obvious that she was going to be here. After all, her paper had sent her to cover the full unveiling of the resort. Still, she hadn’t been there at the start, and now that he was staring back at her, he could see something different in her eyes. Instead of the disdain mixed with mirth from before, he saw eyes that seemed red and less sharply focused.