by Lucy Monroe
“Aaliyah,” she offered before her self-protection kicked in.
“Lovely.” He brushed the name tag again and, though it was solid plastic, she felt the touch as if it had been over bare skin. “Your parents are traditionalists.”
“Not exactly.” Liyah didn’t consider Hena’s decision to make an independent life for herself and her illegitimate daughter traditional.
Hena had simply wanted to give Liyah as many connections to the country of her mother’s birth as she could. Hena had also said she’d wanted to speak hope for her daughter’s life every time she used her name, which meant high exalted one.
It was another example of the deceased woman’s more romantic nature than that of her pragmatic daughter.
Liyah doubted very much if Gene Chatsfield had anything to do with naming her at all.
“Your accent is American,” Sayed observed.
“So is yours.”
He shrugged. “I was educated in America from the age of thirteen. I did not return to Zeena Sahra to live until I finished graduate school.”
She knew that. His older brother’s tragic death in a bomb meant for the melech had changed the course of Sayed’s life and his country’s future.
Further political unrest in surrounding countries and concerns for their only remaining son’s safety had pushed the melech and his queen to send Sayed to boarding school. It wasn’t exactly a state secret.
Nor was the fact that Sayed had opted to continue his education through a bachelor’s in world politics and a master’s in management, but having him offer the information made something strange flutter in Liyah’s belly.
Or maybe that was just his nearness.
The guest elevators at the Chatsfield were spacious by any definition, but the confined area felt small to Liyah.
“You’re not very western in your outlook,” she said, trying to ignore the unfamiliar desires and emotions roiling through her.
“I am the heart of Zeena Sahra. Should my people and their ways not be the center of mine?”
She didn’t like how much his answer touched her. To cover her reaction she waved her hand between the two of them and said, “This isn’t the way of Zeena Sahra.”
“You are so sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So you have studied my country.” He sounded way too happy about that possibility.
“Don’t take it personally.”
He laughed, the honest sound of genuine amusement more compelling than even the uninterrupted regard of the extremely handsome man. “You are not like other women.”
“You’re the emir.”
“You are saying other women are awed by me.”
She gave him a wry look and said dryly, “You’re not conceited at all, are you?”
“Is it conceit to recognize the truth?”
She shook her head. Even arrogant, she found this man irresistible and had the terrible suspicion he knew it, too.
Unsure how she got there, she felt the wall of the elevator at her back. Sayed’s body was so close his outer robes brushed her. Her breath came out on a shocked gasp.
He brushed her lower lip with his fingertip. “Your mouth is luscious.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Is it?” he asked, his head dipping toward hers.
“Yes.” Was this how it had begun with her mother and father? “I’m not part of amenities.”
No wonder Hena had spent so much effort warning Liyah against the seductions of men.
“I know.” His tone rang with sincerity.
“I don’t do elevator sex romps,” she clarified, just in case he didn’t get it.
Something flared in his dark gaze and Sayed stepped back, shaking his head. “I apologize, Miss Amari. I do not know what came over me.”
“I’m sure you’re used to women falling all over you,” she offered by way of an explanation.
He frowned. “Is that meant to be a sop to my ego or a slam against it?”
“Neither?”
He shook his head again, as if trying to clear it.
She wondered if it worked. She would be grateful for a technique that brought back her own usual way of thinking, unobscured by this unwelcome and unfamiliar desire.
She did not know what else he might have said or how she would have responded because the telephone inside the elevator car rang. She opened the panel the handset resided behind and answered it.
“Amari here.”
“Is the sheikh with you?” an unfamiliar voice demanded, and she wondered if Christos Giatrakos, the new CEO himself, had been called to deal with the highly unusual situation.
A shiver of apprehension skittered down her spine, until she realized that the tones had that quality that implied a certain age.
“Yes, the emir is here,” she forced out, realizing in kind of a shocked daze that she might well be speaking to her father for the first time.
“Put him on.”
“Yes, sir.”
She reached toward Sayed with the phone, the cord not quite long enough. “Mr. Chatsfield would like to speak with you.”
Sayed came closer and took the handset, careful not to touch her in the process.
She retreated to the other side of the elevator where she was forced to witness the one-sided conversation. Very little was actually said beyond the fact there was no problem and they would be arriving at the lobby level in a moment.
Even with her tendency to shut down, Liyah would have felt the need to explain herself, not so the emir of Zeena Sahra. If she had not witnessed his moment of shocked self-realization, she wouldn’t believe he was discomfited in the least by their situation.
True to his word, the elevator doors were opening on the lobby level seconds later. Both the emir’s personal bodyguard and Liyah’s father were waiting on their arrival.
The conspicuous absence of anyone else to witness their exit from the elevator said more than words would have what everyone thought had been happening in the stopped elevator.
Offended by assumptions about her character so far from reality, Liyah walked out with her head high, her expression giving nothing of her inner turmoil away.
Making no effort to set her boss’s mind at rest in regard to Liyah’s behavior, the emir barely acknowledged Gene Chatsfield before waving his bodyguard onto the elevator with an imperious “Come, Yusuf.”
“In my office,” her father said in frigid tones as the elevator doors swished to a close.
The following ten minutes were some of the most uncomfortable of Liyah’s life. Bad enough to be dressed down by the owner of the Chatsfield chain, but knowing the man was her father, as well, had intensified Liyah’s humiliation at the encounter.
The short duration of her time in the elevator with the sheikh and her obvious lack of being mussed had saved her from an even worse lecture. However, Liyah had been left in no doubt that she was never to ignore hotel policy of employees vacating the main elevators when guests entered again.
Definitely not the moment in which to make herself known to Gene Chatsfield as the daughter he’d never met.
*
Sayed woke from a very vivid dream, his sex engorged and his heart beating rapidly.
It was not surprising the dream had not been about his fiancée. He had known Tahira, the daughter of a neighboring sheikh, since their betrothal when she was a mere infant. He had been thirteen and on the brink of leaving for boarding school in the States.
His feelings toward her had not changed appreciably since then.
The uncomfortable but also unsurprising reality was that the dream had centered on the beautiful Aaliyah Amari he’d met his first day in London. And thought about incessantly since.
He’d seen her in passing twice, once before the elevator incident and once since then. Both times his attention had been inexorably drawn to Aaliyah, but she’d done her best to pretend ignorance of his presence on the most recent occasion.
Understandably.
>
Nevertheless, even after the briefest collision with her emerald-green gaze, electric shocks had gone straight to his instant erection. And he’d almost stumbled.
Him.
Accused of being made of ice more than once, his disturbing reaction to this woman who had no place in his life bothered Sayed more than he wanted to admit. The elevator incident was still firmly in the realm of the inexplicable, no matter how much he’d tried to understand his own actions in the matter.
Sheikhs did not pant after chambermaids, not even those with additional responsibility. Aaliyah was of the servant class. He was an emir. He could not even consider an affair with her if he were so inclined.
Regardless, while Sayed had not been celibate for his entire adult life, he had been for the past three years.
Once Tahira had reached the age of majority and their betrothal had been announced officially, his honor demanded he cease sexual intimacy with other women. No one else seemed to expect it of him, but Sayed didn’t live according to any viewpoint but his own.
However, his celibacy might well explain the intense and highly sexual dreams. Three years was a long time to go without for a thirty-six-year-old man who had been sexually active since his teens.
The knowledge that his sexual desert would end in a matter of weeks after he married Tahira gave him little comfort.
He could no more imagine taking the woman he still considered a girl, despite her twenty-four years, to bed than he could countenance giving in to his growing hunger for Aaliyah Amari.
CHAPTER THREE
LIYAH WATCHED HER father from the distance of the cavernous lobby.
If she wasn’t sneaking in unnecessary glimpses of the emir, Liyah was straining for yet another impression of Gene Chatsfield. It was ridiculous.
Unable to deal with her attraction to Sayed in any other way than to avoid direct contact, she was no closer to coming to terms with the reality of her father, either.
And she felt like a coward.
Hena Amari had always been vocal in her praise of what she considered her daughter’s intrepid and determined nature. Neither of which were at the forefront of Liyah’s actions right now.
She needed to get her first meeting with Gene Chatsfield over with. If for no other reason than to tell him of her mother’s death.
She sincerely doubted anyone else had done so. It wasn’t something that human resources would have mentioned to the owner of the entire hotel chain.
The Chatsfield San Francisco had sent a beautiful bouquet of purple irises to the funeral; however, these were probably organized by Stephanie Carter and that was no indication their proprietor knew of his chambermaid’s death.
Liyah watched as Gene stepped onto the elevator, no doubt headed to the penthouse-level suite he always occupied when he was in London.
The empty suite. Because his fiancée was out shopping and not expected back until after teatime.
Now would be the perfect time for Liyah to make herself known to him. Things with the hotel were running smoothly; there had been no further complications with the sheikh’s visit.
And what was Liyah doing here if it wasn’t to fulfill her mother’s final request?
Unlike her half sister Lucilla Chatsfield, Liyah didn’t want to make her career at the family hotel and certainly not simply to please her father. He hadn’t exactly been supportive of Lucilla’s career, his one child who had made it clear she was not only interested in the welfare of the hotels, but worked hard for the Chatsfield. Instead, her father had hired a man with a ruthless reputation and, if the rumors were true, Giatrakos was extending his own personal brand of punishment not only to Lucilla, but to the remaining Chatsfield siblings. The man was a dinosaur when it came to workplace ideals.
Besides, Liyah had no fantasies that Gene Chatsfield would publicly acknowledge her. Not after a lifetime of him not doing so.
Theirs would always have to be a private relationship. The Chatsfield name had spent enough time in the tabloids. Gene would never willingly be party to dragging it through the red ink of more media scrutiny.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in meeting his twenty-six-year-old daughter.
His payment of support, as modest as it had been, all the way through her college years indicated he felt something toward Liyah. If only obligation.
Just like her obligation to Hena’s memory.
Right. It was time.
Taking a breath to calm her suddenly racing heartbeat, Liyah untucked her mother’s locket from beneath her blouse. She’d worn it every day since Hena had given it to Liyah on her deathbed.
Curling her fingers around the metal warmed by her skin, Liyah took courage from the love and memories that it would always evoke and keyed the elevator for the penthouse level.
A few minutes later, Gene Chatsfield opened his suite’s door, holding a mobile phone against his chest and wearing a puzzled expression on his features. “Yes, Amari?”
Something cold slithered down her spine at her father’s use of her last name. But what else was he supposed to call her? He probably didn’t even know her first name.
That would change in the next hour.
Dismissing the inevitable nerves, Liyah schooled her features into her most comfortable mask of unruffled dignity. “Mr. Chatsfield, I would appreciate a few moments of your time.”
“If this is about your employment here, I have to tell you I trust my human resource and senior housekeeping staff implicitly. It’s no use you looking for special favors from the proprietor and, quite frankly, in very poor taste.”
“It’s nothing like that. Please, Mr. Chatsfield.”
For a moment, Gene Chatsfield looked torn. “Come in,” he said, “and sit down. I just need two minutes.” After the briefest of gestures to the sofa in the lounge area, Gene hovered in the doorway to the room beyond.
“I’m sick of it, Lucca.”
Faintly embarrassed and very uncomfortable to be present for such a clearly personal conversation between Gene and his son, Liyah looked around the room. Beside a large, comfortable chair was a side table that held a glass of what looked like whiskey and a newspaper. The headline screamed across the room. Lucca Chatsfield Does It Again!
What might have once been the amusing antics of a world-renowned playboy—a stranger to her—it now sickened her to know that these scandalous exploits were from her own flesh and blood. She had unfollowed @LuccaChatsfield, wanting no more distractions or information about her family.
“Just keep it off the internet, and for all our sakes, stay the hell away from Twitter,” Gene growled into the phone before cutting the call dead and turning his attention back to Liyah.
If anything, his frown turned more severe, clearly ready to tackle what he saw as another problem. “While I’m aware I must have a certain reputation among the chambermaids, my days of dallying in that direction are years in the past.”
Liyah couldn’t hide the revulsion even the thought of what he was implying caused. “That is not why I’m here.”
Inexplicably, he smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. My fiancée is a possessive woman.”
And he was a former lothario with a past he no doubt wanted to keep exactly where it was. Buried.
“You know, this was a bad idea. I’m sorry I bothered you.” She couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again, but she was leaning toward the idea that maybe…really, it wouldn’t.
No matter what Hena had wanted.
“Nonsense. You’ve interrupted my afternoon for a reason. Come in.” He stepped back and indicated with an imperious wave of his hand that she should enter.
“Are you sure you’re not the emir around here?” she muttered under her breath as she did as he bid.
Apparently, he heard her, because he laughed, the sound startled. “You are no shrinking violet, I’ll give you that, Amari.”
“My name is Aaliyah, though I usually go by Liyah.” It sounded more American, even if the spelling was pure Mi
ddle Eastern.
“We are not on a first-name basis,” he replied with a return to his superior, if wary, demeanor of earlier.
She nodded acknowledgment even if she couldn’t give verbal agreement. He was her father; they should be on a first-name basis.
He led her into a posh living room with cream furniture, the walls the same saffron as a great deal of the hotel. Recessed lighting glowed down from the arched ceiling and a fire burned in the ornate white marble fireplace.
“Please, sit down.” He indicated one of the armchairs near the fire before taking the one opposite.
She settled into the chair, her hands fisting against her skirt-covered thighs nervously. “I’m not sure how to start.”
“The beginning is usually the best place.”
She nodded and then had a thought. Taking the locket from around her throat she handed it to him.
“This is a lovely, antique piece of jewelry. Are you hoping to sell it?” he asked, sounding confused rather than offended by that prospect.
“No. Please open it and look at the pictures inside.” One was of Liyah on her sixteenth birthday and the other was of Hena Amari at the same age.
She wouldn’t have looked appreciably different at eighteen, the age she was when she had her short affair with Gene Chatsfield.
He looked at the pictures, his puzzled brow not smoothing. “You were a lovely girl and your sister, as well, but I’m not sure what else I’m looking at.”
“The other woman isn’t my sister. She was my mother.”
He looked up then. “She’s dead?”
Liyah nodded, holding back emotion that was still too raw.
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. She didn’t tell me about you until just before she died.”
He frowned, his expression growing less confused and more cautious. “Perhaps you should tell me who she is and why she would presumably have told you about me.”
“You don’t recognize her?” Even after having time to really look at the picture?
It was small, but the likeness was a good one.
“No.”
“That’s…” She wanted to say obscene, but stopped herself. “Disappointing.”