Sheikh's Hired Mistress

by Sophia Lynn

  Sheikh's Hired Mistress

  By: Sophia Lynn, Ella Brooke

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright 2015-2016 Sophia Lynn

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  ANOTHER STORY YOU MAY ENJOY

  Sheikh's Possession

  Chapter One

  Laine’s eyes narrowed into thin slits and fixed on the temp.

  His eyes went wide as plates. The clock ticked. A tumbleweed may have passed by.

  He set his notepad down on Laine’s desk and picked up the phone. “Brandt Interiors,” he half-sang, “This is Jacob speaking. How may I direct your call?”

  Laine smiled victoriously and looked back to her computer screen. She had a lot of work to complete on this account before going home for the night. Convincing the Madisons that they needed to redo their den as well as all of their bathrooms—and that she was the only decorator in the state (and especially the only one at Brandt Interiors) they should even consider—had put her schedule back a few days, but it would be worth it. The commission on this account was going to be astronomical. Mr. Brandt had a tendency of overlooking her work or handing her assignments over to more senior (and more male) employees, but once he saw what she’d done here, turning a bathroom remodel into a whole home project, he would have to notice her. A raise and preferential leads couldn’t be far behind.

  Jacob tried to hand her the phone, but she cut him off with a wagging finger.

  “It’s your sister.”

  She met his eye, sucked in her cheeks, and then went back to work.

  “She’ll have to get back to you,” Jacob said. He rolled his eyes after taking a message and then reclaimed his notepad before returning to his business.

  If Laine had a second to breathe, she might have felt guilty for blowing off her baby sister Emma. But Emma’s already-bustling acting career had taken off in the past year, and she rarely made time for Laine and their father. No doubt Emma was between takes or photoshoots or fabulous lunches with beautiful people. She could wait a few hours for Laine to take a break.

  Laine had been hired at Brandt Interiors directly after her graduation from Parsons four years ago. Ever since, her life had been patterns, swatches, and haggling with suppliers. It was just how she liked it, aside from having to scavenge for recognition among less-talented associates. It didn’t leave much time for those rare creatures known as weekends and vacations, though. Laine only took time off to go visit her father, who lived alone upstate. Laine called him almost every day. He was about as good at making social ties as Laine was. Emma had tried to play matchmaker for him throughout her high school years, but it had come to nothing. Greg McConnell had always been a one-woman man.

  “Hiii-eee!” Emma sang from the doorway, rapping her knuckles up and down the frame.

  Laine very nearly spit out her coffee. “Em? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a set somewhere in Hollywood?”

  “If you’d answer my calls, you’d know that we’re doing some filming here in NYC!” Emma bounded behind Laine’s swivel chair and mussed her carefully arranged hair. “Take a break! How often do you get to see your baby sister?”

  “Maybe more often, if you’d come home for holidays,” Laine drawled, swiveling back to her computer. “I’m glad you’re in town. I just got a pretty decent couch—”

  Emma laughed. “Oh, no. I stay in a hotel, sweetie.”

  Laine sucked in her cheeks.

  Emma leaned on the back of Laine’s chair. “Come out with me tonight! The whole cast is going to this totally swank party. It’s gonna be insane!”

  “What part of ‘insane party’ says Laine McConnell to you?” Laine finished up an e-mail to a distributer. “I’m strictly business casual. If you have a function where I can wine and dine some prospective clients, give me a call.”

  Emma shook Laine’s shoulders and leaned on the edge of her desk.

  “Be careful of those papers!”

  “You’ve gotta start living your life, Lainey.” Emma threw her hands out emphatically. “There’s so much more out there than work.”

  “I like work,” Laine argued. “You don’t move up if you don’t put in the hours. You like your work.”

  “I’m an actress. I get to play pretend for money.” Emma hopped onto the desk and swung her legs. “Seriously. Come with me. I’ll introduce you to my hot costars.”

  “Mmm. Empty-headed man candy. What more could I ask for?”

  Emma swung down to block Laine’s screen. “Give the empty-headed men a chance! Or at least, dance with them and enjoy some top notch hors d’oeuvres and champagne.”

  Laine sat back in her chair and watched her lovely sister flashing the smile that had been earning her the big bucks since her first national ad selling chewing gum. Emma could be infuriating. Every move had an infusion of well-practiced grace. Laine could still see Emma prancing around as a little girl in their mom’s heels. Laine, on the other hand, had neither been born with grace nor felt compelled to practice it. Her style was a very distinct business-chic, with sensible but stylish heels, which she rarely deviated from in public. She only could imagine herself dolled up Emma-style among all the glitterati at this party. She would feel like a stork parading around in a slutty dress.

  It was, however, tremendously hard to tell her baby sister no.

  “What do I have to do to convince you to let me finish my work?” she asked.

  “Promise to let me dress you up and drag you to this party. At least for, like, two hours.”

  “One hour. You get me in your world for one hour, and then you have to come home with me and eat Thai food and binge watch something while I design a new wallpaper pattern on my laptop.”

  “Your life is a corpse, Lainey.” Emma laughed. She squeezed Laine’s shoulder. “I’ll text you my room number.”

  “Can’t wait.” Laine focused back on her screen.

  She was going to have to get these orders out in the next hour. She pushed a hand through her hair. Emma would want to do something ridiculous with that, too. Laine would have to keep her from dousing it with glitter or dying it. It was a dark-chestnut, like their mother’s, apart from the shock of stubborn white hair growing from the front edge of her hairline; it had been there since she was twelve. She let it fall over her forehead, as it always did. It helped to cover the scar.

  Laine muttered as she corrected the color codes for the bathroom palettes, “Got your work cut out for you with this party, sis. I’d rather fill out purchasing forms…”

  ***

  Just as Laine had expected, waiting at Emma’s apartment were a wall of low-cut evening dresses and a personal dresser to paint and coif Laine until she was so annoyed that despite her natural inclinations, she was about to tell her baby sister to bug off. But at the end of it all, there Laine stood, in all her five-feet-nine-inch glory, with four-inch heels (she’d lost the battle on those, in spite of her complaint that men didn’t want a woman towering over them), in a flowy blue and purple dress that looked like someone had woven it from a pile of soft scarves. The hem was a bit high, and the cut emphasized every curve she could boast of, but Laine had a hard time complaining
about the look. She’d certainly never worn anything so sensual before.

  “They made that one for my costar in Magnifique.” Emma touched Laine’s hair carefully, so as not to disturb the artistry that had gone into transforming her daily up-do. They’d left strands around her face along with her lock of white hair, with the full effect softening Laine’s usual in-charge look.

  “Magnifique?” Laine turned to stare at Emma. “Wasn’t your costar a drag queen?”

  Emma laughed and took Laine’s arm as they walked up to the high-rise where the party was being held.

  “Remember, it’s a Nihayat Alhaya,” Emma said.

  “Do what now?”

  “That’s the designer of your dress. People will ask.”

  Laine rolled her eyes. It was unlikely any paparazzi were going to be catching any candid photos of her. Not with Emma grabbing their attention.

  The party was so many floors up that Laine lost count of how many the elevator had whooshed past. It was like they were going up into the heavens themselves. She wondered, briefly, if they were late, since there was no one else on the elevator, but Emma seemed unconcerned. She just pulled out her compact and checked her makeup. Laine took some deep breaths and tried to be patient. If only this were a business situation. She could work it there, in her best Ralph Lauren and a nice scarf—she loved scarves—and a room full of marks. Laine never walked away from an event like that without at least two or three leads.

  Don’t think about all the important people at this party, she told herself. Don’t think about all the people who want to see the stars, not the decorators of the stars. You’ll be home by ten with takeout and a pint of ice cream with some kind of ribbon running through it. Caramel, maybe fudge.

  Emma flashed Laine a grin when the elevator stopped and led the way into the lobby. People stood in scattered groups, holding glasses of champagne aloft and occasionally taking some small morsel from the trays being passed around by white-suited waiters. Laine scanned the crowd and filched a skewer of shrimp wrapped in bacon as the waiter whizzed by.

  “Where to, Golden Globe?” she asked.

  Emma pulled Laine along into the penthouse apartment, which was more like an airplane hangar than an apartment, really. There were only a few pieces of furniture scattered around; instead flat screen televisions mounted on the walls played music and depicted amorphous figures dancing. No one at the party was dancing, but the screens gave the image of movement. It seemed like a waste to Laine. She supposed, though, that people were really here to be seen.

  While Emma buzzed from person to person, Laine lifted her eyes from the people to the vaulted ceiling structure and the art pieces hung on the walls. She mentally took notes. She assessed the conversations around her for an in to shift the topic toward design, or at least art. She looked down at the wood floors (hardwood, but not of a quality that would endure a lot of heavy wear and tear). A normal person might be scanning the crowd for favorite actresses and actors, but Laine didn’t spend much time thinking about the shows playing in the background of her work in the evenings. After hovering on the edges of conversations for what felt like an eternity, Laine drifted from her sister toward a tall, strange silver sculpture. She couldn’t tell whether it was supposed to be someone flying or something more risqué.

  Laine turned suddenly as she sensed someone behind her. Her eyes lit immediately on a thick, luxuriant head of black hair. The man the hair belonged to rose to his full towering height, six-four if he was an inch, and he grinned. A quick, wide, and easy grin that spread across his sun-kissed bronze cheeks and sucked the air from Laine’s lungs and set her skin prickling.

  “You are wearing me, I think,” the man said.

  Chapter Two

  “I, um, what?” Laine boggled at the impossibly handsome man standing before her.

  “Your dress?” he added.

  Laine looked down and smoothed her hands down her thighs. “Oh, it’s a Ni…Niya—”

  “Nihayat Alhaya. I own the company. I know the artist who created this one. Though they shortened the hem a bit.” He lifted one brow pointedly.

  “Well, I guess I have to thank you for making something nice for us tall girls.”

  He gestured with one hand. “It fits you very well. It is like Niha made it for you.”

  “I…Thank you.”

  Now that she was looking more closely at him, he was a bit of a work of art himself. His jawline was wide and chiseled, and it was lined by a neatly-trimmed light beard. But his eyes were what drew her in. A warm, hazel-green, they seemed to laugh at her astonishment, and they were framed by two dark, winged brows.

  “Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. I am Aziz bin Mohammad bin Ali al Amirmoez.” He gave a slight bow.

  “Oh.” Laine nodded slowly. “I’m Laine McConnell.”

  Aziz’s brows raised and his eyes widened. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “It is my pleasure. When I spotted you here wearing Niha's dress, I could not help but come examine your beauty.”

  Laine blinked. Was he serious?

  “You were examining this sculpture, yes?” Aziz looked up at it and stepped beside her. “Do you like it?”

  Laine tilted her head. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I could definitely sell it to a client for a sitting room piece, but I might not feel good about doing so.”

  “It is evocative. The point very of art.” Aziz turned from the sculpture to look at her once again. “Like a beautiful woman. It provokes.”

  Laine laughed. His voice was warm and lilting, with a pronounced but intelligible accent. It was comforting. But she couldn’t believe that he believed what he was saying. He had the ease of a man who could get dozens of women on his arm simply by holding it out.

  “You are so lovely...” he said in a near-whisper and lifted his hand to the hair falling in her eyes. “You’re like a rose that has bloomed both red and white. The ones they call tigers?”

  Laine pulled away. “I should get back to my sister.”

  “You should spend the night with me.”

  Laine gaped at his grin and sputtered.

  “Ah, I misspoke. I mean that you should keep me company at this party. It’s a bit dull, isn’t it? I think you think so, or you wouldn’t be observing this sculpture.” He stepped closer, causing her to look up and swallow. “Let me make your night interesting. Let me provoke you, Laine.”

  Laine hesitated. She could still sense his presence. It was as though the warmth of his golden skin projected from him like another self that further pressed into her personal space. Normally, she would want to step away from it, to keep her space her own, but in sensing him, she almost felt owned by him. He’d already claimed her. All she had to do was accept.

  But that was silly, of course. He was just a man. A ruthlessly handsome man, and one clearly accustomed to getting his way with women. It would be just like her to stubbornly refuse such a request.

  “I don’t know if the party is dull, or I’m too dull to appreciate all the celebrities here.” Laine turned and pointed to her sister. “That’s my little sister. She’s the star of the family. She had three movies come out this year.”

  “Ah.” Aziz nodded. “My family is accomplished as well, or most of them are.”

  Aziz then proceeded to regale her in great detail about the accomplishments of all of his family members, who were, by the way, obscenely rich and powerful. Meaning that he, too, was obscenely rich and powerful. A sheikh. Laine tried to keep herself from imagining a white drape over his head as he continued on about the properties both physical and corporate that were under his ownership.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” Laine asked.

  “I have been visiting the city. I was told by a friend that this party would keep us entertained for the evening.” Aziz leaned over to whisper in her ear. “He lied.”

  “Well, I’d hate to disappoint a sheikh. Maybe we can find something to intrigue us here,” Laine suggested.

>   Aziz looked around, with a mischievous glint in his eye. He held up a finger and nodded, then walked away quickly. Laine stood there, waiting as he slipped through the crowd. She thought for a moment that Aziz would find another woman with an eye-catching dress and be pulled in that direction. Every move he made seemed well-rehearsed. He’d seduced a woman or two in his time.

  He would probably be a better match for Emma, to be honest. Hedonism wasn’t exactly Laine’s forte.

  Laine looked up at the nearest screen on the wall. It had gone black and flickered to a screensaver of a doodle bouncing around. The music had stopped. For a moment, the party guests milled around discontentedly, but then new music began—a funky brass-led tango wafting out over the speaker system.

  Aziz returned and took her hand.

  At once they were in the middle of the floor, his hand in hers as he swept her in circles. Their dance moves didn’t quite add up to a tango, but that was fine. Laine didn’t know how to tango. She did know that the feeling in her chest—the light, breathless, and joyful feeling—was one she hadn’t experienced in years.

  He’s a player. He knows how to do this to women, she told herself. But then he gave her a dip, and a twirl, and then pulled her close to his broad, warm chest, and her reservations evaporated.

  “Everyone is looking,” she said, turning her head out to face the party.

  Aziz caught her chin with two fingers. “As they should. There is nothing else worth looking at.”

  Laine’s heart sped up in her chest. Was it from the adrenaline of being in the spotlight? Was it being so close to Aziz? She couldn’t tell, but she liked it. The rush of feeling surged through her like a wave, and suddenly she was rising onto her toes, clutching the sides of Aziz’s face, and pressing a kiss to his full lips. The scruff of his light beard brushed against her chin as she kissed him, and his palm clutched possessively against her back. Laine shuddered.

  “A…Aziz,” she muttered. The music had stopped without her noticing, and the two of them stood there, pressed against one another. The air around them seemed to vibrate.