LUCA - Her Ruthless Don (Ruthless and Obsessed Duet, Book 1): 50 Loving States, New York, Pt. 2 (Ruthless Tycoons 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  Less than an hour later, I’m back at the palace. Customs? Security checks? A double escalator dilemma? Nerp, not this time. The black suits throw a single nod at the custom officials who questioned me thoroughly earlier in the day, then I’m escorted into a dark Mercedes sedan that peels out of the airport going about 80 miles an hour. We barely slow when we get to the Jahwar collection of palaces. And the car doesn’t come to a full stop until we pull around to the back of Zahir’s palace. At the top of a set of sandstone steps, I see two jumpsuits flanking each side of a twenty-foot high set of arch doors, like they’ve been waiting for us.

  The elite guard sitting in the back of the sedan with me jumps out and holds the car door open.

  “Right this way, please,” he says in nearly accent-free English.

  I step out with a careful, “Uh…thanks.”

  The guards still haven’t answered any of my many, many questions from “Where are you taking me?” to “C’mon, level with me guys, am I in serious trouble here?”

  But they seem to be a lot more deferential now that they’re not overseeing a teary goodbye between me and my sisters who I made get on the plane without me. They’re only eighteen, with their whole lives in front of them, and the last thing I want is for them to get caught up in the mess I seem to have made by daring to kiss Zahir.

  The two jumpsuits at the top of the sandstone steps hold the door open for us and give me solemn nods as we pass through. “Hey,” I say to them with a wincing smile, not sure how else to respond. Things I’d never considered before tonight: should you act cool on the way to a possible execution or just completely freak the hell out?

  “Right this way,” an elite guard says before I can give the question much thought. He directs me to an elevator that is much smaller than the one I saw at the front of the palace. But it’s plated with what looks like solid gold, so I’m guessing it’s a lot more VIP than the one in front despite its smaller size.

  “One more question,” I ask the two guards who get into elevator with me. “Am I about to die? Are you taking me to some kind of execution room?”

  Maybe because they’ve got me trapped, one of the black suits gives me a polite nod before answering, “We’re taking you to the sheikh’s office.”

  Oh, so now I’m invited to the office, I think, but don’t say out loud. Because even a big mouth like me recognizes this situation is bad. Very, very bad.

  I’m in a foreign country with a legal code I don’t understand—though I do clearly remember a law class that covered Americans getting in trouble in the UAK that basically ended with: you have no rights when you’re in the UAK, no matter how “fun and modern” it might look on travel sites.

  I have no rights here, and I have no idea how to get myself out of this.

  The furious flash of Zahir’s eyes after I pulled away from him hits me anew. And I realize, somewhat belatedly, that the guard answered my second question, but not the first. The one about whether I’m about to die…

  The elevator whispers open on that ominous thought. And after a trip down a couple of wide hallways lined with portraits of male royals dressed in everything from silk robes to white kanduras to military uniforms, we come to another set of arched double doors flanked on either side by a black jumpsuit.

  “Thanks,” I say again when one of the jumpsuits opens the door with a polite nod.

  But as soon as I walk through, instead of my escort following me through to the office, the door closes behind me. Leaving me alone with…

  “Holt!” I say, my eyes widening when I find my best friend’s husband, still dressed in his wedding tuxedo and sitting on the edge of a dark, intricately carved desk.

  “Prin,” he says, coming to a full stand. He doesn’t sound or look happy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s what I kept asking myself while I was waiting for you to arrive,” he answers. “One minute, I’m talking to Sylvie about the logistics of our sailing trip to Jamaica with the boys, and the next, I’ve been called in here to consult on an international incident.”

  “International incident,” I repeat. “It was just a kiss!”

  Holt rubs his nose as if he’s been locked in a room with an idiot. “Sylvie and I both understand you had work to do and couldn’t come before today…but if you had arrived yesterday as opposed to this afternoon, you would have been at the wedding orientation where we went over all of this. Touching between unmarried people is illegal here. That means kissing is illegal. Prin, you’ve done something illegal to the King of Jahwar. Something that was filmed and leaked to both English and Arabic news sources, and now everyone knows it. What could you have possibly been thinking?”

  “Obviously, I wasn’t thinking,” I answer miserably. “He just made me mad. I wanted to punch him, but I kissed him instead, so his guards wouldn’t, like, you know, shoot me.”

  “You kissed him instead,” Holt repeats, his voice flat with disbelief. “In public where everyone could see.”

  I blink at his tone, but every defense I can come up with sounds incredibly stupid. Yes, I kissed him instead because he was being such an asshole…and he pissed me off…and he made me feel like scum beneath his shoe…this is all his fault.

  God, I wish I could say that last one. But it isn’t his fault. My Jersey got away from me. Again. And this time, I hadn’t just flipped somebody off. I’d caused an international incident and possibly ruined my best friend’s wedding night.

  I don’t just remember what Zahir said about me ruining everything just like my father, I feel his words in my bones. As if I am a toxic mess that keeps unintentionally hurting the people I love most.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Holt. “You’re right. This is my fault. Please don’t let this ruin your wedding night or your post-wedding trip with the boys. Leave me here. I’m a big girl and a lawyer now. I can deal with this on my own.”

  “Damn, I was afraid you’d say that,” Holt answers with a heavy sigh. “Now I have to stay.”

  “No, Holt, don’t…it’s your wedding night—!” I begin.

  But he cuts me off with a brisk, “Since you have no male relatives here, Muslim or Christian, I’ll be acting as your wali…that’s kind of like a male go-between who can negotiate terms between you and another party as we try to figure out what to do about that kiss…”

  He lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head at me. “You do understand that you have put Zahir in a very bad position, right?”

  “Yes, I do…” I answer soberly, right before I grumble, “…especially now that it’s all over the news.”

  Holt shoots me an annoyed look, but before he can say anything about my attitude, I return to earnest mode, adding, “And I’m more than ready to make a public apology or walk through the streets naked and let people throw rotten eggs at me like I’m Cersei Lannister. Whatever it takes.”

  “Sorry, but this is going to take more than a public apology or an act of contrition,” Holt says, grabbing a manila folder off the desk. “Kissing is hugely taboo in this kingdom. Punching Zahir would have ended with your hand cut off, by the way, but kissing him…there’s no way for him to explain that. If he tells the truth about you attacking him, then he looks weak, which is the last thing he needs his people to think of him while he’s trying to brand himself as a king who will lead Jahwar into the future better than his father did…”

  “Okay, I get it. I get it,” I say, cringing at the thought of how badly I’ve messed everything up for everyone. “An apology isn’t enough. Got it. So again, what can I do to fix this? Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

  Holt levels me the kind of frank look I imagine he usually reserves for the boardroom, not one-on-one conversations with his new wife’s best friend. Then he hands me the manila folder.

  I open the folder and find three sheets of paper inside. It’s a contract, I realize immediately, though it’s written in super simple English without many of the complicated legalese I’ve become used to after
typing up first drafts at Liederman-Frankel for two months, and during three years of law school before that. But I begin to doubt the strength of my own legal knowledge as I skim the three pages…because I just know this cannot possibly be what I think it is…

  “Is this some kind of back dated temporary marriage contract?” I ask Holt, my brow furrowing in confusion. “Like, I’m supposed to marry Zahir for six months exactly, ending in an automatic divorce… and that marriage can only be voided before six months if he gets engaged to a Muslim woman?”

  I feel sure I’m mistaken, but Holt nods as if I’ve hit the nail right on the head. “Yeah, it looks like the only way out of this is for you is to agree to marry Zahir. The concept of temporary marriage is a very controversial one among Jahwar’s seventy-percent Muslim population, but…”

  He goes on to explain how the Jahwar royals have used temporary marriages to do everything from making wartime alliances to taking on illicit lovers and sealing business deals. From what Holt’s been told, it had almost been a royal tradition pretty much all the way up until the 80s when Zahir’s father decided to give Jahwar a cosmopolitan makeover. And he finishes with, “Though this is for all intents and purposes a fake marriage that we’ll back-date to minimize the scandal, you’ll need to stay here in Jahwar for the duration of the contract’s six-month term. And of course, Zahir will need you to sign both the English and Arabic versions of this contract. Any questions?”

  I blink, so confused. But then I have to point out, “There’s nothing in here about sex…Will I have to…I mean, does he expect us to…”

  Holt shifts uncomfortably. “The reason it’s not in the marriage contract is because technically it’s against the law for a wife to deny her husband sex here. But Zahir isn’t a monster and this marriage is only for show. I’m sure he won’t expect you to do anything but wait out your six months.”

  I bite my lip, not feeling quite as confident as Holt because I remember what I felt during the kiss…

  Possibly mistaking the look on my face for something else, Holt leans forward to say, “Look, Prin, I know it’s six months of your life, but honestly there are worse ways to spend half a year. Zahir will keep you in the lap of luxury while you’re here. There’s 24/7 maid and food service. Prin, I can’t even imagine a better place to study for the bar. I’ve already talked to Sylvie about all of this, and we’ll check in on the twins—they can even come live with us after their school year’s done if they want. Plus, I’ll make a few calls for you when you get back to the States, so that you can find another job. Six months won’t ruin your life. I promise.”

  Ruin…

  Strange how much that word has come up today.

  “So, what do you say? Will you sign the contract?” Holt asks.

  I think about Holt’s question and I think about it some more. Then I say, “Okay, but I have a condition. He has to let the twins out of their contract with Majesty Records.”

  Holt stares at me shocked, then he all but yells, “Seriously, Prin? He’s only in this mess because of you and now you’re putting conditions on how to get him out of it.”

  “No, I’m not kidding,” I answer, drawing myself up to my full height, even though I changed out of the bridesmaid’s dress and am no longer in heels. “I’m all the twins have. If I don’t look out for them, no one will.”

  I say my piece and then cross my arms over my chest, letting Holt know I’m not going to budge…

  He stares at me for a few more irritated seconds, then grumbles, “Hold on…”

  I watch him go not toward the doors I came in, but to a single unassuming door on the back wall of the office. He knocks once, then walks through, closing it behind him.

  This place must have some pretty major sound insulation, because I don’t hear a word from what the inner office, even when I press my ear to the door. In some ways the silence is more eerie than raised voices or shouting would be. Kind of like Zahir, I think, remembering how he watched me with cool eyes as I fumbled to explain why he should let the twins out of their contract.

  Holt is gone for a long time. Long enough for me to explore the office which, like Jahwar, is a mix of traditional and ultra-modern furniture and art. But two items catch my eye. One is an old, black ink-line drawing on parchment. A plaque beneath proclaims it a rendering of the Kingdom of Jahwar in 1752…well before the discovery of oil in the region. To me, Old Jahwar looks like a tent city, with camels and donkeys moving through the narrow streets instead of cars.

  I then turn to a portrait hanging beside the line drawing. It’s a hyper-realistic rendering of Jahwar’s futuristic skyline with nothing but the multiple palace domes and a couple of mosques indicating it’s a Middle Eastern city. The painting is signed by a modern artist whose name I recognize from my mandatory Art History classes at Beaumont. And I wonder if this could be a private commission, one that only those who step foot in this office have seen.

  After my self-directed tour, I end up plopping onto a leather couch and soon my eyes start drooping. Between the jet lag and all the high-octane interactions I’ve had since I arrived, I’m all the way wiped out.

  I fall into a dark, dreamless sleep, until eventually, a hand shakes me awake.

  It’s Holt…and he’s laid a dress bag over the couch.

  Twenty minutes after I make an inner palace phone call to Sylvie, assuring her I’m okay, I am standing next to Holt in a long white dress. This wedding gown, much like the bridesmaid’s dress I wore earlier, is conservative in cut but has an additional poetic touch of bell sleeves. Which gives me something to fidget with as several grave-faced men I have never met file into the room through the small inner office door.

  By the time Zahir and his personal detail come through, I’m super tempted to break up all tension with an inappropriate joke like, “Two weddings in one day! Crazy, right?!”

  But sensing that even the lightest of jokes wouldn’t be tolerated by this crowd, I fall back on my old head bowed, eyes lowered “Doing Business in Jahwar” routine.

  Holt introduces only two of the men. One is older and wears a rounded cap—it’s the cleric who will perform our wedding. The other is Rashid Zaman, one of Zahir’s many cousins who attended Beaumont at the same time as Holt—four years before Sylvie and me.

  Rashid greets me with a polite nod. “I believe you met my daughter, Aisha, earlier,” he says, his eyes soft with affection.

  “Oh, yes, she is funny and very sweet,” I reply, though meeting the little girl with the reality-show-loving former nanny feels like a million years ago now.

  An awkward silence falls over the room as soon as Rashid and I stop speaking…and as if to segue out of it, the cleric begins speaking in Arabic.

  I don’t realize the ceremony has actually begun until Zahir, who is now dressed in a white suit, comes to stand beside me and starts repeating after the cleric. I am asked to repeat a few things in Arabic, too. I do my best, and I guess it’s good enough for the small gathering, because fifteen minutes and a quick contract signing later, it’s all done. The cleric bows to Zahir without smiling, then leaves through the official doubles doors with the rest of the men and Aisha’s father.

  Holt congratulates me, but I notice unlike in America, he’s careful not to touch me. No hug, not even a handshake, and I sense another Jahwar rule in play, even though that ceremony couldn’t have lasted fifteen minutes.

  “As your wali, you’re allowed to occasionally check in with me. You’ll be given a phone to call me whenever you need,” Holt says, keeping his voice low. “And you can call me, for any reason—even if you just want me to hand the phone to Sylvie.”

  I give him a half smile. “Thanks,” I say. “This responsible husband and father thing is a good look on you, and you’re not nearly as big an asshole as I thought you were when we first met.”

  Holt winces.

  “Let me guess…no cursing in Jahwar.”

  “Definitely not. It’s not considered respectful, especially in front
of royalty,” Holt answers. “I know that’s going be hard for you…”

  “Yep…” I agree.

  We exchange a few more words, but then it is way past time for Holt to get back to his new bride and children. And even though I get the sense that I can’t do it…I feel oddly compelled to hug him. After all, he’s my last touchstone to America. And as I watch him leave, I feel for the first time since I was pulled out of the airport, that this is truly real.

  The door closes behind Holt and I am alone with Zahir. In his office. Just like I wanted. Hours ago.

  Taking a deep breath, I turn and face him. For the first time as husband and wife, though we’ve yet to touch…or even so much as look each other in the eyes during the ceremony.

  “Hi,” I say.

  He regards me for a long time, and I swear I can feel the disdain coming off him in waves as he decides not to answer.

  “I’m…sorry,” I say. The words feel incredibly lame on my tongue. Inefficient and not nearly enough. “I didn’t know kissing was such a big deal here, and I know that’s no excuse. But I should not have let my temper get away from me like that. I never would have kissed you if I’d had any clue about the consequences.”

  Still nothing. So I keep going. “Anyway, that’s my apology and I’m going to stay out of your way for the next six months. No more kiss bombs, I swear.”

  I try to muster up a jokey smile to go along with my promise, but it’s kind of hard to do under his expressionless stare. I shift uncomfortably, wondering if I should leave since he’s not responding to anything I say.

  But then he says, “The only reason you are apologizing to me is because your childish actions blew up in both our faces. You are not truly sorry. You are, in fact, a brat who has somehow managed to extract from me with her kiss and subsequent contract negotiation what she wanted all along.”

  Not for the first time, I wonder how I could have ever mistaken this man for Asir. Even in the dark, Asir’s voice is warm brandy and honey. Zahir’s is a cold desert night without any shelter in sight.