The Sheikh's Secret Love Child (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise Book 2)

by Holly Rayner

  “I’ll be there, Ahmed,” she said.

  “You will? Very good! Very good. We look forward to seeing you this evening, Miss Springfield. Goodbye.”

  And the call was ended. It didn’t escape Morgan’s attention that Ahmed had originally said she would be meeting with him, but said “we” at the end of the call, implying that she would be meeting with a group. Eleven at night was late for a meet up, though Morgan assumed that it might perhaps be a cultural thing.

  Regardless, the man had to be rich if he wanted to meet her at Abu Nawas, and Morgan was ready to watch her bank account grow again.

  ***

  Heading back home, she kicked off her shoes and ate a small bag of chips before opening up her files and preparing a fresh document for her new client.

  All that was left to do was wait, and then she would be making money again.

  After writing up a few pages for her file, Morgan placed it in a black briefcase and opened up her laptop ready to do some research. She liked to see what she could find on people prior to meeting with them—even the ones not willing to provide a last name.

  There were several reasons why a person might not want to give their name over the phone. Once, when she was still with the police, Morgan had answered a call from a big-name celebrity who was being stalked at her hotel, and who had wanted to remain anonymous to avoid the press. Fortunately, Morgan had been able to apprehend the perpetrator quietly and without hassle. That is, until someone placed a call to the paparazzi and had them swarming the hotel, exactly like the person didn’t want. Later that week, Morgan had gritted her teeth as Brett strolled in with a diamond watch—the price of ratting someone out.

  Morgan pulled up Google and began researching the restaurant. Abu Nawas had opened a few years ago and taken off immediately. The international experience was all the rage these days, and the beautiful, glittering inside was enough to bring in all of Houston’s finest.

  She looked intently at the pictures, googling the name Ahmed as well and coming up with nothing. The restaurant’s website said only that it was launched by a well-known woman from a Middle-Eastern country Morgan wasn’t familiar with. It was her first dead end.

  Closing her laptop, Morgan rubbed a hand along the back of her neck and stretched.

  There was a knock at her door, and she looked at the time. Eight o’clock—three more hours before she got to meet Ahmed.

  Rising, she went to the door and peeked through the hole, seeing a familiar face and sighing inwardly. She pulled the lock from the chain and opened her door to a smiling, handsome face.

  “Hi, beautiful,” Stephen said.

  He was her neighbor. When he’d first moved in, Morgan had thought she might be interested, but as time went on she’d realized he was too clingy for her taste. He tried way too hard to impress her all the time, but he was so soft-hearted and lonely that she also didn’t have it in her to turn him away.

  “I have a name, Stephen,” she said, still standing in front of the door.

  Stephen grinned deeper. “I know you do, beautiful.” And then he giggled.

  Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Stephen, are you drunk?”

  “No! You’re drunk!” he replied, slumping against the door frame.

  Morgan groaned as she ducked beneath his arm and heaved him over to the sofa. He plopped down and stared ahead for a minute before swiveling his head in her direction.

  “She turned me down, Morgan,” he slurred. Without warning, his face crumbled and he began weeping into his palms.

  Not knowing what else to do, Morgan sat next to him and patted his back gingerly.

  “It’s okay, Stephen. It happens. That’s all dating is—trying on different people and seeing if they’re a good fit. This one wasn’t. The next one will be.”

  “You weren’t, either,” he said, sobbing still.

  Not wanting to be dishonest, Morgan replied, “That’s true, but there are seven billion people on this planet, Stephen. Just because it didn’t work out with the two of us doesn’t mean there’s no one out there for you.”

  Stephen sniffled loudly, looking up at Morgan with bright blue eyes, rimmed with red from his tears.

  “You really think that?”

  Morgan gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course I do. You’re a great guy, Stephen,” she said, and he grinned ruefully.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Oh, come on now. Listen, you’ve got a clouded mind full of alcohol and rejection. Let’s get you to bed and I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain in the morning.”

  Stephen looked hopeful at that. “Will you stay with me for a while?”

  “Come on,” she said, purposefully not answering his question as she helped him back down the hall to his own apartment. They were small studios, with the living room, kitchen and bedroom all in the same space. Morgan couldn’t really afford much else, and she didn’t need that much space anyway.

  Opening Stephen’s door, she laid him on the bed and made to exit, but he grasped her wrist.

  “Morgan, please stay? I don’t want to be alone,” he sniffled.

  Morgan sighed. “Sometimes it’s better to be alone. Especially when I’m not the person who should be in that bed with you. Drink some water and get some sleep,” she said gently.

  There was a part of her that wanted to comfort Stephen, to tell him that it was going to be all right, and hold him until it didn’t hurt anymore. But what good would that do? She wasn’t the person for that job, and she knew it.

  Back in her apartment, Morgan closed and locked her door back up, pressing her back against it as she gazed around the tiny space. It was clean and tidy, with everything in its place.

  She sat on her small couch and opened her laptop once more, turning on a movie until it was time to head out. As much as she hated to admit it, she was wondering the same thing as Stephen.

  Was there really someone out there for her, too?

  The movie passed without Morgan really focusing, her mind elsewhere, until it was time to dress again and head to her meeting.

  On her way out, Morgan checked in on Stephen, who never locked his door, no matter how many times she told him he should. He was fast asleep on his side, snoring. Good. He would likely have a hangover in the morning, but he would recover.

  Everyone always did.

  Steeling herself for a potentially long night ahead, Morgan headed down to the garage below the building where her car was parked.

  It was time to find out just who Ahmed was, and what he wanted.

  THREE

  Morgan stared up at the glowing neon sign. Abu Nawas had closed an hour earlier, and she felt like a fool. She hadn’t even thought to check the hours on the website, busy as she had been, looking for traces of who Ahmed might be.

  Still, not wanting to give up that easily, she pressed her face against the glass door, and was surprised to see the lights still on. An older woman in Middle-Eastern dress met her gaze and hurried over to the door, unlocking it and letting her in.

  “Hello, hello! Welcome to our restaurant!” the woman said, grasping Morgan’s hands with a small bow.

  Not knowing the proper greeting for her culture, Morgan simply gave the woman’s hands a firm squeeze back, and a smile.

  “I’m glad you found me—for a moment there I thought I’d been given a cold case.”

  “Of course not! Your services are much needed, my dear.”

  The woman ushered Morgan into the opulent dining room, where a man in white cotton clothing was seated at a table in the center. He wore a thick pair of glasses and was examining some documents, but when Morgan and the woman entered, he stood to greet them, removing his spectacles.

  “Miss Springfield,” he said, his voice recognizable as the one from the phone call earlier that day. “Thank you for coming.”

  Morgan tried not to gape at her opulent, bejeweled surroundings. The chandeliers had to be Swarovski crystals—they glittered and glistened, giving the room an ethereal feel.<
br />
  Taking a breath, Morgan realized she could smell something amazing, and, to her embarrassment, her stomach rumbled.

  The woman didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll have some food brought out for us. The chef is still here,” she said, scurrying off.

  The man—Ahmed, she supposed—gestured to a seat across from him, and Morgan took it, gratefully. The chair was well cushioned, and she sank into it for a moment before remembering herself and sitting upright.

  Ahmed grinned. “We brought in all the finest furnishings; we’re very proud of this place,” he said, his accent even more melodious in person.

  Without knowing him, Morgan liked him immediately. That didn’t mean terribly much, but she prided herself on her instincts, even as she allowed for the possibility that they could be wrong.

  A heartbeat later, two waiters were at the table, setting down plates of creamy hummus and warm pita bread. Morgan’s mouth instantly began to water, but she waited for Ahmed to make a move before diving in.

  “Please, help yourself, Miss Springfield,” he said, gesturing at the plates. “I think you’ll find our hummus to be the best in town,” he beamed, clearly proud of his establishment.

  Needing no further encouragement, Morgan scooped up a large helping of hummus, and took a bite. The creamy spread melted in her mouth, and she had to fight off a moan of pleasure. How long had it been since she’d had decent food?

  The woman returned to the table and took a seat beside Ahmed. Both of them stared at Morgan for a moment, and she stopped eating, suddenly self-conscious.

  “Miss Springfield,” Ahmed finally began. “Do you know what a sheikh is?”

  Morgan racked her brain, remembering the title from her research.

  “Isn’t it like, a king or something?”

  Ahmed smiled. “Something like that, yes. In my country I am known as Sheikh Ahmed Al-Khali. This is my wife, Sheikha Almera Al-Khali. We are the ceremonial heads of a tribe in our home nation of Al-Harrari, and the owners of Abu Nawas.”

  Morgan stared. Ahmed and his wife were Middle-Eastern royalty. She blinked, unsure how to address them.

  “So…what brings you to Houston?” was all she could think to ask.

  It was Almera’s turn to smile. “We own a number of oil fields back in our country, but there is quite a business to be had in America, and we have long wanted to be a part of it. I have a deep love and appreciation for our traditional cuisine, and have always wanted to share it with others, with the hope that any distrust between our cultures can be laid to rest over a table of delicious food.”

  “Have you been here long?” Morgan asked, and their smiles faded.

  “We have not,” Ahmed said. “While Almera came some years ago to set up the restaurant and visit our son at college, we have had much to take care of back home. We have only been here for a few weeks,” he finished, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

  Morgan saw the deep circles underneath them, then. She saw the lines of age creasing his face—worry lines.

  “It’s your son, isn’t it?” she guessed, and the couple’s shoulders slumped.

  She had guessed correctly.

  “His name is Hassan,” Almera said, pulling a clean cloth napkin from the table and dabbing her eyes. A small smudge of kohl stained the pristine white cloth, but the older woman didn’t seem to notice. She turned her watery gaze to Morgan.

  “He chose to go to school in America, which was fine with us. It’s good to broaden your horizons; get new perspectives. But he changed so much while he was here. He stopped taking our calls. He refused to even talk about coming home. We continued to fund his lifestyle…” Almera cast a sideways glance at Ahmed, who turned a slight shade of red.

  “He was being reckless with our money, and with our reputation. The things we’ve heard since coming over…well,” Ahmed said, composing himself. “He has, for whatever reason, convinced himself that he does not want to be a part of our family. He has disappeared, quite suddenly, and we need you to help us find him.”

  Almera rose and walked over to the wall by the kitchens, where a small series of photographs were hung along the hallway. When she returned, she handed a heavily framed photograph to Morgan, who glanced down at the image.

  Ahmed and what appeared to be a handsome, younger version of him stood behind an elaborate chair, in which Almera was seated. The young man, presumably Hassan, draped one hand casually over the chair. He wore a brightly-colored ceremonial outfit, but that wasn’t what caught Morgan’s attention.

  He was beyond handsome. His face was chiseled like that of a god, his eyes mesmerizing, demanding the attention of the viewer. Even in this photograph Morgan could sense his presence, his powerful draw.

  She blinked, and looked back up at the man’s parents.

  “How old is he now?”

  “Twenty-seven,” Ahmed said, taking the picture and setting it upright on the table, where they could still look at it. “He was just out of college when this picture was taken—that was the last time he travelled back home.”

  “He refuses to accept anything from us. We’ve tried to help him so many times, but now we don’t even know where he is. If anything has happened to him…” Almera began to weep again, silently, and Ahmed placed a steadying hand on her shoulder as she continued her futile attempt to maintain her composure.

  Morgan cleared her throat. “So why me?” she asked, cutting to the chase. “If your son has gone missing, you should be involving the police. They could be a real asset in finding him.”

  It killed her to say the words, but they were true. If anything truly serious had happened to Hassan, it would be better to involve the authorities from the outset. Morgan was good at finding people, but she was better at finding them when they were still alive.

  “I don’t believe he is missing, per se,” Ahmed said. “He is being…difficult. A few weeks ago he called us, finally—he must have known we were sick with worry. He declared his intention to move on from this life—from our life—and that was the end of it. We were able to trace the phone call to a phone booth outside of Bledsoe, but we’ve heard nothing from him since. We would rather this incident not be made public, which would be the case were we to involve the local authorities. You understand?”

  Morgan nodded. If the couple wanted to keep their son’s errant behavior under wraps, a private detective would be a much better way to handle the situation.

  Ahmed reached under a pile of papers and pulled out a plain white envelope. He slid it across the table to Morgan and she saw that on the front of the envelope a number was written in cursive—a very large number.

  “We are willing to pay for him to be returned to us—money is no object. Inside that envelope is a good faith payment—the first installment of your fee. You will get the rest when you bring Hassan back to us, or at least bring back information about his whereabouts.”

  Morgan stared at the envelope. The number on the front would be enough to support her for several months, at least. It was a huge sum.

  She didn’t touch it. Instead, she looked Ahmed dead in the eye.

  “Why me? With your means, you could have your pick of any private detective in the city, and there are some who have much more experience than I do.”

  She knew she was risking blowing the best gig she’d get in a long time, but she wouldn’t go into the job without having her questions answered. She had to know the truth.

  Almera sighed. “The truth is, you are not our first attempt, my dear. We have had two other detectives go looking for our son, all for nothing. They came back empty-handed,” she said, frowning.

  “They were also male,” Ahmed said with a knowing look. “You might need to know that Hassan has a certain weakness for women. I think with your looks and your skills, you are truly our best hope for bringing him home.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Morgan demanded, rising.

  Ahmed sat still as a statue, looking up at her.

  “It means that
you are a beautiful young woman with a quick mind. Please don’t be offended, Miss Springfield. I only wish to speak freely with you, as you seem to desire.”

  Almera grasped Morgan’s hand, and she sat back down, secretly embracing the soft cushion.

  “I have a few things to give you, in the event that you find our son. Here is Hassan’s insignia ring—his proof of title. We found it in his apartment when we first began our search.”

  Almera reached into her pocket and pulled out a large ruby ring. She opened Morgan’s hand and pressed the heavy piece of jewelry into her palm, closing her hand around it. The metal was cold against her flesh.