The Sheikh's Tempted Protectress (The Sheikh's Every Wish Book 4)

by Holly Rayner

  In standard dramatic fashion he grabbed her coffee cup and set it roughly on the speaker, causing it to spill slightly over the surface.

  “Thanks for that,” she said with a grin.

  “You’re honestly just sitting there?”

  Amie blinked emphatically. “I have become one with this speaker. She understands me and I, her.”

  “No time, no time!” he shouted.

  “For what?”

  “For that thing you do when you get sarcastic! Wardrobe!” he yelped across the green room while rubbing his temples in an over-exaggerated fashion. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening!”

  “Michael!” she said firmly, grabbing both his shoulders. She felt comfortable sassing her director; the two had formed a close friendship over the last few weeks—watching him throw up backstage on opening night had done a good job of breaking down the walls between them. “Words. Use them. Breathe, then speak.”

  “Sharon called in sick,” he said, referring to the lead actress. He placed his hand on his forehead and gave a woeful sigh. “It’s all up to you now, honey, so get into wardrobe immediately, if not sooner.”

  “She’s sick?” Amie repeated, her heart doing backflips.

  “Yes!” Michael said, finally taking on a normal tone. Oftentimes his theatrical nature would overwhelm even the most mundane conversation—he could make asking for a cup of coffee sound apocalyptic.

  “I blame you,” he said absent-mindedly. “You must have put a hex on her just to get on stage. Now come on, to wardrobe!”

  “Uh, yeah! Okay!” Amie said, ripping her ponytail from her hair and tossing the want ads to the green room floor. She quickly followed behind as Michael marched into hair and makeup, with a stylist at the ready to turn her into a perfect piece of stage art.

  “It’s so funny because I’m always telling Katie that it drives me crazy how I’m getting sick like every week, yet no one else ever gets sick around here. I even told her we should start cranking up the AC,” Amie laughed, but Michael merely continued forward. “You know, so people get cold and maybe—”

  “—develop a debilitating illness?” he interrupted, dragging her by the arm into a makeup chair and instructing the stylists without a word. “I get the joke, Amie, it’s just a little morbid.”

  “Right…” she pursed her lips awkwardly. “I mean, I didn’t really do it, so…”

  “Just, be ready in 30! You do know the lines, yes?”

  “Yes, of course!” she said quickly, watching as he disappeared out of the dressing room. Her heart wouldn’t stop flipping as the women behind her fussed and fawned over her makeup and curls; deep down, beneath her sarcastic veneer, she was relishing every moment of her big debut and silently taking back every jealous thing she’d ever uttered about this play.

  She practiced her lines in a whisper for the next half hour, reminding herself that she’d spent the last eight weeks rehearsing these lines alongside the play as she watched from the wings, and that she had nothing to worry about.

  While Carolina and the Bridge wasn’t exactly critically acclaimed in the media, the play’s director was still renowned for throwing some of the biggest, wildest after-parties on the Chicago theater scene. It didn’t go beyond Amie’s notice when a stage hand swooped into her ear with an excited whisper announcing: “You’re so invited to the after-party.”

  Amie squeezed into her first costume and was quickly shuffled about from stagehand to stagehand. She could hear the assistant director ushering her to the curtain with a wild energy as all the actors took their places.

  Breathe Amie, just breathe. If she could just get out her first line, she’d be golden for the rest of the performance.

  She stepped onto the stage and quickly took her place at a faux-antique writing desk. She stared at the velvet red curtains and then down at the leather-bound book before her. She could see where Sharon had scribbled on the pages, either while pretending to write, or accidentally, out of nerves. She smiled at the penmanship and took it as an unspoken sign of Sharon’s blessing on her stepping into her shoes that evening.

  Suddenly, Amie realized the background music had faded and the billowing red curtains had been drawn; the bright stage lights blinding her vision of the vast audience before her.

  She stared wide-eyed at the hot lights above and then back down at the book in front of her.

  Say, your, line!

  “Endlessly, endless dull…” she said in her best Sharon impression, sweeping the papers off the table with an over-exaggerated swing of her hand. A chuckle ran through the audience at the gesture, which Amie could only take as sign of good things to come.

  ***

  Amie’s instinct was right. The next two hours went off without a hitch. In fact, she dared think that the audience seemed to react even better than they normally did. She took in every sensation and every tingle of nervous excitement she felt while on stage and could barely believe it when she found herself saying her last line of the night.

  Moments later, Amie found herself taking the stage alone to do her final bow. She couldn’t believe it when the audience rose to their feet and roared with thunderous applause. She took a brief look around the stage to make sure there was no one else accompanying her, to which the audience caught on and began to laugh. She felt a small sense of shock to discover that yes, they were clapping for her. Just her! A tall, well-dressed man stood in the front row, applauding slowly as he regarded her intently; the look on his face silently telling her he thought she was absolutely brilliant.

  Maybe she was just feeling a little full of herself. Still, she felt no small sense of pride as she heard a woman in the audience declare ‘She was amazing!’ to the woman she was sitting beside.

  Amie almost laughed. Did they really think she was the star of the play? Didn’t they realize she was just the understudy? The thought filled her stomach with butterflies.

  Her line of thinking was confirmed further as she headed backstage and was met by a barrage of co-stars, along with Michael, all congratulating her on a flawless performance.

  “You’re coming to the after party tonight, right?” Michael asked, grabbing both of her hands in his.

  “Um… Is that even a question?” she joked.

  Michael laughed. “You know the address. Take in every moment of it, Amie. This is your night!”

  Before Amie could respond, Michael suddenly seemed distracted, pointing behind her to a handsome man entering the greenroom. He had deep, tan skin and a fantastic gray suit that, she’d wager, probably cost more than the deposit on her apartment.

  As the man approached, Michael leaned into her ear, whispering with a hint of annoyance, “Probably a journalist or a critic.” He looked Amie up and down, rolling his eyes and sighing playfully. “Well, at least try and act refined.”

  “Thanks for that,” she responded dryly before turning to her Middle-Eastern hunk of a critic. “I don’t do autographs,” she joked before throwing her hands up in the air. “Oh, who am I kidding? Somebody get me a pen!”

  Michael stared on, looking horrified for a moment before taking his leave backstage—but not before pointing to his watch and mouthing “Five minutes!” at Amie, from behind the critic’s back.

  “That was a joke…” she awkwardly chirped out.

  The man smiled. “You know your joke’s not funny when…”

  “When you have to explain it?” she winced. “I’ve heard that before… Hey, you’re the man from the front row! Fancy suit, loud clapping, told me I was brilliant.”

  “I did, did I?”

  “Well, in my head you did,” she said with an easy smile. “I give it about, oh, two more minutes until you actually say it to my face.”

  “You were brilliant,” he relented jokingly before making a half-hearted bow.

  “Man, am I good.” Amie tried her best to act smooth but couldn’t help her face flushing red as he spoke to her; his slight accent peeking through his words. “So, you’re
a journalist?”

  The man looked taken aback. “Here, I thought I was in real estate? Hmm…”

  “Oh, you’re not a journalist. My bad, sorry. I was told that when people come backstage it’s because they… Wait, if you’re not a journalist, what’re you doing back here?”

  “I’m actually a talent scout, of sorts.”

  “I thought you were in real estate?”

  “What can I say, I’m a man of many talents.”

  “If that’s true, then I am all ears,” she smiled.

  “Good, because I think you might be exactly what I’m looking for.” He looked her over and gave his first flirtatious smile of the evening. “Perhaps I could let you get out of costume and we’ll speak further?”

  Amie’s heart skipped a beat. Wow, this guy must’ve really liked her work if he was just waiting around to offer her a job right after the play. This was just the way she imagined landing her dream job; one fabulous night of acting followed by a wave of roles and opportunities coming her way. Alright, so this wasn’t exactly a wave, but it was something.

  Flabbergasted, all Amie could think to say was: “You don’t like my dress?”

  The man blinked and laughed. He stared down at her 1920s-style cocktail dress and the large feathered plume coming out of her flapper headband. Her eyebrows were accentuated into unthinkably long tails ending by her temples and she still held a long, ivory cigarette holder between her fingers. “I worry I’d come off as underdressed if we were to meet like this,” he laughed once more. “Meet me across the street for a drink?”

  She nodded and watched the man leave backstage as quickly as he entered. Eight weeks of attending this theater as an understudy and years more as a fan led her to know exactly where he was talking about: The Delphi—a small, classy bar situated in a nook across the street. The architecture was beautiful and intricate; the wood beams and interior craftsmanship showing the building’s historic character and elegance… And besides that, they made a mean sangria.

  TWO

  Amie had never changed so fast in her whole life. She frowned in the mirror, at the gross sweatpants and ridiculous sweatshirt she’d come to work in. Of all days, why couldn’t she have worn something a little more dignified?

  She told Michael she’d likely be late to the after party and raced across the street at lightning speed. Luckily, The Delphi was small enough that she easily spotted her mystery talent scout and made her way over to him.

  “Amie Shaw,” she said as she sat down, reaching across the table to shake the scout’s hand.

  He looked her outfit over and, though he never changed his expression, Amie could feel a definitive judgment about her less than stellar wardrobe.

  “I came to work straight from the gym,” she lied sheepishly.

  He squeezed her hand and released her from their overdue introduction, smiling charismatically as he said, “Please, call me Malik. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering us some champagne, I hope that’s all right.”

  “Perfect,” she smiled and adjusted herself at the high-top table; minding the incredible chandeliers that hung over each tabletop.

  “I figured you’d be in the mood to celebrate.”

  She laughed and twirled her hair in mock-seduction. “What tipped you off, my amazing performance tonight, or do I just have the face of a drunk?”

  “A little of both,” he said with a wink. “You’re confident. I like that. You seem perfect for a role I have in mind.”

  “That’s amazing,” she smiled and gracefully picked up her champagne flute. She’d been to this establishment enough times to know how ridiculously expensive the bottle was, and inwardly chided herself for taking a giant gulp instead of sipping at the beverage like a lady. “Oops,” she said in a silly tone, referencing her chugging the champagne. Yeah, good job Amie, try and act a little more like someone who was raised in a barn!

  “So, what’s the job?” she asked smoothly in an attempt to transition the conversation.

  “Well, it’s… it’s a little unconventional. Kind of like a live-action drama piece.”

  “Oh, neat. Like a reality show, or something?”

  “Something like that.” He frowned playfully and then leaned in from over the table; a broad smile crossing his lips. He looked to be in his early thirties; short dark hair and a sharp jaw. His eyes were what intrigued her most; deep hazel, framed by dark lashes which accentuated the color.

  “Picture this…” he said breathily, as though he were about to sell her something. “You’ll be whisked away from this cold Chicago weather to someplace warm; historical. You’ll be playing a bride-to-be to a sheikh of a foreign land. A prince, really.”

  “A prince… So romantic,” Amie said absent-mindedly as she pulled a notepad from her purse and began furiously scribbling notes. “How long will the project run for?”

  “Six weeks,” he said plainly, staring down into his champagne, yet making no move to drink from it. “It will require the utmost class, charm, and tact.”

  She tapped her nose. “Act like a lady. Got it.”

  “Any questions so far?”

  She nodded. “Yes. When do I start, and how long will rehearsals go on for?”

  “That’s the thing,” he pursed his lips and pressed his fingertips into a steeple. “How do I put this…? It’s an immediate start, as in tomorrow. And there aren’t any rehearsals. Think of it as an improvisational work.”

  Amie paused for a second. She was a good actress and everything, but she wasn’t that good… or was she? She did get a standing ovation and a job offer immediately after her first performance, after all.

  She sipped her drink and furrowed her brow. “The ultimate improv… I love it!”

  Malik exhaled with relief and offered up another charming grin. “Fantastic. I’m pleased to hear it. I was feeling a bit doubtful that I’d ever find the right actress for the job but, well, when I saw you I just knew you’d be perfect.”

  “I’m floored,” Amie said, with no small amount of shock.

  “Your role will be, as I mentioned, playing an American fiancée in a foreign land. It will involve some preparation, and a bit of travel,” he said hesitantly, gauging her response carefully.

  “Right…” Amie blinked; watching the well-dressed patrons of the bar come in through the door and make their way to the ornately-carved bar. She couldn’t believe all of this was happening. She was finally getting her big chance, and she would get to travel to do it? Suddenly it hit her. If she was traveling, who was going to pay her rent?

  She bit her lip and quickly regained her composure. “I have a small concern,” she said politely. “If I’m going to be traveling, I’ll still need to be… you know, paying my rent and bills and the like.”

  “Money shouldn’t be an issue,” he said flatly, suddenly all business.

  “If only we were all so lucky,” she teased.

  “You will be paid $500,000 for the project, but only after the job is complete.”

  Amie gaped at the man; eyes wide as an unfamiliar noise escaped her throat. “Half a million dollars?” she repeated, dumbfounded.

  “Only once the job is complete,” he affirmed calmly, as though he hadn’t just made the most insane offer she’d ever heard.

  She cleared her throat and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs in what she hoped was a play-it-cool vibe. She tapped her fingers against the stem of her glass and quipped, “Yeah, um, so excuse me while I pick my jaw up of the floor. That’s absolutely amazing!”

  “Fantastic,” Malik said, unfazed as he quickly removed a sheet of paper from the briefcase that he held.

  “You were that sure I’d say yes, huh?”

  His eyes met hers in a confident, playful manner as he slid the sheet across the table. “This is a contract for the job. Just initial, date, and sign and print your name at the bottom of it. Please take as much time as you need to look it over.”

  “Yeah,” Amie said emphatically as she skimmed the pag
e, eyeing the eye-watering sum printed in bold, and quickly signed her name. “I have to say, I’m pretty jazzed about this. Not exactly going to turn down the most amazing opportunity of my life, am I?” She slid the contract back across the table using her pointer finger and smiled back at him. “So, when do we get started, boss?”

  He looked down at the contract with a bemused, if not puzzled stare before scooping the sheet of paper back into his briefcase. “Tomorrow morning, 8am,” he said crisply, standing from his chair. He leaned over and grabbed her bar napkin, scribbling down a time and the address of where they would meet.