The Sheikh’s Contract Fiancée

by Leslie North

  “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether I should take your advice,” Imaad said, casting him a strained smile as the doors slid open at the top floor. The brothers stepped out, and Omar clapped his shoulder.

  “Good luck. I’ll see you later.”

  Omar headed down the hallway toward his own office. All three of the brothers had offices on the top executive floor, but as Director of Operations, Imaad was usually out on assignment, overseeing the various plants and factories, and more recently, coordinating a stinging wave of layoffs.

  Imaad arrived at his father’s opulently carved office door, the surest way to know where the CEO sat in this building. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before pushing inside. His father’s back was to him when he stepped into the lushly carpeted office. The older man turned to him, a bright smile on his face, and set two glasses on the desk.

  “Imaad! Come in.” He gestured to the seats facing the desk and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.

  Imaad lifted a brow. This was not how the meetings usually went in his father’s office. “Are we celebrating something today?”

  “We are, son.” His father poured a finger of whiskey into each of the tumblers and then offered him one. “Sit down, I’ll explain.”

  Imaad took the drink, clinking glasses with his father before easing back into the seat. All around the office, enormous framed works of Persian art watched over them, overseeing their celebratory drink.

  He sipped at the amber liquid, hesitant to fully enjoy the drink before he knew what the news was. “This is the good whiskey. This must be important.”

  “Anything regarding your future is important, my son. And recently I’ve made a few important decisions about where that future of yours is headed.”

  Imaad’s belly knotted furiously. Oh no. So that’s where this was headed. Dark curiosity filled him. “The future?”

  “The company is merging with an American business, my boy. And you’re getting married.”

  Imaad squinted at him, his father’s dark mustache blurring into a comical line, as he struggled to process the words. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “We’re merging with an American company—”

  “No, father. I heard that part.” Imaad squeezed the tumbler in his hands, furrowing his brow. “I’m getting what?”

  “Married!” His father let out a triumphant whoop, as though this were good news to both of them.

  Imaad’s mouth parted as he searched for the appropriate reaction, one that didn’t include screaming “Hell no!” and running out of the office. He took a big gulp of the whiskey, emptying the tumbler, and set it onto the desk. He grimaced as the burning liquid went down.

  “Father, I can’t.” The words leaped out of his mouth without his consent. He’d never said those words to him before. Not even once. But apparently, he had limits. Omar would be proud of him.

  His father’s eyes narrowed to slits. “And why can’t you?”

  A slick fear coated his gut. “This is so sudden. I wasn’t told in advance. I haven’t even prepared. And without meeting her, no less?” He shook his head. “It’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” His father laughed bitterly. “Fair has nothing to do with an arranged marriage like this. It’s all about strategy. Why are you acting so childishly? You’re too old for this foolishness. Too old not to have a wife anymore. All of my sons are.”

  Imaad sputtered. At twenty-six, he hardly felt old. “But shouldn’t Zahir be the first to marry? He’s the eldest.”

  His father softened, pouring them both another drink. “You’re the only one I can trust with this arrangement. Omar’s too idealistic, and Zahir is too serious. Why would I task either of them with this sensitive arrangement when you’re the best equipped to handle it?”

  Imaad’s anger melted. Being needed—and trusted—by his father was the only salve to the situation. And if he was the best one for the job…he’d have to do it.

  “Besides, we need this merger.” His father took a testy sip of whiskey. “It’s the only way to prevent more layoffs, to stabilize the business. I thought you’d be relieved.” His father eyed him, sending a subtle guilt trip quaking through him. “Now you don’t have to sit around waiting and wondering if you’ll meet someone worthwhile. I’ve arranged it for you. This is the daughter of the other company’s CEO. She’s young and smart, a perfect match for you.”

  Imaad tossed back all his whiskey in one gulp and set the glass down with a thud that resonated through the room. He cleared his throat. “Okay. I’ll do it.” Thank God Omar wasn’t in the room to see him roll over so quickly.

  His father’s brows arched appreciatively. “My son. I knew I could count on you.”

  The two shook hands while Imaad’s mind scrambled to find an exit strategy. If this was all for business, then it would be important to uphold his side of the deal.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something to make sure the American pulled out of the deal. Like making sure she saw the worst, most abhorrent version of Imaad possible.

  In fact, that might be his only bet to maintaining his freedom amid the necessary business deal. The merger came along with the CEO’s daughter…but if she chose to call off the wedding, then it wasn’t Imaad’s fault at all.

  He grinned a little as he let himself out of his father’s office.

  3

  Annabelle navigated the Minarak airport with a permanently furrowed brow. She read each sign three times, just to make sure she read the right language, distracted by the jolts and dips of the Farsi alphabet. Once she’d made it through customs, she tensed, worried she might miss the person sent to pick her up. What if they took the wrong Annabelle back with them?

  The greeting area was stuffed with people and shouts, and strange consonants filled her head, making it hard to see straight. She waited nervously among milling families, rushing businessmen, and taxi drivers, keeping an eye out for anyone with a sign reading “Annabelle.”

  Men filled the area, some with complicated scarves on their heads. She tried not to stare but was awed by the diversity, the sheer foreignness of these sights and this land. She hadn’t even left the airport yet. Excitement shivered through her, and she wondered what awaited her with this merger.

  She scanned the crowd again. Plenty of people looked at her, but she assumed it was the way she stood out like a sore thumb here. Her blonde hair and blue eyes were eye-catching as it was, but in her Western clothes, she looked every bit a foreigner.

  One man raised his hand to wave her way. She lifted a brow, waiting to see if it was meant for her. The man gestured excitedly, his big pot belly jiggling with the movement. Head to toe, he was covered in a flowing white robe. She swallowed hard. Probably in his mid-sixties, a round face with a big, black beard. Was he her driver?

  She took a tentative step forward, but paused when a gaggle of little kids rushed past her, shouting something as they headed for the man. They swarmed him, jumping up and down. His big smile told her that he must be grandpa. Off the hook.

  Annabelle relaxed, looking back at the meandering stream of travelers. She nibbled on her lip, watching the door where more and more people exited, leaving the hall nearly empty. She kept a firm grip on her trademark teal suitcase. It was best to stand out, to set one’s luggage apart from the rest. She fidgeted with a cuticle. Or maybe that just meant it was easier to steal.

  She sighed, cocking a hip, anxiety making flutters in her belly as she waited.

  “Annabelle?”

  A deep voice interrupted her fretting. She spun on her heel, finding a tall man behind her. She gasped, unable to rip her gaze from his gorgeous face. He was picture-perfect, with the sort of stunning proportions that made her feel like she was looking at a magazine ad. Her mouth fell open and she forgot how to act, how to speak, how to do anything.

  The man blinked, eyes narrowing. “You are Annabelle, right?”

  She drew a deep breath, forcing her gaze away from his face. He was d
ressed like a model too. Crisp black suit, which complemented his olive skin tone amazingly well. Too amazingly well. She stared at his shoulder—the safest place she could look, she figured. “Yeah.”

  “I’m Imaad.” He stuck out his hand. She blinked, looking at it for a moment, before bringing her own small, pale hand to greet his. They shook, and his warmth flooded her. She swallowed a sigh.

  “Pleasure to meet you. You’re Director of Operations for Almasi Holdings, right?” She tucked back a lock of her hair, which suddenly felt greasy now, standing in the shadow of this beautiful man. She had day-old hair and airplane face. She would have freshened up in the bathroom before hitting baggage claim if she’d known a man like this was greeting her.

  “Yes. It’s my father’s company.” His voice was humorless. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. So this was the Imaad her father had said she’d get along with. Even after so few words, she had an inkling that the only thing she’d come to appreciate about him was his looks. He held something tight around him—dourness, or maybe a touch of xenophobia. Whatever it was, it left a bad taste in her mouth.

  They blinked at each other for a moment. This is getting awkward.

  She sniffed, clutching her purse tighter. “Where will we be going from here?”

  “To your accommodations.” He looked away, like he was bored already. Inside, she groaned. Why did the hot ones have to be the biggest assholes? This guy didn’t deserve that face. Not with that attitude.

  “Great.” She clucked her tongue. A little more information would be nice, but that’ll have to do. Some welcoming committee. She shrugged her carry-on bag more firmly onto her shoulder and tilted her suitcase onto its wheels. “Ready to go.”

  Imaad made no move to acknowledge her load or offer to assist, but simply nodded. “Follow me. You should stay behind me as we go. You’re not in America anymore. Men are expected to lead.”

  Her mouth parted with indignation, but before she could think of a retort, he’d started on his way. She struggled to keep up with him, the big bulky bag rolling behind her. She caught up, and began a purposeful stride alongside him. She cast him a glare. Let him try to control her like that.

  Imaad didn’t look amused. They walked through the sliding doors into a heat wave. Annabelle’s voice withered in her throat. “Fuck.”

  He sent her a pointed look. “This way.” Imaad led them to a car in a long row of waiting sedans. He nodded toward a driver, who approached to take her luggage. While the driver shoved her suitcase in the trunk of the car, Imaad opened the back door, gesturing for her to enter.

  She eyed him for a moment, contemplating a snarky response, and then slid into the backseat. Imaad joined her a moment later.

  “Why are you sitting back here with me?”

  “It’s customary to sit in the back seat of a chauffeured vehicle,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

  “Don’t men have to be in front of women?” She spat it out as caustically as she could, then crossed her arms, looking out the window, while the driver pulled into traffic. Imaad rustled around in the middle console, then brought out a silky length of fabric. “Here. You should at least cover yourself.”

  Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “Cover myself?”

  “It’s so you don’t appear indecent any longer.”

  His words fell like bricks in the air between them. Anger swarmed her, made her forearms prickle cold and hot at the same time. She snatched it out of his grip and wrapped it around her ponytail, tying it into an exaggerated knot.

  “There.” She grinned up at him. “Is that what you mean?”

  “No.” His voice came out flat.

  “I definitely don’t want to appear indecent.” She yanked down the front of her shirt, making it bare much more cleavage than normal. The man was being a pig. Parsabad was known for its tolerant stance on regular, stylish women’s clothing, something she intentionally researched before arriving. “Here, does this help?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  The driver glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. Imaad held her gaze, his dark eyes brooding. If only he weren’t such a distasteful asshole, she might find that gaze titillating.

  Imaad’s tense silence was all the victory she needed. She relaxed into her seat, letting her gaze drift out the window. No matter what his deal was, it wouldn’t last for long. She’d sign this contract and be on her way back to the USA.

  Because no matter what her father thought about her and Imaad hitting it off, he was dead wrong. There was no way she was staying on the same continent as this prick once the papers were signed.

  4

  Imaad stared at the distorted reflections of Annabelle and himself in the shiny elevator walls. He’d given her attitude at every turn, but he had to fight to keep up the brutish persona. If she were anyone else, he’d have her halfway to his bedroom by now.

  But this beauty was hands-off. No matter how hard those blue eyes begged him to treat her entirely differently.

  The door slid open, and she strutted out of the elevator car, her luggage in tow. He balled his fists, willing himself again not to offer to take the suitcase. She had to be the one to call off the marriage—not him. It became a mantra in his head.

  She stuck a key card into the door for room 301 and the green light flashed twice. She pushed the door open.

  “We should discuss some matters for tomorrow,” he said, holding the door open with his palm. He stepped inside without waiting for her to invite him.

  “Then come on in, I guess.” Her voice was flat. She rolled her luggage over the sparkling tiled entryway, into a small living room that lay just outside the main bedroom. A potted palm tree rose spiky and green by the glass sliding door overlooking the balcony.

  “I hope your accommodations are to your liking,” he said, noting the immaculate carpeting of the suite, the elegant furniture lining the walls.

  “Yeah, I guess they’ll do.” She rested her hands on her hips, pursing her lips. “Now what do I need to know for tomorrow?”

  Imaad cleared his throat, idly fingering a notepad on the side table. “First and foremost, you should watch how you dress tomorrow. You won’t gain any respect looking like this.”

  Her jaw nearly clattered to the floor. Regret lashed through him, but he kept his gaze steely.

  “You are a moron,” she spat, turning away from him. “This is no way to speak to a future business partner. I may be the foreigner here, but that doesn’t mean you can just insult me like this!”

  Imaad shrugged. “It’s part of the culture. And more importantly, part of the family.”

  Her eyes narrowed, the blueness hardening into something lethal. She untied the scarf he’d given her and threw it at him. It fluttered lamely in the air between. “And your family can’t treat a foreigner with a modicum of respect during the seventy-two hours I’m here?”

  Seventy-two hours? Maybe she was trying to wriggle out of the arrangement too. “This is about you respecting our culture,” he said, struggling to keep his eyes from traversing her body, as they were desperate to do. Nothing about her was disrespectful. It was the only tool in his arsenal.

  She scoffed. “I’m positive that I did not offend anyone on the way from the airport or up to this hotel room, so I think I’ll be fine to meet with a room of businessmen. Businessmen who are perfectly accustomed to a Western woman existing. Furthermore, if you don’t knock off this behavior towards me, then we can consider the deal done. The merger will be off.”

  Her words held daggers, and Imaad was rooted to his spot, unable to blink or respond. Fuck. Maybe she had that power. Maybe it would just take one call to her father to cancel both the wedding and the business deal.

  But his company couldn’t lose the merger. His employees, all the ones slated for the next wave of layoffs, needed their jobs. Needed him to make the deal and keep it.

  Imaad swallowed a knot in his throat and deflated, shaking his head. His voice came out normal, not edged with the brutish tone he�
��d adopted since she showed up. “Listen, forget it.”

  Her brow creased. “What?”

  “Forget what I said.” He waved his hand in the air, dismissing his previous attitude, and headed for a lushly padded arm chair against the wall. He slumped into it with a sigh. “You aren’t being disrespectful.”

  Her eyes widened. “Just like that?”

  He sighed testily, smoothing his hands over his knees. “I was being a jerk. On purpose.” He licked his lips, weighing his next words. “I want this deal to go forward. I really do. And I suppose if I have to marry someone…well…at least you’re not a weak-willed, simpering Westerner.”

  Her eyes widened to saucers. Silence bloated between them.

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

  The incredulity in her voice confused him. He rubbed his palms over his knees. “I’m trying to see the best of the situation. If we have to do this, then—”

  “Do what?”

  Imaad paused, searching her face for some clue. Wisps of blonde hair stood out around her face, making her look like a frazzled angel. Her sapphire eyes were hard as a shovel.

  “Get married.”

  She blinked a few times before she spat out, “Says who?”

  “Our fathers.” He pushed to standing and paced the foyer, hands clasped behind his back. This was his first—and hopefully last—arranged marriage, but even he knew this wasn’t how the events normally played out. He’d been expecting a civil, rational conversation about the upcoming nuptials. Not blatant horror.

  Her eyes fluttered shut and she cocked her head back, chin pointed toward the ceiling. She was quiet for so long that he feared she’d passed out standing up. And then she let out a piercing scream, one that made his ears ring.

  5