SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance

by Knight, Kylie

  She was a Westerner, British from the looks of it. Her eyes were tired and there was flour in her dark blond hair and her apron was a filthy mess, but she seemed happy as she curled her hair behind her ear and ticked off another box on her clipboard and went back to piping creamy stuff into miniature puff pastries. Two other men, who were very clearly waiters, came in, swapped their empty trays for full ones and backed out again. No wonder she thought he was a member of the staff—with his white shirt, black pants, no jacket or tie, he looked exactly like one of the caterers.

  He found himself cracking a smile—he’d never been mistaken for a member of the staff before—and as he backed out of the door he could only imagine his father’s fury at him showing up with a tray, ready to serve snacks and drinks. It would probably be funny—he wondered how many of the people invited would recognize him with a tray in his hand.

  He’d gone to enough of these functions to know what people with trays in their hands did: walk around, asking people if they wanted one, smiling politely as people swiped a canape or two. Nobody recognized him, which only confirmed what he’d suspected for a long time—nobody knew who he was, and nobody cared. Only Misha blinked out of surprise when he realized who was asking him if he’d like a piece of baklava—and then he saw the secretive smile, and he knew he had an ally in this matter, at least.

  The only thing that he hadn’t expected was that it was too noisy to overhear any of the conversations. The fragments of conversation he was able to hear were mostly about weekend plans and worries about children—girls getting to that age where they should be married, boys not wanting to be married. A few of them even asked his advice. “I don’t know anything about this,” he said, smiling politely. “I obeyed my father.”

  “You are a good son,” the guests said, beaming. He couldn’t help but wonder if it were

  He wanted to find the king and see if his father would recognize him, but he ran out of canapes before he could make his way over to the king, who was sitting contentedly with Alya and chatting quietly with her, so he returned to the kitchen.

  “OK, now these,” she said, without even looking up from what she was doing—stabbing skewers of meatballs and vegetables together. She’d pointed to the tray of filled puff pastries, all of them now dusted with a sprinkle of chives and shaved truffles. “Are they still serving tea?” she asked.

  “I think I saw some people walking around with pots,” he said. “But they’ve mostly moved on to the lemonade.”

  “Good,” she said. She looked up and frowned. “Are you new? I don’t remember hiring you.”

  “I’m filling in,” he said, taking the tray and backing out, grinning.

  What would she think if she knew that she’d been bossing around a prince? Guilty, he imagined. Or maybe just amused. Hard to say; Westerners had a weird sense of equality—the British Queen was gossiped about like so much schoolgirl drama fodder, but Kim Kardashian, someone he simply did not understand, was elevated to near-idolatry. So how long should he keep this going?

  He found Miriam sitting by herself, texting furiously on her phone. She almost didn’t see him as she absent-mindedly picked up one of the canapes and popped it into her mouth. At the last second, though, she caught his eye and her eyes went wide. He grinned and pressed a finger to his lips.

  “Bashir!” she whispered, but he turned away and offered some more puff-pastries to another couple before she could stand up to confront him. He saw her smiling despite her shock. There was a reason Miriam was his favorite sibling.

  He liked serving the food. It was silly, but he liked the woman’s bossiness, the way she knew exactly what had to happen and when, and how she wanted things done. He liked that she knew stuff and wasn’t afraid to admit it. There was no false modesty about her, and she was easy to talk with, and as the evening went on, he found himself staying in the kitchen for progressively longer times.

  He’d been right about her being a Brit: it turned out she’d grown up not too far from where he now lived. Her name was Melinda Doyle, and she had the pale skin and dark hair that was typical of Celts, as she put it. As he helped her clean up and stack the trays into her van, they talked—about the marriages that his father was always proposing, her about how hard it could be as a single woman living here. “So you’re not engaged or attached?” he asked, wondering how this could be. Her Arabic was pretty good, and men would line up for miles for a chance with an exotic girl. Familiarity breeds contempt, or something like that, he supposed—but there was something appealing about English girls, how polite but forceful they could be. There was a dangerous edge to their words—they could go from flatteringly polite to scathing with the slightest change of inflection.

  “Nope,” she said. “Never met the right bloke. I never did understand the whole arranged-marriage business,” she added. They’d switched to English—she was probably homesick for her mother tongue, he supposed. “I mean, what if you really hate whoever it is your parents picked out for you?”

  “You learn to live with it. So I’m told,” he said.

  “But you’re trying to get out of one,” she guessed.

  “I’m trying to keep my father from meddling in my life,” he said.

  “Good luck,” she said. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “Don’t you miss England, though?”

  She shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “But here—I don’t have anybody to tell me what kind of bloke to get with and to hurry up with the grandchildren already.”

  “And then they volunteer to take you to fertility clinics?”

  “Oh my God, yes!” she cried, laughing. “How did you—is that really a thing here, too?”

  “Trust me, Bahrani parents take meddling to level eleven,” he said.

  One last crate of equipment. He stacked it into the van for her, and then he walked her around to the driver’s side. “You fancy a lift?” she asked.

  “Me?” he asked.

  “Well, I don’t see your car here—”

  “That’s because my car is in London.”

  It was the first indication he’d given that he was more than a guy who’d stepped in to fill a catering job. He could see the mental walls going up in her mind, the wariness as she realized that she might be wading in dangerous waters. “You said you studied in England,” she said.

  “I did. I still am,” he said. “Going for a doctorate in international law.”

  “A doctorate—so you’re just visiting?”

  “My father got married today,” he said.

  “Your father—”

  Her face froze in shock as she put two and two together. Suddenly she collapsed against him. “Oh my goodness,” she cried. “I had no idea you were the prince! A thousand apologies—oh my god, I yelled at you, too! I—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “You should hear what my professors call me.”

  “But you’re the prince—”

  “The least important one,” he said, laughing as he helped her up. “I have two brothers and two sisters, all of them older with at least three kids each, which means that as far as succession goes, there are at least two generations before I even have a chance at the throne.”

  “But you’re still a prince—”

  “Only in title. Practically, I’m one of those annoying rich prats with a trust fund that goes whoring in Amsterdam every weekend,” he said. “That’s all my title means—money that I didn’t earn doing stuff I don’t even like that much.”

  She looked at him, puzzled. “Then why do you do it?” she asked.

  “Because it’s—”

  He’d been about to say “fun” but that wasn’t exactly true, either. It was enjoyable in the moment, sure. But when it was over he always felt vaguely dirty and unhappy with the women he’d just had a screaming orgasm with. Maybe it was the fact that he was paying them, that he couldn’t be sure that they meant it. Or maybe it was the fact that they were whores—God only knew how many men had had them, how exploi
ted they were. The Dutch had policies in place to make sure the girls were treated well and weren’t forced into doing anything they didn’t want to, but he knew just as well as anybody else visiting the Red Light District that the rules were more like guidelines.

  “—it’s just something guys do,” he said, acutely aware of how lame he sounded. “I don’t really know why I do it—it’s a power trip, I guess.”

  “Weird power trip,” she said. “It’s not even like a hooker is even really under your control.”

  “I know, I get it, I’m a bastard, okay?” he snapped.

  “No, it’s not that,” she said. “I mean, yeah, having hookers in Amsterdam is sketchy business no matter how you cut it. But if you’re really into hookers for the power trip—that’s like saying that you’re into coffee because you like cocaine.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Real power is something that’s earned. You don’t get it just because you pay a pimp.”

  She did have a point, and he was feeling chagrined as she slammed the door shut and turned the engine. The van coughed to life. I need to make this up to her, prove that I’m not a pure dick, he thought. “I’m going to be here for two more days,” he said, suddenly. “Want to have dinner tomorrow?”

  For the first time since he first laid eyes on her, she was uncertain. He could imagine her mind trying to work through a complicated algorithm, balancing what she’d just said about real power with the fact that she really seemed to like him. “I guess so,” she said, finally. “In Manama?”

  “If you insist,” he said. “There’s a lovely restaurant in Jaffa, though. More intimate, quieter—and I’m less likely to get noticed by the Bahrani paparazzi.”

  “Really—there are paparzzi here?”

  He could understand her incredulity—the island nation had a little more than a million people on it, and a quarter of them were foreign. “Well, yes,” he said. “They’re more polite than your British rags, but you’ll understand if I would rather spare my father another diplomatic incident.”

  She smiled. “Jaffa it is, then. Here’s my number,” she said, passing him a business card. “Call me.”

  ***

  The next morning he went downstairs to get some breakfast—he hadn’t had a chance to eat very much the night before because of the screw-up that he’d perpetrated. He told one of the servants to fix something light for him, and bring it to the pool. After all this time in London, fixing his own things, ordering servants around felt a little strange.

  Misha was out by the pool already, taking up one of the lounge chairs while reading a Russian newspaper. It always baffled him, how Misha could find a Russian newspaper anywhere in the world, especially since it was at least a two-hour drive to Manama. “Your father is angry at you,” Misha said, as he took the chair next to his bodyguard.

  “He’ll be even angrier when he finds out I have a date tonight,” Bashir said.

  “Why do you do this?” Misha asked. “Why do you make him so angry?”

  If these words had come from anybody else, it would have pissed him off, but Misha had a way of asking questions like this that made it feel like a favor to answer him. Bashir shrugged. “He shouldn’t have married who he did,” he said.

  “What is so terrible about your father’s second wife?”

  It took Bashir a moment to realize that Misha had only been his bodyguard since he went to London. He wouldn’t have known about the cheating. Bashir debated telling the man about it, and in the end decided against it. There were things that a bodyguard was not entitled to know about. “We have a difficult history,” he said, instead. “Let’s just leave it at that.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The servant came out with a platter: boiled eggs, fresh fruit, a pot of mint tea, and sweet rolls. Bashir thanked the man and dismissed him. “So Misha,” he said, as he stabbed a chunk of mango. The cook had dusted it with chili and salt, just as he liked it. “What do you charge?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m planning on leaving Bahrain for good, and separating from my father if need be. This will probably mean the end of my trust fund, so if I want to keep you on—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, just talk with the man!” Misha growled suddenly. “I’ve been the bodyguard to several rich entitled brats like you and they all make the same mistake of thinking that actions matter more than words.”

  “Don’t they, though?” Bashir asked, feeling a little chagrined. His bodyguard, telling him how to live his life? That was simply not allowed, and yet, here they were, Misha giving him a veritable lecture—given that most of what he said was, “Yes sir,” and “No sir”—on what he was doing wrong.

  “I’m Russian. Words are our life.”

  He watched Misha take a roll and pour himself a cup of tea, wondering if it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to just let Misha go. Then he heard a woman’s voice calling him: Alya’s voice.

  Misha lowered his sunglasses and got up. He made a short bow and said, “Sir,” before gathering his towel and newspaper and heading inside.

  Bashir remained where he was. Alya took Misha’s place next to him, and helped herself to a cup of tea.

  “Are you enjoying being the queen?” Bashir asked pointedly.

  “Cut the crap,” she said. Bashir felt a burst of surprise rise in his chest. “I know you hate me, and I’m not expecting that I’ll change your mind now that your father and I are married.”

  “So what do you want?” he asked.

  She sipped at her tea for a while, blowing on it in a dainty, ladylike way. Bashir had to admit that she did have class, after all—but in his mind she was still inextricably linked with the grief she’d caused his mother. “To thank you,” she said, finally. “For not ruining the wedding yesterday. I know you wanted to, and—well, I can understand why.”

  “No, you can’t,” he said.

  “Yes, I can. Did it ever occur to you that I was once married, too?”

  Bashir felt himself go red: no, the idea had never occurred to him. Nor had it ever occurred to him that her husband might have cheated on her, which was what she was implying. “Of course not,” she said, turning away to look out at the pool. “Because I’m just an evil whore who seduces good men like your father.”

  He couldn’t say anything because she was right—he had thought those things about her. “You don’t get a pass on cheating just because your husband hurt you first,” he said, aware that he sounded exactly like a pouting five-year-old.

  “I’m not asking for a pass,” she said. “I’m asking that you remember that we’re not all that different.”

  “I am nothing like you,” he snapped.

  She merely raised her eyebrow and got up.

  What kind of crazy-ass bitch did my father just marry? He rang the bell, summoning a servant to come and collect the tray. He needed to make reservations and find a suit. His father would definitely disapprove of him going on a date. It was the perfect way to make a statement, regardless of what Misha said. And if Misha disapproved of him so much, well, he didn’t have to bring a bodyguard with him when he went back to London.

  ***

  Technically, he supposed that borrowing the Bugatti without letting his father know was stealing. But then again, if his father had been against him borrowing the car, he should have said something. The valet had hemmed and hawed and said something about his job, but Bashir knew his father: the man would never fire a servant for the bad behavior of his children.

  He was wearing a linen suit, the only kind of thing that was bearable in the desert heat. He liked the Bugatti—it was stylish and different without being flashy and showy—it was a rich man’s car that didn’t scream “money” and the steering was second-to-none.

  He’d never been on a date before. Not like this, anyway: an unchaperoned outing with a woman, alone. He’d gone out plenty of times with friends in London, and several times as the sole guy in a group of women, but it’d never gone beyo
nd drinks and dancing. There’d always been the idea that one day he’d come home and his father would tell him that he was going to marry someone, lingering in the back of his mind and tainting all of his interactions with women. He’d always told himself that he’d refuse, but until now he had no good reason to disobey his father. His father respected the fact that he didn’t like the idea of being married, so he respected his father’s wishes and didn’t get himself unnecessarily involved in romantic escapades. But now his father had basically gone and spit on their mother’s grave—so in Bashir’s mind, the more scandalous the romance, the better.

  And there was the fact that he really liked Melinda, too. Her self-assuredness was something that he’d only rarely seen in women—that kind of quiet self-confidence that came from knowing things about knowing herself. Too many people spent most of their days ruminating about stuff they’d seen online, he decided. Not enough of them spent enough time examining the state of their souls. He was probably one of the ones who could use some more introspection.

  She lived in one of the high rises in Manama, and as he pulled up to the building he realized that he should’ve worn the wool suit instead. He’d forgotten how cold the desert could be at night. It was too late to change, though.