Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2)
Page 2
You are not going to cry, she told herself as she took a step toward the bathroom, and suddenly it was Grandma’s voice in her head. You are not a child. You don’t get to throw a tantrum the moment things don’t go your way. How are you going to manage a restaurant? How are you going to manage a business of restaurants? How are you going to handle yourself if an investor says no to your face? Are you going to cry? Are you going to say that your life is hard and you need a break? Hell, no! You’ve already gotten your lucky break! You finished your MBA! That’s a serious degree! It took effort and focus and hard work! You are smart, strong, and powerful! You made it through a grueling two years, just like you said you would! You sacrificed and you persevered! You’re not going to crack now! You’re so close, honey! Come on, Jenny! Come on, Jennifer Bethany Jones, MBA! Hang on! Just hang on!
And the tears rolled themselves back, and now Jenny could feel her self-confidence rise again, slowly but surely, like water filling a container, filling every corner, leaving no part of her untouched. She had that spark, right? That “unteachable” faith in herself. Well, now’s when she needed it, she told herself. Now, goddamn it!
And as if in response, that spark made itself known deep inside her as she felt herself smile with relief as she remembered that she LOVED herself, that she LOVED her body, that she LOVED life and everything that came with it! Finally she slowly turned back to Paula, who was still staring up at her, still not sure what the hell was going on.
“Sorry,” Jenny said. “I just had a . . . moment.”
Paula gave her the most wide-eyed look ever. “You mean like a senior moment? Like Grandma had before she took off all her clothes and walked out the front door that night?”
Jenny burst out laughing, joining Paula on the floor again, feeling only slightly crazy now. “Something like that, yeah, Paula. Thanks.” She picked up her slice of pizza. “Though I’m pretty sure Grandma was just straight-up drunk that time.”
Paula rolled over onto her back with laughter, and now the two of them were laughing together, and it was only when they were done with the pizza and the Grandma jokes that Jenny noticed the “New Message” alert flashing on her phone.
And there it was, as if the universe had been watching Jenny overcome her crisis of confidence, as if the universe approved of how Jenny talked herself back onto her own path, as if the universe was sending a little help her way, to keep her on that path. Because there it was: the message from Bukhaara Private Capital, inviting Jenny to come into their Webster Street offices to discuss her business proposal with the general partner, Ms. Yasmeena Bukhaara.
And when Jenny saw the message, she couldn’t help but think of what Grandma used to say often: The universe likes to help everyone, but most of all the universe likes to help those who help themselves. So when things are bad and it feels like you can’t hold on, if you grit your teeth and hold on just a little while longer, the universe will send help in the strangest of ways.
3
“I would like to help you, Ms. Jones. Ms. Jones? I do not like that. Too generic American. What is your full name? OK, I see it on this cheap business card. Jennifer Bethany Jones? Jennifer Bethany? Why two first names?” The man thought for a moment, his dark eyes flashing mischief as he glanced up from Jenny’s “cheap” business card. He pursed his full, dark red lips, rubbed the deep brown stubble on his chin. “I like the name Bethany—it is unusual—to me at least. But it is a longer name than Jenny, and I do not know you well enough to decide whether you are worth the extra effort of speaking an extra syllable every time I address you. So you are Jenny. Jenny, yes? Jenny Jones. Yes, that sounds very American. Perfectly American. Jenny Jones from Chicago. I like it.” The man tossed the card onto the massive wooden desk and stood up from his leather chair.
The man stood tall, his broad frame towering above the imposingly large desk, its thick dark wood shining in the hard yellow light of the sprawling office. He was handsome, no doubt, Jenny thought as she glanced up into his eyes, doing a double-take when she saw they were a deep green, the color so dark it was almost black. His hair was thick and dark brown, impeccably styled, and even his three-day stubble looked like it had been trimmed by a professional. He wore perfectly fitted black pinstriped trousers, a tailored, blindingly white shirt with three buttons undone, no undershirt, the median of a sculpted chest and the top of what appeared to be a ridiculously cut six-pack clearly visible.
He had looked right at her breasts when she walked in, his gaze shamelessly taking in their swell before moving down along the curves of her wide hips, the contours of her shapely legs. He didn’t stare long enough to make her uncomfortable, though, and when he looked into her eyes and shook her hand, Jenny couldn’t deny that the tingle she felt wasn’t just pre-meeting nerves.
The man hadn’t introduced himself, and there had been no name on the solid oak door. There was no nameplate on the desk either. So Jenny looked into his eyes and took a breath and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name. The email I got said I’d be meeting with Ms. Yasmeena Bukhaara?”
“I’m Kabeer Bukhaara,” the man said as he sat down smoothly on his dark red leather chair behind that tremendously thick and wide desk. He pushed back from the desk and leaned back and smiled, and there was that tingle again running through Jenny. He gestured towards one of the upright chairs across from him, motioning for Jenny to sit. “Yasmeena is my sister, though she believes she is my mother sometimes. You do not know who I am?”
Jenny blinked, inhaling sharply and blinking again—like five times. The name was familiar, and oh, God, of COURSE she knew who he was—by reputation, at least! His name often came up in the local gossip columns that Paula would obsessively read and equally obsessively describe to Jenny, giving her unwanted (but interesting) updates on who was seen where, with whom, and all the rumors that went along with that. Certainly the name of Kabeer Bukhaara came up now and then, mostly because . . . because . . . well, because he was a PRINCE! Yes, Kabeer was the billionaire son of a billionaire Middle-Eastern Sheikh, and had chosen to live in Chicago, where he seemed to do a lot of interesting things with interesting people. He was also very, very photogenic.
And now Jenny remembered Paula holding up her phone to show off some of the photographs: Kabeer Bukhaara surfing in Hawaii; Kabeer Bukhaara swimming in St. Bart’s; Kabeer Bukhaara sunbathing in Brazil . . . naked!
Ohmygod, I’ve seen his ass! she thought suddenly in a panic, as that memory of Paula showing her a broad-shouldered man from behind, naked and tanned bronze, muscles weaved across his shoulders and arms, buttocks toned and perfect under the Rio de Janeiro sun.
“Um, OK, yes, of course I’ve heard of you,” Jenny said, the blood rushing to her face and then rushing down equally fast, making her feel faint. She blinked and tried to get that image out of her mind, but it wouldn’t go, and now she was looking at his chest, her eyes trailing downwards, and . . . oh, thank God he was sitting down, that heavy desk covering most of him. “But I didn’t . . .” she stammered.
“Didn’t recognize me with my clothes on?” he said, smiling wide, his green eyes sparkling as he made the sort of eye contact that almost made Jenny feel dirty. “I get that a lot. What can I say? Maybe I just have the kind of face that people forget.”
“Or maybe people just remember other things about you,” Jenny said without thinking, and now she turned bright red when she realized what he might take that to mean. Then she wondered what the hell she actually did mean by that, and she was mortified, petrified, stupefied. “Oh, GOD,” she gushed, her life flashing before her eyes now that she remembered she was in a business meeting. “That’s not what I meant, Mr. Bukhaara.”
But Kabeer Bukhaara was laughing, his head tilting back, lean body rocking back and forth in his leather swivel chair, his perfect white teeth on display, eyes squinting with amusement but still focused on her. “Ah, that was excellent! And call me Kabeer, please. Mr. Bukhaara is my dad. Nobody calls me Mr. Bukhaara.”
“My BUTLER? Haha! Well then, Miss Jenny. What does YOUR butler call YOU?”
Jenny laughed spontaneously. “Well, I’m not a billionaire SHEIKH with a penthouse in Chicago’s Gold Coast, a mansion in Lake Forest, a summer estate in the Florida Keys, and what I assume is a PALACE in your nation-state of Bukhaara!” She shrugged in a way that felt almost flirtatious, but she couldn’t help herself. “But if I WERE all those things, then I would most CERTAINLY have a butler! And his name would be—”
“So wait, you DO know something about me then,” Kabeer said, interrupting and leaning forward, elbows on the desk, eyes focused and alert now. “What else do you know about me?”
Jenny felt those butterflies again now, and her face was flush, her heat rising. “Well, uh, that you studied law but never passed the bar exam—”
“Actually, I never TOOK the bar exam. There is a difference. You make it sound like I failed it. I do not fail.”
“Oh, yeah, right. That’s what I meant. I mean, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard from people—mostly my cousin Paula. I mean, I never . . .”
“Never checked my Wikipedia page?”
Jenny blinked. “Well, no. You have a Wikipedia page?”
Kabeer pulled out his iPhone and tapped on it. Just one tap. “Here,” he said, handing the phone to Jenny.
It was opened to his Wikipedia page, and Jenny wondered for a moment if she was actually expected to read it right then.
“Yes, go on. Read it,” Kabeer said, leaning back and placing his feet on the desk, crossing one leg over the other, his Italian shoes scuffing the smooth teakwood polish.
“Right now?”
“Correct. Right now.”
“Uh, OK.” Jenny did an internal eye roll and began to read. Some of it she already knew, she realized: high school at Eton in Great Britain, undergrad at Paris-Sorbonne University (graduated ninth in his class; internationally ranked in squash); law school at Columbia (made it to law review). All kinds of achievements ranging from archery contest wins to open-water diving certifications and martial arts black belts (aikido and jujitsu). A section on the various celebrity women linked to him over the years (models, movie stars, billionaire heiresses, even a European princess). And then a section on a handful of arrests and citations, mostly for disorderly conduct, breaking and entering, and one that looked more serious: a recent arrest for assault and battery.
“Wait,” Jenny said as she noticed something odd on the page. “Is this in Edit mode? Are you actually updating your own Wikipedia page right now?”
Kabeer shrugged and leaned forward, hands with palms upturned, green eyes looking sweet and innocent beyond belief. “Well, I had to set the record straight, my dear Jenny! Those assault and battery charges are rubbish! I should know—I’m a bloody lawyer!”
“Not if you didn't pass the bar exam. Oh, excuse me—didn't TAKE the bar exam,” Jenny retorted, feeling her own smile break through as Kabeer laughed in delight at her quip.
Then Kabeer pointed at the phone again, and Jenny blinked and went back to the Wikipedia page. She clicked on a link, which took her to the original news article. There was a clear picture of Kabeer, shirtless and looking lean and ripped, throwing a punch at a man who seemed to be the size of a truck. There was another picture of Kabeer’s fist connecting with the man’s jaw, every muscle in Kabeer’s arm flexed and tight. And finally, there was a picture of the man going down, his eyes closed, like he was out cold on his feet from Kabeer’s blow, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
“Um,” Jenny said. “Well, I’m not a lawyer. But that man certainly appears to be getting battered by someone who looks sorta like you, Mr. Bukhaara.”
“I told you to call me Kabeer. And yes, I’m not saying I did not punch the asshole. Yes, I hit him. And the other man too—that one is not on film—thank God. But those guys assaulted me outside that club! And I was with a woman, so I did not want to take any chances. With two attackers, you must make sure that your first few punches count. You must put the first man down hard—unconscious if possible. You do not want him getting up to help his friend, you know?”
“Of course,” Jenny said, blinking hard, not sure what to think. She was silent for a moment, and then realized she was still staring at that shirtless photograph of Kabeer, his jaw set tight, muscles in his arms and torso shining with sweat, his eyes focused and determined, his balance perfect as he landed that blow, his follow-through after the punch making it look like he had done this before. Also in the photograph was a woman who looked familiar, like Jenny had seen her on a billboard or a full-page ad in some magazine. The woman in the picture wasn’t looking at the large man who was going down. No, she was staring at Kabeer, a look of pure adulation on her face. Jenny took a moment to look at the woman: high cheekbones, sunken hollows instead of actual cheeks, twiggy body that looked like it hadn’t hit puberty yet, even though the woman was clearly in her twenties. That’s your type, huh, Kabeer? she thought as she suddenly felt a wave of self-consciousness go through her as she pulled at the bottom of her suit jacket, which felt uncomfortably tight right then.
The feeling woke her up a bit, throwing a dose of reality back into the situation. What the hell are you doing, Jenny, she asked herself. This is the biggest business meeting of your life. It’s not a goddamn first date! What the hell is WRONG with you, girl? Why do you even CARE what this billionaire Sheikh’s type is?
She was about to hand the phone back to Kabeer when it suddenly vibrated in her hand. A text message notification popped up on the screen:
Yasmeena: Where are you Kabeer? Father is waiting and he is angry. And I am even more angry.
Jenny quickly put the phone on the desk and slid it over to Kabeer. He didn’t reach for it.
“I think you just got a message,” Jenny said, pointing at the phone.
Kabeer shrugged. “Anything important?”
What am I, your secretary? Jenny thought, but she just shrugged like she hadn’t read the message.
Kabeer smirked, his eyes still focused on Jenny. “OK, Jenny, if the phone vibrated in your hand, then the message must have popped up on the screen, and you must have at least looked at it.” He laughed, a cocky I-am-so-comfortable-with-my-awesomeness-and-power-that-I-don’t-care-if-anyone-reads-my-private-messages look on his handsome, naturally tanned face. “So just tell me who it is from.”
Jenny swallowed once and looked him in the eye. “Yasmeena. She wants to know where you are. I guess your dad’s waiting, and he’s pissed. They’re both pissed.”
And now Kabeer’s expression changed, a bit of that natural tan appearing to fade as he went pale and grabbed the phone. “Ya, Allah,” he muttered under his breath as he began to furiously type. He tapped once and waited. A few seconds later a message came back in, and he exhaled.
He looked up at her, a wry smile curling his lips that looked very clean and full, now that Jenny glanced at his mouth. I bet he’s a great kisser, she thought, as she tried to remember the last time she’d kissed someone. Maybe that guy Steve. Was that seriously the last time? Holy smokes, that was over a year ago! She glanced at Kabeer’s lips once again. When was the last time a woman kissed those lips, she wondered, allowing herself to drift for a moment as Kabeer focused on his phone again.
Now Kabeer stood up, turning around and reaching for his jacket, which was draped over a chair off to the side. As he turned his back to her, Jenny remembered that photograph again, the one of him on the beach in Rio, sun beating down on his bare back, naked buttcheeks, muscular legs. Did she remember seeing the edges of a tattoo around the meaty part of his right arm? Oh, hell, will you get a grip, Jenny! Jeez.
“Come on,” Kabeer said now, putting his jacket on and beckoning to Jenny with a head motion directed towards the door. “Let us ride.”
“Ride?” Jenny said, not sure what wa
s happening but standing up anyway, straightening her black skirt and carefully navigating her heels through the treacherously deep carpet that seemed to change color from dark maroon to shining purple as she walked. “Where are we going?”
“The lake,” Kabeer said, striding to the thick wooden door and holding it open for Jenny, who was trying to hurry without falling on her face.
“Lake?”
“Lake Michigan,” Kabeer said with a laugh as he put his arm around Jenny’s waist for a moment to usher her out as the door fell shut behind her. He leaned in close, so close she could smell his subtle cologne—a hint of tobacco leaf, she thought—very masculine. “You know, that big lake near downtown?” His arm tightened around her waist as he led her out, and as they turned the corner, she felt him pull her close and lean in again as he finished the sentence.
“Yes, I know Lake Michigan,” Jenny said with a nervous laugh. She was vividly aware of his arm around her waist, and even more vividly aware of the looks she was getting from the few other employees—mostly young women with bodies by Chanel. They glanced at her, then at Kabeer, and then back at her. For a moment she felt a wave of indignation that Kabeer thought it was appropriate to touch her that way at a business meeting. But she had to admit that it felt all right. Felt nice even. There was an electricity there, she thought, when he touched her. And the way his strong arm circled her waist so easily . . . the way his fingers tightened against her side as he guided her into the elevator . . . the way she felt her heat rise, her heart beat, her stomach flutter . . . yes, it was all right. It was all right.
“Why Lake Michigan?” Jenny asked as the elevator doors opened in the downstairs lobby.
“That’s where the yacht is,” Kabeer said, his arm tightening around her waist again as he guided her towards a different set of elevators. “This way. We’re parked underground.”