The Sheikh's Priceless Baby

by Holly Rayner

  It wasn’t like I could afford it. At the moment, I was too busy spending all my money on my parents. They’d lost a whole lot of their business at their little coffee shop in the rush of the corporate chains to LA several years ago, and had been getting closer and closer to the bottom of their savings account every day since. Bankruptcy was right around the next corner, and the last time I was home, two weeks ago, they’d actually received a foreclosure notice on their house.

  I didn’t have the money to save them. I was just a lowly freelance journalist. But I did have this interview. And with luck, I would be able to sell it for enough to give us some breathing space on that whole foreclosure situation.

  If I was really lucky, I’d be able to make two months’ worth of payments. Maybe even secure more cash with a follow-up interview with another Al-Sharim, or a review of the resort or something.

  I hated that this was even a thought I had to think. I wasn’t good at things like responsibilities and paying bills on time. And I really hated having to plan ahead. Jumping to the next article before I’d even finished the one I was currently working on. I was a writer, and therefore an artist and a dreamer at heart. But when your parents need you…

  You do what you’ve gotta do.

  And if that ‘gotta do’ came with a side of electric green eyes and tousled black hair? Well, it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.

  I grinned at Aziz, who was looking my way again, his eyes screaming about how bored he was, and then I watched him—weirdly—take his watch off and hand it to his assistant. Moments later he was speaking to another suit, and his assistant—also weirdly—was putting the watch down on a table, then reaching for his phone with a frazzled look on his face and answering it.

  Then the assistant was turning and walking away.

  Chapter 5

  Faye

  What in the diamond-studded timepiece was going on here? Why had Aziz taken the watch off? And why was his assistant being so freaking sloppy with it? He couldn’t just put something like that down on a table and walk away!

  We might be in the midst of the richest of the rich, but that thing would disappear in a hot second, courtesy of some sticky-fingered waiter. To be fair, maybe not even a sticky-fingered waiter but just some junior investor guy who had the bank’s money to throw around but none of his own.

  I didn’t even think about it. I just started walking toward the watch in question—without anything like a plan or rational thought, but only the idea that the watch couldn’t be left there on its own. Sure, I realized somewhere in the back of my mind that the watch belonged to Aziz and I might be doing him a favor with my actions, but that wasn’t what had my feet flying across the floor.

  It was something a whole lot deeper. That watch was valuable. Responsible people didn’t leave valuable things like that sitting around. I might have been a dreamer, but I also knew the value of money—and objects.

  Only an idiot would have left it unattended. And if I saw someone making a mistake, I was darn sure going to correct it.

  I was making my way through the crowd to retrieve it when one of my reporting colleagues saw me and decided that he needed to start a conversation about yet another resort opening up in Dubai, and this time under the Al-Sharim umbrella.

  “So, have you seen the grounds? Do you think this one will compete with The Jewel?” he asked, grabbing me as I tried to scoot by. “You’ve done more work in this area than I have. Is this… a good party? Are they putting their best foot forward?”

  Jeez, what was with the twenty questions? Yeah, this particular colleague was new to the game and didn’t exactly know what he was doing yet, while I’d done about five million different jobs in the Middle East, but that didn’t mean I was available (or willing) to do free consulting for him.

  When you’re a freelance journalist, you learn to keep your facts close, your ideas even closer. Because it was a free market economy, and it didn’t necessarily matter who had an idea first. The only thing that mattered was who wrote about it first—and best—and who had the most important contacts at any given media outlet.

  We were all friendly enough, and we’d all moved in the same circles for long enough to be on first-name terms with almost everyone else in the reporting crew. I would even have called several of them my friends. That didn’t mean I could just play fast and loose with my ideas, though. I didn’t generally tell other reporters what I thought of things. Particularly when they were new reporters who didn’t know the code of honor that we all lived by.

  I didn’t even know this kid’s last name, now that I thought about it.

  I gave him a slight smile, though, trying to be nice. “Roger, you know I’m not going to give you any of that information. You can read all about it in my article.”

  He pouted at that. “Oh, come on,” he said with a head cock. “You can give me your opinions without destroying any of your leads. It’s not like you’re going to use all of them in your story.”

  I thought about it for a moment, and decided that I probably could. “I think the Al-Sharims were incredibly lucky to get this particular piece of real estate. It’s a mile better than what they have for The Jewel. That alone will get them a leg up.”

  He nodded, frowning as if he was trying to commit all of that to memory, and I congratulated myself on not giving him anything important. That bit about the real estate was common knowledge. I might use it—but so would everyone else. This parcel of land had been a steal. Well, probably a really expensive one, but still. It wasn’t news. Roger wasn’t going to have anything unique there, and he certainly wasn’t going to be able to scoop me with it.

  Then he grinned. “So have you been in the rooms upstairs yet? What did you think of them?”

  I frowned and gave him a look. “Why would I care about the rooms upstairs? I’m here to cover the party, and as far as I know, there’s no party going on in those rooms.”

  He slid closer to me, his arm moving around my waist, and his voice suddenly dropped. “We could make a party in one of those rooms, if you wanted. I’ve seen you around. I know how well-connected you are. What if we formed a partnership, of sorts? You know the Al-Sharims and I’m sure you could introduce me. If you wanted to. If I gave you a… good reason.”

  I swear on everything holy that I almost slugged him. He was way too close—without permission—and way too entitled to even think he was allowed to touch me like that. You know that code of honor I just talked about before? Yeah, a big part of that was that we all respected each other—even if we didn’t like each other. We didn’t go out of our way to scoop other reporters, and we definitely, definitely didn’t force ourselves on someone who obviously didn’t want the attention.

  When I looked up at Roger, my eyes were narrowed and I knew my face held a dangerous edge to it. “Roger, I suggest you get your hands off of me and take three steps back before I have to do something we’ll both regret. You’ve already done enough damage to your reputation by hassling someone who’s been on the beat a lot longer than you have. Don’t make it any worse.”

  He pushed his lower lip out like a kid who’s just been told he doesn’t get to go on recess, but let go of me.

  I gave him one more dangerous look, then spun around, got my eyes on that watch again, and continued my journey, marking Roger down on my list of reporters I didn’t want to talk to again—and promising myself that I’d let others on the circuit know what a sleazeball he was.

  Two minutes later, after having to actually push through several small knots of people, I reached the table where Aziz’s assistant had set the watch down. I couldn’t really believe it was still here, but I was happy to find it. Now that I was looking at it, I could see that it was in fact diamond encrusted. And a very high-end label, to boot.

  I slid it into my clutch and then turned and headed for the bar again. I couldn’t see Aziz from this location, and I wanted to see where he’d gone now.

  I wanted to make eye contact with him again. I
wanted to feel that thrill run right down my spine and hit my legs. I wanted to be sure it was easy for him to find me when he was finally finished with the investors. Because I wanted that interview, and I wanted to hear more about what he thought of the world at large.

  And now, I also wanted to return his watch and tell him that he needed to fire his assistant for being so careless.

  Chapter 6

  Aziz

  The moment the guy let go of Faye, I breathed a sigh of relief—glad to see that she’d been able to handle him on her own—and turned back to the investor I was talking to, trying desperately to get my attention back on what he was saying. Something about a project in Hawaii. Something about a contract with my father and uncles.

  “We’ve got it all settled already,” he said when I came back into the conversation. “I’ve agreed to ten billion dollars in construction costs. But you guys are providing all the labor. In the end, we split it fifty-fifty, clean down the middle.”

  I tipped my head at that, doing the numbers quickly. They didn’t quite add up.

  “If we’re paying for all the construction, ten billion might not get you fifty percent,” I said quickly. “It’s not cheap to build in Hawaii. You have to import the labor, and particularly the tradesmen. Finishing trades will have to be flown in from the mainland. And don’t even get me started on the supplies and permitting.”

  The man waved me off, though, in the way rich old investors do, and laughed a Santa Claus sort of laugh, like this was all one big joke. “I’ve already worked it out with your company, son. Your uncles have signed off on the deal. Just wanted to meet you personally, let you know how impressed I am with your work. I’m excited to be working with you on the new resort.”

  Well, if he’d already done the deal, I would count on corporate to let me know what our budget actually was for construction, then, and leave it at that. At the end of the day, I wasn’t the money guy in the family—most of the time, that part was already done when I came into the picture. I just spent the money—building things that would bring in more of it.

  “You’ve got it,” I said, sticking out my hand. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  The man turned and started talking to someone else without even bothering to sign out of our conversation, his voice booming through the space around us, and I turned as well, glad to be rid of him. It was a terrible thing to say, and some part of my brain knew that I should be ashamed of myself on my family’s behalf for playing so cavalierly with someone I was going to be working with before long.

  The rest of my brain, though, had my eyes already scanning the crowd in front of me, looking for honey-colored hair and a pale pink gown, worn by a woman who looked like she spent most of her time outside in the sun.

  The last time I’d seen Faye, she’d been in the center of the dance floor, more or less, being accosted by some guy who looked like he was trying out for a modeling contract after the party.

  I narrowed my eyes and spotted him—which meant he hadn’t followed her—but I couldn’t see her. After a moment, though, she reappeared, her clutch held protectively in front of her, her eyes on the bar once more.

  A smile touched my lips and my face warmed a bit, and I started moving after her. I had a date with that woman at the bar, and I meant to keep it. Regardless of how many other investors thought they needed to talk to me.

  I slid up to the bar moments after her, coming up behind her and gesturing for the bartender to get me another drink. I didn’t wait to see whether he acknowledged me—or if he frowned with confusion at what I might want.

  I might have made fun of my family for being larger than life, but I was still entitled enough to know what my name brought with it. And one of those things was knowing for a fact that the bartender would remember exactly what I’d been drinking. He would have been told to keep track of that sort of thing.

  I glanced down, saw that Faye didn’t yet have another drink, and gestured again, motioning for him to get hers, as well.

  He’d have remembered hers, too. She would be falling under the umbrella of Girls Mr. Al-Sharim Is Talking To.

  It wasn’t something I was proud of. I didn’t necessarily like the notoriety. But as long as it was a fact of life, I was certainly going to take advantage of it. And make sure that the girl I was currently talking to got to take advantage of it, as well.

  “Smooth,” a voice said suddenly. “All that communication, and no words necessary.”

  Looking down, I saw that Faye had actually caught me motioning toward the bartender—and was, of course, poking fun at me for it.

  I gave her a wry and completely unforced smile—a rarity for me—and shrugged. “One of the perks of my last name is that the bartender gets paid to remember exactly what I’ve been ordering. And what the girl I’m with has been ordering. It makes getting a refill a whole lot easier.”

  She gave me a serious, mocking look. “What the girl you’re with is ordering? And how often does that happen? Should I be feeling like just another girl, here? Is he going to mix up my drink with the girl on the other side of the room, who you’ve also been drinking with? Because I’m warning you, I won’t drink some fruity thing with an umbrella in the top.”

  I huffed out a laugh. “It doesn’t happen that often, actually. Nearly never, if you want to know the truth. So I would say… no. You shouldn’t feel like just another girl. And you don’t have to worry about a fruity drink suddenly appearing in front of you.”

  She gazed up at me, still serious, her lips parting suddenly as if that had been exactly the right answer. Then she shook herself and grinned, her face morphing from the woman I thought she probably was to the face she was wearing for the party. “Well, you do know how to make a girl feel special. But I’m not sure I believe you when you say you don’t take girls out often.”

  I took my drink from the bartender and leaned up against the bar, giving her a look out of the corner of my eye. “You’d be awfully surprised. Being the head of an entire arm of the family business doesn’t exactly leave me a lot of time for a personal life.”

  She jabbed gently at me with her elbow. “Join the club, dude. I’m on the road almost all year, with the same group of people, and we’re all constantly competing with each other. It makes it awfully hard to find a date. Most of the guys I know consider me competition, not date material.”

  And there was my opening, right there. I hadn’t even realized I was looking for it, but the moment she said it, I knew that she’d handed me exactly what I’d been waiting for. I had no idea whether she’d done it on purpose or not, but I’d have been a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity.

  I turned, still leaning on the bar, and did my absolute best to look casual. “So here we are, both dateless—and incapable of finding dates for ourselves. Maybe fate brought us together.”

  She huffed out a laugh and then mimicked my pose, turning toward me and lifting her gaze up to mine. I felt the breath leave my lungs at the look on her face. The hungry, intense look that darkened her eyes until they were nearly brown.

  The look that said we were suddenly talking about a whole lot more than just our lack of dates.

  The look that also said I hadn’t been the only one to notice the electric current running between us. And I was guessing I also wasn’t the only one feeling the effects deep inside my belly.

  “And why would fate bother with that?” she asked, her voice nearly a whisper.

  I moved toward her until we were only inches apart, her eyes darting down to my lips and back up again, her tongue sliding out to wet her own bottom lip.

  “So you could get your interview, of course,” I whispered, knowing that she knew I was talking about something totally different. “But I vote that we change venues.”

  “And why would we want to do that?” she whispered back, her voice flirty and suggestive.

  I leaned in and met her lips, mine barely grazing across hers, that electricity I’d felt before sparking
and fizzing as I kissed her, keeping it shallow and innocent, but feeling the effects of it in every bone in my body. “Because I’d like to get you somewhere that we won’t be disturbed,” I said simply, deciding that I could afford to be brutally honest here.

  She pressed her lips together and tipped her head back and forth, her eyes going to the side like she was actually considering the offer. Like she might actually turn it down. And for a moment, I felt like I’d just made a huge mistake. Totally overstepped. Counted on her to be more impressed with who I was than she actually was.

  Then she grinned at me, like she knew exactly what she was doing—and how much she was teasing me—and nodded. “That sounds like an excellent plan. I’ve had enough of this party, anyhow.”

  She turned and made her way toward the elevators, and I followed, allowing myself to rest my fingertips on the small of her back and absorbing every jolt of energy that came with the contact.

  Chapter 7

  Faye

  We walked through a hallway that was nearly as grand and impressive as the ballroom we’d just left, and before long we were at an elevator bank that looked like it was built from solid white marble.

  God, this place was so expensive I was almost afraid to touch anything. I might leave fingerprints on something that was for some reason not cleanable.

  Of course, I was walking around with the guy that had actually built the joint. So I guessed he’d be able to tell me what I could and could not touch, and how to do it without leaving any permanent smudges. He’d even, I guessed, be able to tell me what I absolutely shouldn’t touch, in case it was dangerous or something.

  My thoughts went right to wondering whether I was allowed to touch him, or if it was going to be too dangerous—and from there, to that kiss we’d shared at the bar. And then, to something a whole lot deeper.