The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) Read online

  She nodded. “But Daddy likes to stick to a plan. So I got the name—only a little adjusted.”

  “And now you’re following his footsteps?”

  She smiled. “I’m Daddy’s problem solver.” And his deal maker. She’d learned young how to twist arms, leverage weaknesses and bargain hard. This, however, was due to be the longest pipeline in the Middle East and the crowning jewel in Opell Oil’s empire. Gordon had made her work hard to get her hands on this deal—and he’d all but said he was now looking at her to run the company when he retired at the end of the year.

  But that wasn’t certain yet.

  Gordon had two others—Benson and Williams—that he’d also been grooming for top spots, and Nigella knew that when it came to business, Gordon put the company ahead of family. The way it should be. Of course, that still stung at times. Which meant she was going to earn the right to take over from Daddy—and this deal would prove her worthy. Yet again.

  She glanced out at the courtyard they were overlooking, and blinked hard. She wasn’t going to dig up old wounds—not the ones that had her having to work harder than any son. She was here to prove to Daddy that she had what it took to be the next head of Opell Oil.

  Waving her water glass, she asked, “So…did you buy or build all this?”

  Malid shook his head. He sat back, hands folded over a very flat stomach. He’d taken off his ball cap and had dragged his fingers through his hair, leaving it disordered. She almost wanted to do the same thing. Thankfully, the maid came back with two others—and plates with salads, the hummus she’d learned you always got anywhere in the Middle East, flatbread, fruits, something that smelled like roast lamb, and finely chopped cucumbers mixed with olives. She realized she was hungry and started to help herself.

  Malid sipped his water and gave her that mysterious smile of his. “Not quite. Now, before you ruin our luncheon by asking more questions that will no doubt lead to a subject I despise, I suggest we discuss the details of your offer.”

  She raised an eyebrow in his direction and dug into the flatbread. It was fresh, melted in her mouth, and was perfect. She nodded and pulled out a sheaf of papers from her messenger bag. In the field, she liked to have hard copy, not computers. “That’s the offer my father presented to your father.”

  Malid took the papers and read through them. Nigella shamelessly ate. The lamb was as good as the smell promised—moist, marinated in something with citrus and delicately spiced. The fruits were perfectly ripe and sweet. She could get used to this diet. Then Malid started to frown, and Nigella’s stomach tightened. He glanced at her. “Opell Oil wants to purchase the land, not just lease it? You expect us to sell land that has been in our family for over two centuries?”

  Putting down the flatbread—the meal was to be eaten with the fingers, her favorite kind of food—Nigella wiped her hands on her napkin and met that dark-eyed, steady gaze. The man would make a great poker player, and she had thought this might be an issue that would need to be hammered out. “I’ve done a comparable cost analysis for similar land, and I believe our offer is more than fair. Do you see a problem?”

  Eyes narrowing, he put the papers down on the table. “Adjalane will not sell you the land.”

  She let out a breath. “We are looking at other sites. A long-term lease is just…well, it means we would build a resource that would one day not be ours, and we like to look at the long term.”

  That damn smile came out again—it was starting to torment her. “Come up with another offer.”

  Nigella picked up her water. Okay, so he was going to play hardball. She could do that. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “No, right here. Right now. Surely you can come up with a counter that I will find more appealing?”

  Frowning, she wanted to pick up an olive and throw it at him. That was childish. Instead, she put down her water and smiled back. “I’ll have to look at the numbers again. And we’ll want to look at those other sites first.”

  Malid shook his head and made a tsking noise that had her clenching her hand around her napkin. “Do you take your time with all major decisions?” he asked.

  “I find it makes for fewer mistakes and not so many regrets. Due diligence is not a bad thing.” Daddy might love to act from his gut. She didn’t. Given that Malid had done something to get himself booted from the family, she was betting he had his own hot temper.

  She held Malid’s gaze, daring him to challenge her decision-making process. He just smiled back, those lush lips curved with a secret. “You’ve never known the adrenaline rush of making a split second decision and living with the consequences, be they good or bad?”

  “I don’t like surprises.” She let the words out in a flat tone. It was about time he learned she wasn’t going to be swayed.

  Just as fast, the smile went to a blaze that took her breath. He swept out a hand. “Let us forget about business and enjoy our meal.” He dug into the food, started asking if she had any hobbies, spoke of places he had seen in his travels and asked if she traveled much.

  She had, but she was still suspicious of this sudden shift. “Daddy was in the air more than he was on the ground, and with my mother’s passing, he started taking me with him. That and the nanny of the week got me to college. Daddy’s a demanding individual, and not many of the hired help ever could put up with him for more than a few months.”

  “Did you not grow tired of the constant change?” Malid asked. He leaned forward. “I ask, having had the same caretakers my entire life.”

  She had to smile at that. “Makes you adept at getting people to do what you want them to, doesn’t it?”

  He offered her more flatbread. She was tempted, but had to decline—she’d been pigging out on the hummus. Malid helped himself and said, “My guess is you are very good at what you do.”

  “Fishing there?” He gave her a blank look, and she said, “It’s called catching more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, and you’re spreading the sweet on a tad too thick there.”

  “I will keep that in mind as we go forward in business then.”

  ***

  After lunch, Malid suggested a walk through the gardens. Nigella agreed. They kept to safe topics—Nigella was interested in what would grow in the heat, and Malid talked of irrigation and shading.

  It seemed to him that a chemistry simmered between them, but he did not know yet what to make of that. Would it be useful—or a distraction? Nigella was certainly a pleasant visual that kept snagging his stare as she bent to sniff at the jasmine or turned to admire one of the many fountains that helped to cool the courtyard and the house. He liked her long legs, the way she moved—he even liked the touch of a drawl that slipped into her words when she spoke of home.

  She seemed, too, to approve of his palace.

  The doors stood open on the ground floor and sheer, white drapery billowed out from the rooms. The splash of the fountains also made for a pleasant background sound. He plucked a hibiscus—a vivid red bloom and presented it to her. Her cheeks pinked, but she seemed not to care for a great deal of flattery.

  A blunt woman, he thought. Refreshingly so. But quite as determined to get her way as he was. He would take his time with this deal, he decided. There was chemistry between them—they were alike in some things, he thought, and that intrigued him. But business was business, and he could not let an attraction make him stupid. One thing he had learned over the past few months was the value of patience—and he was determined to see Nigella be the one to give on the matter of this lease.

  Chapter 3

  Malid sent Nigella home in his car—Fadin would drive her back to her hotel. He thought about going along—it was a two-hour drive and he wanted to spend more time with her, to figure her out. But Nigella was starting to look decided jet lagged. And she had said she needed time to think.

  He agreed to meet her at the temporary headquarters for Opell Oil in two days. Malid planned to use the t
ime to find out more about her and any possible weaknesses in Opell Oil. It was possible he could structure a price that would make a lease far more appealing to her and her father.

  Watching the car pull away, Malid wondered if such a woman as her had a husband. He did not think so. She wore no ring, and she had the air of someone whose life had been consumed by business. He knew about that, too. Until he had earned his father’s disapproval, Malid’s life and ambition had been to be the CEO of the family’s company. Now…now he had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

  He had started a few small companies—technology ventures, which would encourage young people to stay in Al-Sarid, and a few charities that could help some of the nomadic tribes deal with the ever-changing world. He had grown tired of any kind of night clubbing years ago—and in some ways he thought it a pity he had never married. A family would have been a good distraction for him. But he had never had time before now.

  Perhaps he was more like Nigella in that way—both of them consumed by business, by making the deal, by being the best.

  He headed back inside the palace, thinking of her and her expressive, amethyst eyes.

  ***

  Malid stepped out of the vehicle, grateful that Fadin had insisted on driving him to this meeting with Nigella. It gave him extra time to think of possible tactics he might have to use and to catch up with his other ventures, which he had neglected over the past two days.

  He had kept himself busy digging into Opell Oil. Given how oil prices had not been good of late—rising and falling and being utterly undependable—the company was looking to diversify. They had been quietly investing into other technologies—wind and solar power among them. That could be useful for Al-Sarid and another way to encourage Opell to seek a lease—with options for solar and wind installations.

  He’d also received word from one of his sources that Opell Oil had been speaking with officials in the neighboring country of Tawzar, which was eager to get the Opell pipeline.

  Tawzar had struggled to keep up with both newer technology and oil production. He knew they could greatly use the revenues from such a deal, and that might lead them to attempt giving Opell far more than the Adjalane family intended to offer. However, Tawzar had an unstable government—that was the greatest drawback. Malid would use that if he needed to, but he hoped he could secure a deal with Nigella today without mention of Tawzar.

  Opell Oil had set up temporary offices in a high rise that blended technology with old world charm of the coastal city in Dubai. It was interesting they had not chosen to lease space in Al-Sarid. He did not believe in signs and omens—but he did believe in the unspoken message. This message clearly said that Opell Oil had not yet fixed on Al-Sarid as their best option for a pipeline.

  In the lobby, Malid noted that Opell Oil had offices on the thirty-fifth floor. He enjoyed the view of the city as the glass-enclosed elevator carried him upward.

  Nigella would hopefully have another offer—if she didn’t, he had several ideas to present for her consideration. The idea of seeing her again sent a pleasant shiver over his skin. He was moderately curious to see if the attraction he’d felt between them the other day remained or had it been a passing fancy—an interest only because she had seemed so different from the other women he had met over his life.

  Stepping out of the elevator, he took in thick, slate-colored carpets, a floral arrangement on a side table, a large piece of slate with water cascading down it, and the opaque walls of glass that provided the occupants inside the offices privacy.

  The receptionist seemed to expect him for she showed him into a conference room with a view of Dubai and the sea.

  Malid hated to be kept waiting—in his life, people waited on him, not the other way around. However, this was business. Hiding his irritation, he took a seat at the boardroom table. It was large and of a polished mahogany that spoke of money. He, too had dressed to impress—an Armani suit and tie, with a white taub over it and the keffiyeh favored by his family. Today, he was Sheikh Malid Adjalane. Anyone who saw him in traditional robes would know he was a person of importance and authority.

  Staring out at the skyline, he wondered what Nigella would think of his garb—and what would she be wearing?

  The snick of a door opening behind him had him turning, but Nigella brought another man with her. The resemblance was obvious at once

  Gordon Michaels had the same eyes as his daughter, the same dark hair—almost black with a touch of brown. However, gray streaked his hair. Age, sun and weather had lined his skin. He obviously kept himself fit—but Malid was going to guess he had been ill recently. Instead of his coat being a perfect fit, it hung a touch loose. He came into the room, and Malid stood—the man’s personality was such that he swept in with arrogance and domination. Malid stiffened and glanced at Nigella.

  She’d dressed in a black business suit—a thin skirt, a silk button-down blouse, a blazer over the top. Her hair was pulled back, and her makeup was as bold as her jewelry today. Judging by her expression, she was not happy to have her father with her today.

  Malid turned to Gordon Michaels. “I assumed I would be meeting with your daughter.”

  The other man didn’t even look at Nigella. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room. He glanced at Malid’s robes and said, “What seems to be the problem with my offer?”

  Glancing at Nigella, Malid lifted an eyebrow. She dropped her stare to the floor—ah, so she could do nothing with her father. He knew the feeling. Turning back to Michaels, he said, “Nigella called you? Or emailed? And you think somehow you must fly here and fix this in person—that she was not able to handle this?”

  Michaels huffed out a breath. “You trying to hold my company hostage? We put a huge sum on the table for what amounts to little more than piles of sand.”

  “Daddy—?”

  Michaels slashed his hand, silencing Nigella. Her cheeks pinked, and Malid’s face heated. This was a family matter obviously, but Michaels was pulling Malid into it. He forced himself to smile and sit down. “I came here to negotiate with Nigella—not you.”

  Crossing his arms, Michaels said, “If I have to, we’ll go east and run the pipeline through Tawzar. And you and your backwards country can go on still livin’ in the dark ages.”

  Nigella stepped forward, pushing between her father and Malid. “Daddy—can we have a word?”

  Glancing from Nigella to her father, Malid wondered who would win this contest of wills between them. Until now, Nigella had seemed unable to do much with her father—now, however, now she looked a spitfire. A warrior ready to do battle. In heels, she stood as tall as her father—and she looked him in the eye. Michaels hesitated—and Nigella used that moment. She put a hand on his arm and her drawl thickened. “Please, Daddy.”

  What man could resist that tone? Malid saw Michaels soften—the man’s eyes lost their sharp edge, his shoulders eased and he gave a quick nod. He shot a last look at Malid as if to promise this wasn’t settled yet, but he let his daughter lead him from the conference room, mild as a lamb.

  And wasn’t that interesting.

  It seemed there was an unofficial power struggle within the Opell Oil. In his research, Malid had read that Gordon Michaels was grooming possible successors. There had not been a word about any illness—but the man he had just met was not the same, robust man he had seen in so many images online. This put a new slant on things. Opell Oil might need this pipeline sooner than Malid had thought—if Michaels died while he was still CEO, Opell Oil stock would drop. That was only to be expected. It would no doubt recover—but the company would be exposed to hostile takeovers. Michaels would be wise to name a successor and ensure a smooth transition that would leave stockholders feeling secure enough that they did not rush to sell their shares

  That meant Nigella Michaels would no doubt want to secure the pipeline at once.

  Malid smiled—suddenly he knew it was in his best interests to drag
out negotiations. Opell Oil would soon be begging to sign any deal. All he must do is distract Nigella and keep the deal in play just long enough.

  Chapter 4

  Nigella stepped back into the conference room. It had taken coaxing her daddy, badgering him, reminding him what the doctor had said about his blood pressure, and then reminding him that he’d promised her she’d be lead on this deal. That had finally done it. Gordon Michaels might be a tough, stubborn son-of-a-bitch, but his word and handshake were legendary—as solid as gold in the bank. She’d outlined how she planned to go at Malid, and he’d finally agreed that her tactics were good.

  She’d also gotten him to admit he didn’t understand the culture of the region, nor did he want to. In his mind, the universal language was dollars. She’d told him time and again that family and heritage often trumped monetary gain. He’d never gotten that message—but he had agreed she was still his problem solver.

  And Malid was proving to be a problem.

  Smiling at him, she came over to him. She’d left him sitting in one of the chairs, but now he was standing. He’d been staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows when she’d entered, but he’d turned.

  “I apologize for my father—he’s…well, he just flew in and he’s never in the best mood after a long flight. If you’ll come with me, we can finish our meeting in my office. I can promise you there will be no more interference from Daddy. He’s got…well, he’s actually here on a different matter.” Searching Malid’s dark eyes—they looked hard and cold just now—she tried to convey how sorry she was and silently begged him to give her the chance she was asking for.

  He inclined his head. “I must admit I, too, know what it is to be at odds with one’s father. It is the one good thing of being asked to absent myself—while I have missed my home and certain members of my family, I haven’t missed fighting with Nimr. And the approved way for my brothers Adilan and Nassir and I to settle an argument is with fists. That I haven’t missed, either.”