The Sheikh’s Forced Bride (The Sharjah Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 5

  Now Casey wanted to roll her eyes—did these two never give up picking at each other? The sultan needed a few lessons in how to parent, and Khalid needed a few in how to prove to his father that he could be trusted. Instead, the two men stared at each other, as if each of them was waiting for the other one to blink. Casey decided enough was enough.

  Faking a yawn—and she had no idea if that was rude or not—she stretched and then said, “Think I’ll turn in. Good night.” She headed for the stairs, leaving father and son to sort out whatever they could. At least she didn’t hear shouting coming up the stairs after her, just some low words swapped—no doubt the two of them poking at each other still—and then a firm set of steps.

  From the top landing, she glanced back to see Khalid coming up the steps after her. He offered up a crooked smile. “My father ordered me to see you to your room to ensure you might be comfortable.”

  She propped on hand on her hip. “You do know he does that just to see if you’re going to jump when he cracks that verbal whip of his.”

  Khalid lifted a shoulder as if it didn’t matter to him, but she could see his mouth tighten. She was going to bet he didn’t like being treated as if he was twelve still—what man would? Mouth relaxing, Khalid reached her side. “Fathers and sons in this family have always been half at war—the stories I have heard of my grandfather from my uncles have him being a worse tyrant than my father.”

  “You know that still doesn’t make it right.”

  He shrugged again and let her to her room. “Right is a matter of perspective at times.”“And other times it’s just a matter of right and wrong.”

  His lips twitched. They stopped outside the door to her room and he touched a fingertip to her cheek. “So American—always seeing things in absolutes.”

  She smiled. “It’s one of the things you love about me—remember?”

  His smile faded. “And this is another.” Leaning close, he touched his mouth to hers. She put a hand on his chest, unable—and unwilling—to resist. She’d been wanting this ever since she’d seen him naked and dripping wet—and looking good enough to eat with a spoon. She gave a moan and he deepened the kiss, his lips softening, his mustache and beard scraping her skin ever so slightly. He smelled of the minerals from the spa waters, of spiced oil from his massage and of something male and compelling—some scent that had to be his own.

  Her head spun and a spark sizzled through her, incinerating every intent to keep her distance. She wound her arm around his neck and pulled him closer. He tasted exquisite—exotic and all too tempting.

  Before she could lose herself utterly, she pulled back, pushing gently on his chest. He let her break the kiss. She was breathing hard and so was he.

  She stared at him. His eyes had darkened. “Invite me in,” he said the words a husky rasp that sent a shiver through her.

  She kept her hand firmly on his chest. “I understand we need to keep up appearances, but let’s not start fooling ourselves. I’m gone as soon as I have my story, and you’re not a man who settles down with any one woman.”

  “How do you know I have not met the right woman?” He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. Then he licked a strip across her wrist where her pulse was skipping. She gave a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ll believe that story when the world turns upside down. Good night, lover. Hope you have sweet dreams.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth, because she couldn’t resist. Before he could put his arms around her, she opened her door and slipped inside. She closed the door fast, flipped the lock and collapsed against it, letting out a long breath. And she was still thinking about all that naked, dark skin and strong muscles she’d just turned down.

  Chewing her lower lip, she wondered if she should open the door and invite him in after all. But she’d been honest—they had no possible future. He was going to be a sultan one day—she was aiming for a Pulitzer. Where was there any room for the two of them in that?

  Could be a great fling.

  Shaking her head, she pushed off the door. She needed to keep her mind on her story—and on the fact that women in Sharjah didn’t get much choice about their marriages or their lives.

  A cold shower and changing from that amazing dress into her baggy sweats brought her back down to earth. She rummaged through her backpack and pulled out her laptop. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she booted up the computer and started to type notes.

  With immeasurable wealth comes immeasurable power.

  She wrinkled her nose. The black letters stared back at her on the white screen. While she agreed with the statement, it sounded trite and wasn’t a great lead line.

  She deleted the sentence and stared at the blank screen again.

  Her mind drifted back to Khalid’s kiss. She hadn’t expected him to kiss her like that—her lips were still tingling. So were other body parts. If things had been different, she might enjoy spending time with him. But there was always the specter of his reputation—he was a man who would be great for a few nights, but that was probably it.

  And Casey knew she was too much a Midwestern girl at heart.

  She’d tried the casual dating scene in New York and had been awful at it—she keeps looking for the happy ever after instead of the happy for just right now.

  Shaking her head, Casey reminded herself she was here for a story on how women were nothing more than a possession in this country. But she was also starting to wonder if Khalid really felt like that. He’d gone out of his way tonight to treat her to something special tonight—and he’d seemed….well, different. Maybe he was as trapped in his role as any woman was.

  Squaring her shoulders, she started typing up more notes. General impressions. Descriptions. She got a page done, and then sent an email to Luke to let him know she was scheduling interviews tomorrow. She needed those interviews—that was where the story lay. Not in these wandering notes. She needed Fadiyah’s perspective. And she needed to understand Khalid’s father—so far he was just an imposing figure. A man who took his role as sultan almost too seriously.

  So what did that make Khalid? A son rebelling? A man who didn’t know his role because his father was trying to keep him in the shadow of the sultan?

  .

  She touched a hand to her lips. Khalid had experience—she had to give him that. He kissed like an expert. But there had been something else in that kiss. Something gentle and coaxing in them—something passionate and not at all calculated.

  Glancing down at her laptop, she knew a Sheikh’s kiss wasn’t anything she could use in any story.

  She closed her laptop. She needed those interviews—and she needed to get to know Sheikh Khalid a little better. There was more going on here than a country—and a family—struggling with the duality of maintaining tradition while stepping into the modern world.

  “You’re too close to it,” she told herself. The thought settled in her gut. Was it true? While being on the inside had seemed like a good way to get the information she wanted, was it starting to sabotage her ability to tell the story objectively?

  Heading to bed, she lay there for a long time, thinking of Khalid. Thinking of him naked in the bathhouse, beautiful and sleek. Thinking of his kiss. Thinking of how far she was willing to let this pretense of an engagement go. And almost—just almost—regretting not inviting Khalid into her bed.

  7

  Khalid stood when Casey walked into the palace gardens. The sun had been up for hours and so had Khalid, trying to figure out a way to get Casey her interviews. His father was not pleased, and that meant when Khalid had approached him early in the day about such an interview the sultan had simply told Khalid, “Attend to your bride. You have a wedding to plan. I have business to occupy me, and your brothers will be busy soothing any feathers you ruffled last night with your inconsiderate behavior.”

  That remark had stung, and Khalid had been tempted to lash back at his father—the lack of responsibilities, of trust rankled. However, he had a better to
ol at hand to strike back. So he had sent Casey a note, asking him to meet her in the gardens for a late breakfast.

  Casey stepped from the palace, lifting one hand to shield her eyes from the already burning sun. This was one reason Khalid rose early, to work before the heat of the day made it wise to see out cool shade. She had dressed for heat in a pair of shorts that came almost to her knees, a loose shirt, boots and ankle socks. Khalid’s mouth twitched. He was quite certain word would get back to his father of her attire—nothing a Sharjah woman would wear. But she was not bound by tradition, and her long, smooth legs were a delight. He wanted to run his fingers over her pale skin, but for now he settled for a bow and a wave at the table set up under the shade of a palm.. “Coffee or would you care to try our mint tea?”

  She smiled and said, “Sabah el kheer.”Khalid pulled out a chair for her. “There is no need to impress me, and my father is immersed in business.”

  Sitting down, she glanced up at him. “Meaning no interview?”

  “Meaning we need to impress him today—I am very much afraid I set back your cause but advanced my own of his not caring much to have an American become a daughter to him.”

  Instead of anger, Casey shrugged and poured herself coffee from the silver pot on the table. It came out thick, black and steaming. “Well, then, you’ll just have to work first on getting me an interview with Fadiyah, or with her father.”

  Khalid choked down a laugh and sat. “That would be a feat. Just now Mehmood is unhappy with both me and my family.”

  “Yes, but he needs the connections your family has to American businesses. He’s trying to diversify from simply oil holdings, getting into other energy options and for that he need either a German connection and Euros for investment into wind turbines or geothermal, or he needs American companies. Your family brings him the latter without any effort on his part, and from everything I’ve read, I’m betting he’s more than a little lazy.”

  He selected a few pieces of fruit for and a honey pastry and passed her the plate. “You have been busy.”

  She ate a date and sipped her coffee, and then said, “It’s all background stuff. How can you know the right questions to ask if you don’t know anything about the interview subject.”

  “You think to get Mehmood talking of business and then ask him why he would force his daughter into an arranged marriage?”

  Over the rim of her coffee cup, she grinned. “It isn’t going to be that much of an ambush, but that is the general idea. Once someone starts talking, it’s often hard for them to stop.”

  “I will warn you now, you will need a more sophisticated approach to my father. You…ambush him in such a way and the interview will be over at once. On the other hand, this engagement may also be over at once so perhaps I should turn you loose on my father.”

  “That sounds like I’m a weapon to use—not exactly how I’d like to be perceived.”

  Pushing back his chair, he stood and held out a hand. “You do not eat, so let us go and do as my father bids. He said I should show you the beauty of Sharjah, and you may gather more background and shop for your wedding clothes. We are supposed to be setting a date, are we not?”She drank her coffee, put down the cup with a clatter of china and stood. “Great, more background. Where are we going? And can it at least be past where Mehmood lives?”

  Taking her hand, he led her toward the front doors. The heat had become oppressive, even in the garden. Sweat struck his shirt to his back—he had worn a loose shirt and Western trousers and boots, and now he could almost wish for the cool robes that were at time a necessity in the desert. But Casey’s fingers felt cool in his hand—and soft. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “Everything’s a surprise with you, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t like surprises? I never really thought about it. But if you agree to go somewhere with him, does it matter so much where we are going?”

  “You’re forgetting—reporter here. Asking questions about everything is what I do.”

  “Perhaps you can take the day off,” he said, and held the front door open for her.

  Khalid had done away with the limo for today. Instead he had his 1950’s Land Rover—his prize possession—waiting for them. Casey glanced at him, eyebrows lifted, but climbed into the vehicle when he held the door for her. He knew the Land Rover was not what she had expected, but there was no better way to get around Sharjah, particularly if you wanted to drive off the main roads.

  Today, Khalid took her to several of the main attractions—the bay with its sheer cliffs and sea birds, and then to the mountains that towered above the desert. He offered a trip for her to hand glide, but she turned that down. However, she took photos with her cell phone, kept asking about interviews, and at last he relented and took her into Sharjah’s capital and drove past Mehmood’s high rise. “Mehmood’s family lives in the top floor—the penthouse. And, no, do not even think of trying to get past his security. It is impressive. He keeps a house in the desert as well, but rarely uses it. However, it is possible Fadiyah is there. Or we might find her shopping. I understand she is like most women and amuses herself with buying things.”

  Casey turned on him. “Most women? Seriously? And what—I’m not supposed to say, ‘oh, yes, I just love Fifth Avenue.’ You know, you should really try stepping into the current century. Most women is one of those phrases that should be left in the past, and generalities will get you in trouble.”

  “Ah, now I’ve offended you. Can I make it up to you with dinner? We have several excellent restaurants in the city.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not dressed for it.” She held up a hand. “And no—that’s not me angling for a new dress.”

  He nodded. “Then I know just where to go.” Weaving in and out of traffic, he drove to the parking garage under one of the sultan’s buildings. He left his Land Rover with an attendant. Casey was out of the car before he could open her door or help her from the high vehicle. Taking her hand, he strode down the street. Casey kept pace with him, something that pleased and amused him.

  Her eyes widened as they turned down one of the narrow streets in the older part of town. Noise bounced from the hard walls—vendors calling out wares, arguments starting in the coffee shops that lined the streets. With the sun setting, the city cooled, and everyone came out to enjoy the sidewalks and the shops. The aroma of roasting meats—lamb, beef and camel—filled the air, along with spices. Khalid breathed in deeply. It had been too long since he had last been here.

  Taking Casey’s hand, he wove through the crowds—men in thobes as well as in Western dress, and women in black robes and hijabs. Reaching his favorite tiny cafe, he ordered for them and brought the plates to a small table. Casey earned a few looks for how she was dressed, but he, too, was glanced at and recognized. He noticed a few bows of respect set his way, which pleased him. He had not been forgotten by his people.

  After eating, he took Casey back to the palace. She slipped away to her room before he could even think to kiss her again. A wise woman it seemed—but that only left him more determined to find a way to spend more time with her.

  For the next week, he found things to do with her. Trips to the old market, and for that she had to wear a long skirt and at least a scarf over her head. It was a good distraction for her, for he told her she should speak not just with those in power, but with the ordinary people to see what they thought of women’s rights. She certainly got an earful.

  The people of Sharjah were traditional—mostly. A few spoke out about better rights for everyone—the right to vote, the removal of old laws that hindered business. But most seemed content that the sultan looked after them, and that in turn allowed each man to look after his family.

  Getting some interviews at least seemed to satisfy Casey, but Khalid’s father kept hinting that a wedding date needed to be set. And Khalid was getting nowhere about reversing his father’s opinion. He seemed to be caught—Casey needed the interview with his father that Khalid had
promised, and yet he needed his father to be angry enough to release Khalid from his promise to marry, meaning he needed his father to throw Casey out of the country. There seemed to be no way to accomplish both.

  And then Khalid hit upon a new idea—to appeal to his father’s pride and his favorite project. He would take Casey to the Sharjah Desert Reserve, a park established to preserve the animals and local fauna of Sharjah. It took a few days to arrange, but Casey no longer seemed quite so impatient. She admitted as they took the Land Rover out to the park, “I gave my editor, Luke, a deadline. I promised him a story by the end of the month. I’ve also been sending him my background notes—it’s better than nothing.”

  Khalid took his eyes off the narrow road that led to the reserve to glance at her. “What happens if you do not make your deadline.”

  “Then my job’s dead. It’ll be back to freelancing stories, and I supposed I can get a few months of travel articles out of where we’ve been.” She let out a long breath. “And there goes my Pulitzer.”

  “That matters to you so much?” he asked.

  She clenched a fist. “Matters? I’ve been trying to grab the brass ring for years. Women may have it rough here, but it’s not exactly smooth in the States, either. If you’re a reporter and pretty, they want to style your hair and put you in front of a camera and have you read from a script. That’s not reporting—at least not the way I learned it. I want a byline—one that means something. For that I need recognition. I’m never going to get that with fluff pieces.”

  Frowning, Khalid thought about this, and then asked, “What about a story of ecological dangers in Sharjah. You do know we face the worse of global warming—temperatures rising, meaning possible extinction of animals and plants. And worse—the inability to use the desert as we have for centuries. If the desert dies, my country may die as well.”