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

  Malid was confident his father would accept those terms. The danger had always been that, at some point, Opell Oil would sell off its Middle East holdings, including any land they had purchased in Al-Sarid.

  They shook hands on the deal, and it took all of Malid’s will power not to pull Nigella closer for a kiss to seal the deal. The whine of a helicopter, however, interrupted. He stepped outside the tent to see Fadin hunched over as he hurried out from under the blades. When he told Nigella a helicopter had arrived to take them back to the city, she’d smiled but she had also shaken her head.

  “Don’t get me wrong, it will be great to get back—but…” She glanced around the oasis. “I’m going to miss this.”

  He nodded. “Life is simple in the desert. If you like, after we sign the deal, perhaps a return to celebrate?”

  She was cautious with her answer, neither accepting or denying, and he wondered if this would now become a pleasant memory for both of them. A spurt of anger flared. He squashed it down. He had no claim on her—nor she on him. But…but what?

  They had shared time and their bodies. They had found pleasure. He had gotten what he wanted. That was the end of this. If she chose not to repeat the experience…well, perhaps she was wise. They came from two different worlds—she was not the docile woman he had thought he would one day marry, and she was obviously married more to her work than to any man.

  She changed back into her western clothes—as did Malid—and they left the desert behind. But Malid could not resist one last glance back at the oasis. Did he really wish to leave all they had shared behind?

  ***

  Malid’s helicopter landed on his office building in Dubai. From there, he saw to it that Nigella was driven back to her hotel. She promised to draw up the papers for the deal immediately. She’d shaken hands with him again—and had allowed her hand to linger in his. He thought he saw something in her eyes—was that regret that their time was drawing to an end? Or something else?

  She left, and he watched the elevator doors close on her. Turning away, he called his father’s private line. When Nimr answered, Malid said, “I have new terms from Michaels. I will give them to you when I come to visit my mother.” His father had always been an unyielding man and Malid had learned that same art of being stubborn at an early age.

  Nimr’s voice came back over the phone, calm and firm. “You may tell me now or not at all.”

  Malid bit down on his temper. He was tempted to simply hang up. Let the old man make his own deal. But this was more about his mother, not about his father. He would think of her first—and he would remember how Nigella had been able to keep her emotions firmly in check when it came to business. He took a breath and laid out the terms of the new deal.

  “This is a good deal for the family.” He knew that if either of his brothers reviewed the deal, they would be more than pleased. Nassir would appreciate the financial advantages and Nassir and Adilan would be happy that water rights had been secured.

  Sounding tired, Nimr said, “I am not so old yet that I cannot decide what is a good for the family. I will consider the offer.” Nimr hung up, and Malid cursed. He almost threw the phone across the room, but that was childish. His mouth curved as he thought again of Nigella—so abandoned when she wished, and so careful when she needed to be. He put his phone back in his pocket and began to think.

  If his mother was as ill as he feared, he could not afford to keep waiting—he would not miss her last moments due to his father’s stubborn pride. He had proven to his father that he did not need the man’s controlling guidance—he did not need it now.

  Pulling out his phone again, he called Fadin. “Ready the car. I’m going to go visit my mother. It is time that he learns that even a tyrant must face limits.”

  Chapter 9

  He arrived in Al-Sarid without problems—Fadin pulled up in front of the family’s palace just outside the main city, and Malid stepped from the SUV. He stopped in the courtyard, his heart tightening—there had been times he had thought he would never see this place again.

  Adjalane Palace sat on a slight hill overlooking the city and the sea—it was dark enough, however, that Malid could only see the white towers and not the view of the sea or the distant mountains. The white stone walls gleamed, lit now by spotlights and the moon, the fragrances of the gardens wove around him, stirring old memories of him and his brothers playing here, of his mother tending to the roses she adored and would not allow a gardener to touch, or even of his father in rare smiles as he joined them outside.

  Pushing aside the useless emotions stirring, Malid headed for the massive, oak front door.

  This deal with Opell Oil had been useful—it had given Malid full access to Al-Sarid again—no one had turned him back at the border or at the palace gates. All he had to do was invoke the magic words that he was here to discuss Opell Oil.

  He headed at once for his mother’s rooms—but they lay beyond Nimr’s study. His father came out of that room and blocked the hallway.

  Pausing, Malid studied his father.

  Nimr looked as if he had aged a decade—not just a few months. His jaw line sagged now, and his nose seemed larger, stronger on a face that had shrunken. Malid did not like the gray cast to Nimr’s olive skin—only his black eyes were still sharp and alert. He looked thinner, too. Unhealthy, Malid would almost say. He wore only an open-necked shirt, charcoal-gray trousers and black leather loafers.

  Malid faced him—but as always his father’s presence left him feeling a boy of eight, a boy who could barely survive the desert. “I want to see my mother and then I will leave.”

  Nimr lifted one eyebrow. “You have not completed the deal. But I have come to a decision—ask for an additional fifteen percent of the income from the oil transported across my land.”

  Sucking in a breath, Malid stared at his father, his hands limp and shock cold on his skin. “Gordon Michaels will never agree to those terms.”

  “But he doesn’t have to agree, does he? You only need to get his daughter to give you what you want.”

  Face hot, Malid took a step forward. “What do you imply? That Nigella is no better than a whore I can use? You know nothing of her, and it is beyond rude for you to insult her.”

  Both dark eyebrows rose. Nimr looked his son up and down, the look in his eyes calculating. “You have learned nothing yet. You may leave. If you do not, I will have the palace guard arrest you, and the police may bring charges. Was that not how you handled your brother’s intended?”

  Mouth tight, Malid turned on his heel. He stopped at the door and glanced back at his father. “This isn’t over. I will see my mother, old man. And remember that when you are in your grave, I will be the son who inherits from you—that, you cannot change.”

  He slammed from the house and into the SUV. Fadin gave him a sideways glance, but Malid only said, “Drive.”

  With a nod, Fadin started the engine and pulled out of the courtyard. “Where to? Home?”

  Malid muttered, “I have no home.”

  Fadin glanced at him. “Nimr has not changed. But if something does not change—if you cannot set aside your differences—another banishment or worse would be the only outcome. I am in no hurry to see you face such a thing again. Better perhaps to just live your life on your own terms?”

  Looking at Fadin, Malid shook his head and asked, “Better for whom, Fadin? This is better for no one—not for me, for I gave Nigella my word on this deal. And now my father makes me a fool. What game is he playing at?”

  ***

  Nigella stood in the gardens of the Adjalane palace. The morning air was already heating up, but the lush gardens with their fountains and shaded overhangs provided nothing but cool places to sit and flowers that offered a riot of color. She turned and stared up at the building.

  A dome rose from the center of the structure, with several small domes to the sides. The white stone walls gleamed in the sunlight, stark against the bl
ue sky. She glanced at the wrought iron table and chairs with cushions and the mint tea left in a silver and gold service with small glasses trimmed in gold. A lovely spot—but why did Sheikh Nimr Adjalane want to see her? Why now? And why wasn’t Malid here?

  Nimr came out of the house. She’d seen photos of him, but she was surprised that he looked older in person—more gray in his black hair and beard, more lines around his mouth and face. He wore an Armani suit with a traditional white robe over it—meaning, this must be a formal meeting.

  He waved at a chair and she sat. She had the feeling he needed to sit down and he wouldn’t if she stayed standing.

  After taking a seat and arranging his robes, he studied her a moment, poured tea, and then asked, “Did you hear that Malid came to the palace last night? We had…words.”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “I…I’ve been busy drawing up the papers for our deal.”

  A small smile curved his mouth. “Ah, the plans we make, and how so often they fail. I suspect my eldest son hates me at the moment, but the time to smooth that over is not something I have at my disposal. I need results and I need them yesterday.”

  She wiggled in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable spot. She’d worn a suit with pants and a silk shirt. It was already starting to feel too hot and confining. “I’m not sure I understand you,” she said.

  He sipped the tea and waved at the silver pot and tray. “Are you certain you won’t take tea? This is a lovely hibiscus tea. No? Well, then let us get to matters. My sources say that you and Malid have become…close of late.”

  She stiffened. “How is that any of your business?”

  Nimr waved a hand. “He is my son—my heir. Everything to do with him is something that affects the family. Let us be frank with one another.” He leaned back. “I need my son where he should be—within the family. I wish him to do what he was raised to do, and I need to be confident that after I am gone, he will do things as I would. His arrogance caused him to betray his brother and almost ruined the relationship between Adilan and Michelle. A fine young woman, even though she is American.”

  Nigella bit her lower lip and shook her head. “You thought banishing him would provide what—a wake-up call?”

  “Unfortunately, I did not factor in the extent of Malid’s stubborn arrogance.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “I’ve heard him say that is a trait he shares with you.”

  Nimr’s lips curved. “As you say—but without being tempered, it can prove a most dangerous trait.” Head tipped to one side, he studied her. Nigella resisted the urge to fidget. He put down his tea and cleared his throat. “Do you care for my son?”

  “As I said, I don’t believe that is any of your business.”

  “Very well, let us talk business. I am willing to accept the deal that is—as you Americans might say—on the table. With one condition. You must help convince Malid to come home. Which would mean he must apologize for his past behavior.”

  Nigella suddenly wished she’d had taken that offer of tea—her mouth dried. She folded her hands in front of her and her pulse quickened. Nimr sounded as if he was ready to kill the deal if she didn’t agree to this new term. “You think I have influence over Malid? That we have what…a relationship? We only met a few days ago.”

  Shoulders sagging, Nimr looked at her. He took a breath and seemed to shrink in on himself. “I am an old man. I need to know my son is back where he belongs, and that he has become a man others may trust and respect. I think…I see something in you that I believe Malid must see as well.”

  Nigella watched him carefully—what she saw was grief in his eyes, regrets. She gave a nod and chose her next words carefully. “You care about your son?”

  Picking up his tea, Nimr said, “Bring Malid home—make him see sense. I get what I want, and you will get what you need—a deal that brings you your father’s approval.”

  Sucking in a breath, Nigella held still. Nimr knew more than he was willing to say if he had guessed her reasons for being here.

  He offered another, small smile, this one touched with something other than humor. “I have been waiting for Malid to come to me—to offer his sorrow for what was done. But he is still the man who must have things his way. I am aware your father is making noises of retiring—which means, this deal is your best chance to prove yourself to him in our world.”

  “Our world? What is that supposed to mean?” Nigella asked, wary again. Nimr was now reminding her far too much of Daddy—he was a damn cagey man.

  Nimr waved a vague gesture. “The oil industry. A world created for and by men. A world where women are not readily accepted or trusted.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if I have enough sway with Malid to convince him of much—he’s very much his own man. You made him that, you know.”

  He nodded. “But I have found that when the heart is involved, any man can act for the good and approval of another. And, as you Americans like to say, what have you got to lose?”

  She wet her lips. One word echoed in her head in answer—everything. She could end up losing the deal, and Malid’s respect, and…and she didn’t want to dig any deeper into that thought. What she’d had with Malid was…was what? A fling? She didn’t do flings or affairs, and the thought right now of never seeing Malid again—or worse, seeing him and pissing him off by trying to interfere in his life—left her chest tight and her stomach knotted and she didn’t want to go there. But what other choice did she have?

  Chapter 10

  Nigella arrived back at her hotel, her mind spinning. If she didn’t find a way to help Malid sort things out with his father, Nimr was never going to approve any deal with Opell Oil. Sure, she could fly to Tawzar—and end up with a terrible deal there.

  She paced her hotel room, weighting her options. She could pretend the meeting with Nimr had never happened—and she’d lose everything. She could sweeten the deal—and Nimr would reject it. Or she could try and convince Malid to make peace with his father. Nimr was far too much like her own dad, and so she could speak from experience about dealing with a difficult father.

  She stopped pacing and scowled at her pale reflection in the glass door that opened onto her balcony. “Even I can’t pull that one off,” she muttered.

  Her cell phone rang, her dad’s number showing up on the caller ID, so she answered.

  “Nigella. How are things going? I haven’t heard from you for a few days.”

  Not an unusual occurrence, Daddy. She buried her sarcasm—one family feud was enough right now—took a breath and put on her business voice. “Things are progressing.” Boy—was that waffling.

  Her father’s Texas drawl deepened. “By that, I take it we’re no closer to havin’ a contract in hand.”

  “Actually, we are closer—there’s a deal in place to buy the land. It’s everything we need.”

  “But?” her father asked. That one word came loaded with doubt. “Tell you what, honey. I fly down an’ we’ll go see the sheikh together and button things up.”

  “Daddy, you said you were leavin’ this to me.” Nigella heard the drawl deepening in her voice, too.

  “An’ I have an’ you got a deal done. But I want to start construction before summer kicks in and it’s hotter than West Texas in a July. ‘Sides, be nice to see my little girl.”

  Nigella clenched her back teeth. Once Daddy starting calling her ‘his little girl’ that meat he had stopped thinking of her as a woman who could run his company

  I have to fix this.

  Forcing a smile into her voice, she reminded Daddy he had a board meeting in London tomorrow—that would buy her a day. She hung up and dialed Malid’s number. “It’s Nigella Michaels.”

  She heard a smile in Malid’s voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? I was just thinking of you. How are you?”

  She paused, wishing she could take him up on the invitation she could hear lurking. But she was running ou
t of time and options. “Can I come see you? Now?”

  “What if I come to you? The helicopter will put me at your hotel in half an hour.”

  Nigella let out a breath. There were things about Malid’s take-charge arrogance that were rather comforting. “Sounds good. I really didn’t want to make the drive to you.” She told him she’d meet him in the lobby, then started plotting just what she was going to say once she saw him. And was this all about to blow up in her face?

  ***

  Malid had heard the tension in Nigella’s voice, and he saw it in her shoulders and stiff stance when he met her in the lobby. She looked in business mode—a dark suit coat and trousers, an even darker blouse. Her eyes seemed wary and she looked tired. Walking up to her, he took her hand. “Shall we get out of here?”

  She gave a small smile. “Should I change first?” She waved her free hand at his jeans and polo shirt.

  Malid grinned. “Today, I’m not a sheikh. And you’ll be fine.” He led her outside, flagged down a taxi and asked the driver to take them to the botanical gardens.”

  With a sideways glance, she said, “I didn’t realize there was such a thing here.”

  “It is financed by both the Adjalane and the Sharqi families and has been likened to the Garden of Eden.” He let his smile widen. “But it is not as private as an oasis.”

  Her cheeks warmed. He was delighted to see it. He had been hoping she might provide him the distraction he needed to forget his frustration and anger with his father. At least for a short while. But seeing her tense and worried, he found himself wanting to be the distraction for her. That was a novel sensation.