The Sheikh's Contract Bride Page 17

  Minutes later, she was dressed. She pushed a brush through her hair and left, knowing that she’d go crazy if she stayed in her apartment where she could still smell his scent. Finding her spot at her nearby coffee shop, she dropped her chin into her hand and leaned on it heavily, glaring out the window at the shimmering sun. People passed on their way to the beach, clinging to their towels and laughing together. Lovers walked, hand in hand: constant reminders that whatever she and the Sheikh had had the night before had been false, and had no grounding in reality.

  “You really fooled me,” she whispered to herself, her eyes narrowing. “And that was only your first mistake.”

  On a newspaper rack near the side of the coffee shop, she spotted his face: all bright white teeth in that crooked smile and high cheekbones. He stared back at her, laughing—seemingly mocking her for being so foolish. Tiffany reached for the magazine, gripping it tight and smacking it against her table. The headline read back, “Sheikh Closes Down Hotel Party At Dawn.”

  This was the final kick. Blinking wildly, Tiffany realized that the Sheikh had left her bed hours before she’d awoken, only to leap into his private driver’s car and whip off to a party. While she’d been diving from dream to dream, he’d been taking shots and gloating with some of the highest rollers in the city. He’d been sweet-talking other women, gripping their waists, tossing the memory of her into the garbage.

  Enraged, she crumpled up the newspaper, aimed at the trashcan in the corner and blasted it away. Without proper aim, however, she watched as it tossed to the side, landing at the feet of a woman about her age, wearing stiletto heels. The woman grinned at her from behind cat-eye sunglasses, looking tired, as if she’d been awake all night. She glanced at the newspaper, and then lifted it, chuckling.

  “Ah, yes. It was quite a night,” she said, gesturing toward the headline. “After the party was broken up, I actually left with the Sheikh and a few of his entourage,” she said, her voice high-pitched and bright. “Back to the palace, if you can believe that! These guys. Their ideas are always off the wall. And Kazra himself, well. You wouldn’t think he’d be such a party animal. But it was his fault that I haven’t been home yet.”

  Tiffany’s lips parted in shock. “You’ve just come from the palace?”

  The woman flipped her hair over her shoulder, clearly impressed with herself. “Oh, it was no big deal. Just dancing. But the Sheikh says that next weekend, he’ll take us all out to the best club in town.”

  Tiffany scoffed, glaring down at her fingers.

  “What? He says he’s a man of his word,” the girl said, her eyes glittering. “Since he’s the next ruler of this country, I have to believe him.” Her tone was playful, and almost condescending.

  Tiffany clucked her tongue and turned back toward the window, hoping the woman would leave her alone. Sure, she understood. The Sheikh recognized that his world wasn’t hers. But being rejected so harshly—right before he darted off to another party!—it was far too much for her to bear.

  Then she had an idea. Reaching for her phone, she dialed Mallory. The phone rang three times, nearly clipping into voicemail, before the other woman answered with a huff.

  “Hey, honey,” Mallory began. “Sorry. We’re doing that workout I told you about. The one with the lunges?”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Tiffany said, her nostrils flaring. It felt strange that anyone’s life had continued on, when she was living in this nightmare. “I need to discuss a new marketing plan with you. A new blog post, something we could target at people coming into Al Barait.”

  “You’re itching to write?” Mallory asked, still gasping for breath.

  “It’s about an entire scene we’ve skipped over, Mallory,” Tiffany said, scratching at her forehead. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mallory asked, incredulous.

  “The party scene,” Tiffany sighed. “And who better to interview about the party scene than the number one party boy of the entire country?”

  “Ha,” Mallory laughed. After a pause, she continued. “You’re just being cocky, now that you have one man chasing after you. You want them all. Even the future Sheikh!”

  “That’s not it,” Tiffany lied, sliding her finger along the edge of the table, scratching off bits of wood. “It’s really not.”

  “Well, beats me why else you’d be thinking about this on a Saturday morning, but…” Mallory trailed off, then whispered something to her husband beside her. “Just a work thing. One more minute.”

  “I really think it’s a good angle to exploit, maybe even bring in some younger tourists,” Tiffany said, trying to sound more diplomatic. “And it wouldn’t take longer than an hour or two.”

  “You think you can track him down?” Mallory asked, sounding doubtful. “He runs a pretty ragged life, doesn’t he?”

  “Mallory, Mallory,” Tiffany said, feeling increasingly apprehensive, but trying to keep her voice even. “You know I can find almost anyone in this city. It’s the job I was born to do.”

  After Mallory sputtered her agreement, Tiffany strode from the coffee shop with a fire under her feet. She clutched her cellphone and bounded up the steps, into her home office. With a large list of telephone numbers before her—all the people with whom she’d worked via the tourism office—she found one that belonged to Domingo, a South American man who’d worked at the palace the year before. He’d handled the tours she’d put together for the richer, semi-famous Americans and Brits who wanted a sneak peek of the palace grounds and decadent hallways. She prayed, crossing her fingers tight, that he was still employed at the palace.

  Domingo answered the phone quickly, speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Domingo, hello!” Tiffany chimed in, wanting to sound cordial and alive, not like she was trying to track down the man who’d embarrassed her. “How have you been?”

  “I’m sorry. Who is this?” he asked, his voice growing darker.

  “It’s Tiffany Ashworth at Barait Boutique. My company hired you last year to run those celebrity tours…”

  “Oh, Tiffany,” Domingo said, his tone lightening slightly. “I’m sorry. I’ve been really suspicious of people who call this number now that I no longer work at the palace. I’m worried that people will try to use me for my contacts.”

  Tiffany’s heart sunk deep into her stomach. “Oh, that’s horrible to hear,” she said, still playacting. “Why on earth would they use you?”

  “Nobody wants my services anymore,” he sighed. “I fell out of favor at the palace, and now I’m struggling to get a proper job. It’s been months. I’ve been washing dishes at a restaurant. My hands are scrubbed clean!”

  “Oh, Domingo.” Tiffany’s brain felt stretched thin. How could she get through this one? He was her only contact, her only way in. Pressing her fist against her forehead, she spoke. “I think I might have another tour you could do for us, if you’re willing?”

  “Oh, my, yes!” Domingo said, leaping on it. “What kind of tour? Brewery? Wine tasting?”

  “Um. I was thinking more along the lines of historic sites?” Tiffany said, sighing. “If that’s not too boring for you?”

  “If it’s paid, I’ll take it,” Domingo said, chortling.

  “That’s great, Domingo—” Tiffany began.

  “And thanks for thinking of me,” Domingo said, still sounding more cheerful. “It really means the world, knowing you appreciate what I do.”

  “Right.” Tiffany’s eyes felt larger than saucers. “I remember how much our clients enjoyed your work.” After a pause, she felt her jaw clench. She couldn’t possibly tell Domingo the truth, now. “Say. There was another guy who did the tours with you sometimes, right? Theodore?”

  “I would say he was the lesser of the two of us,” Domingo said. “But yes. Theodore did the occasional tour.”

  “And he’s still at the palace?” Tiffany asked.

  “Of course he i
s. He took my job,” Domingo said, his voice gruff.

  “You don’t happen to have his number, do you?” Tiffany asked, feeling strained. How long was this going to go on? The sun was peaking higher into the sky, a reminder that she was losing time. If she was going to shove this situation in the Sheikh’s face, she needed to do it as soon as possible.

  “Theodore’s number?” Domingo asked, incredulous. He began to stutter. “I—I don’t understand. You just…” He trailed off. “You just want my contacts at the palace. Don’t you?”

  “No. Of course not,” Tiffany said, lying through her teeth. “I just want to see if Theodore might be able to take on a few tours—”

  “No,” Domingo said, smashing a line between them. “I won’t do that. I know you’re trying to use me, just like all the others. It’s disgusting, Tiffany. Really. I went out of my way for your company last year…”

  “I know. I know,” Tiffany sighed. It was all coming apart. “But it’s absolutely imperative that I speak with the Sheikh.”

  “Find him yourself,” Domingo said, scoffing. “You know he’s at some bimbo’s apartment. You read the tabloids.”

  Then, he hung up, and the dial tone buzzed into Tiffany’s ear.

  Enraged, she tossed the phone against the couch cushions. How was she supposed to find the Sheikh, now? Pacing the floor, she ignored one, then two, then three calls from Zarina. She knew that her friend was filled with questions about the night before. Tiffany didn’t feel like she could speak about it yet; she felt like she’d been hung out to dry.

  Zarina called a fourth time, and on the third ring Tiffany answered it.

  “Zarina, I’m sorry. I’m just not in a great mood right now, okay?”

  “Girl, listen!” Zarina sounded in a rush. “I just drove past your guy!”

  “What do you mean?” Tiffany asked, her ears suddenly perked. “Which guy?”

  “Don’t be silly. I haven’t heard from you all day. I know something must have happened last night.” Zarina paused, swallowing harshly. “I saw your guy in one of his fancy convertibles, driving with his friends—some of the guys we saw at that restaurant.”

  “Where was he going?” Tiffany asked, her voice growing low. “Could you tell?”

  “You’re looking for him?” Zarina asked.

  “Well, kind of. See, we’re doing a story about him for the company—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Zarina said, her voice crisp. “I know you’re up to something. I can smell it.”

  “No, really. It can wait and everything, I just. He left some stuff with me last night, and I need to return it…” Tiffany smacked her hand against her forehead, feeling increasingly stupid. After a long, horrible pause, she whispered. “Okay. All right. I need to find him. For personal reasons.”

  “All right,” Zarina said. “I’ll give you a pass this time. I’ve never known you to get this worked up over a guy…”

  “Zarina.” Tiffany inhaled through her teeth, almost seething. “Can you just tell me where he was going?”

  “He turned left on the highway, towards the big car show. We’ve been hearing commercials for it all month. Isn’t he a car fanatic? Vintage ones are his thing, aren’t they?”

  Tiffany swallowed, feeling her heart hammering. So he wasn’t with another girl, she thought. He was just at a car show, doing what he did best, spending money he hadn’t earned.

  “Yes. A car show. That makes sense…” Tiffany trailed off, lost in thought. She had half a mind to turn off her phone, lock her apartment, and hide beneath the covers for the next few days. He’d returned to his old life, and she should return to hers: to one of loneliness and misery.

  But no. When they’d been together, she had seen another side to him. He’d been soft-edged, telling her how he’d been at his mother’s bedside every night, before she’d died. He’d shown her his true colors. Perhaps he was just at the car show because his friends expected it of him. She would go. She would demand answers. And she would remind him of the intensity they had shared in each other’s company—an intensity she refused to just throw away.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Zarina asked her finally, her voice coaxing. “You’re freaking me out a little bit.”

  “I’ll explain later,” Tiffany said, rushing toward the shower. “Thank you for calling me, Zar. You might have saved everything.”

  “Everything?” Zarina asked, crying out with confusion.

  But before Tiffany could elaborate, she stamped her finger on the END button and jumped into the shower, scrubbing her hair and skin. She dressed quickly, in the slinkiest little black dress she could find, and raced down the steps of her apartment building.

  After hailing a taxi, she found herself bolting down the highway in the direction of that massive, yellow billboard which had spouted news of the car show for the past three weeks. Knowing it was an event for the upper echelon of Al Barait, Tiffany had more or less ignored it, making a point to suggest it to some of her clients, and that was that. Now, she couldn’t imagine anywhere else in the world she’d rather be.

  The taxi lurched to a halt in front of the car show. Tiffany peered from the back window, watching as men wearing immaculate suits and dark sunglasses escorted pretty women down a walkway. Cameras flashed from all directions, taking stock of the sleek cars that were on show. Tiffany glanced forward, realizing that the taxi driver was extending his hand, requesting cash.

  Quickly, she paid him, sputtering her apologies. She stumbled from the side of the car, placing her thick heel onto the pavement. Righting herself, she slid her hands down her waist, smoothing the dress down over her hips. She felt prime for this kind of interaction. Ready to stand alongside the richest women in Al Barait.

  She gave herself a brief pep talk, her eyebrows drawing together slightly. She lifted her chin and strutted, hoping that she was displaying the same kind of confidence as the people around her. Pausing at a bright red sports car, she pulled her shoulders back, glancing through the crowd. Surely, Kazra wouldn’t be hard to spot. He’d be surrounded by his entourage, the guys from the restaurant: all of them flocking around him.

  Far in the back of the long field, she spotted him. He was wearing another immaculate suit, strutting around a sleek sports car, whipping his hand up to smooth his hair. Immediately, Tiffany’s heart began to hammer with excitement. She remembered snippets from the evening before: the way those lips had kissed her. The way those hands had gripped her waist. The way he’d kissed her neck, inhaling the scent of her. That was him! No one else.

  Feeling a sudden surge of confidence, Tiffany began to stride towards the sports car, the Sheikh, and his entourage. She swept her hands through her hair, ensuring not a strand was out of place. She needed to look her best. She needed to make him regret his every decision since leaving her that morning.

  As she approached, one of the men in the entourage noticed her. His eyes grew wide and bright, and he turned to another member in the group, muttering to him. And then, it was a cascading effect, with one after another of them whispering, informing each other of her arrival. Tiffany couldn’t place it. It was the strangest sensation in the world, being discussed in such a way. But she was already ten feet away, and then she was eight feet away, and she felt she couldn’t turn back.

  Suddenly, she was standing in front of him.

  The Sheikh was addressing his friends, without yet noticing the hubbub behind him. He gestured with wide arms, taking in the sleek shape of the red vehicle. Shaking his head, he said, “It was a hard road, gentleman. But someone had to fight down it. Someone had to win. And I knew, all along, that I would succeed. Several of you suggested I might not.”

  Tiffany frowned. She pressed her arms across her chest, glancing toward the last member of the group, the youngest-looking man, thinner than the rest. His eyes were filled with anguish. Why? What was this all for?

  But Kazra continued, without yet knowing she’d arrived. No one dared interrupt the Sheikh.


  “I will drive this car knowing that I earned it,” he continued. “And know that the ones who doubted me will be treated as such. You know the punishment.”

  Punishment? Tiffany couldn’t align this voice with that of the man she’d spoken with, so sincerely, the night before. She shifted her weight on her heels, which were growing more and more painful by the second.

  “What kind of punishment?” she finally blurted out, unable to take the anticipation any longer.

  The Sheikh whirled around, making direct eye contact with her. For a moment, Tiffany felt that spark once more. That electricity that had existed between them. But as the seconds ticked by, she watched a smirk draw across his face. He chuckled slightly and clucked his tongue. “Well, hello there, Tiffany,” he said, his voice dry, and cold.

  “What kind of punishment?” she asked again, her nostrils flaring. “Bring me up to speed here.”

  The Sheikh gestured toward the car, his eyebrows high. “What do you think of this beauty, Tiffany?” he asked, sounding arrogant once more, performing for his friends.

  “I’m not really into cars,” Tiffany said, her smile faltering.

  “Strange place to appear, then. A car show,” the Sheikh said. He adjusted his weight, taking a step back. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

  “It was his prize.”

  The words came from the left. Tiffany turned her head quickly, catching sight of the younger, thinner friend: the one with the sad eyes.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice a whisper now. “A prize for what?”

  “We had a bet,” he continued. One of his friends elbowed him in the side, but he kept talking, his voice not losing its strength. “A bet about whether or not he could get you to go on a date with him. The only woman in the entire country who seemed to hate him.”