The Sheikh’s American Love - A Box Set Page 18

  “Oh, Christ,” she said with a groan, leaning against the wall. Alex would be all ears once he found out she had a date with the executive producer. Once more she debated whether she should message Mansour and call things off. After a moment, though, the temptation to see what he would be like, to explore the connection she’d felt with him, overwhelmed her sense of caution. “I just won’t tell him,” Riley told herself with a shrug. “At this point it’s none of Alex’s business, and anyway it’s not like Mansour would tell me anything important about the movie on a first date.”

  She wrapped her hair in a towel and hurried out of the bathroom to confront her closet. As she had feared, nothing seemed to be quite good enough for a date with an executive producer. Riley sighed, eventually deciding on one of the nicest dresses in her wardrobe, which she still suspected wouldn’t be good enough.

  She hung the dress on the door to the bathroom and set to work on her makeup. “I doubt he wants me to look like some vixen,” she said, staring at her face in the mirror as she considered the makeup at her disposal. She decided to keep her features as natural as possible: she applied a neutral eye shadow, a coral-toned lip stain, and just a little bit of blush, blending everything with a little pressed powder to soften it. She spritzed a tiny amount of perfume on at her pulse points and debated how to style her hair.

  As she was considering it, Riley thought about Mansour, and about what Jessica had said about him. “What if she was just teasing me? What if he really is just one of the production crew?” Jessica might have thought it would be a fun prank—and Riley didn’t know the other actress well enough to be able to say either way. She went back into her bedroom and opened up her laptop, took a deep breath and typed in Mansour’s name.

  At the top of the result page, Riley’s gaze lit on a picture of Mansour; it was undeniably him, in the same jeans and tee shirt she’d seen him in on the day of the audition. “Well that answers one question, at least,” Riley said, nodding slowly. Her date was definitely the executive producer.

  Scrolling down the results, she saw something that made her pause. Top 20 Richest Faces in Hollywood You Won’t Recognize. Riley frowned and clicked on the link, skimming down the article until she came to the section on Mansour. “If you saw Sheikh Mansour bin Shariq on the street, you’d never guess that he’s one of the wealthiest men in Hollywood—even beyond the money an executive producer makes. Family money gave him the means to start his own animation company at the age of twenty-one. He sold his company to Wonder Studios when he was barely out of film school…”

  Riley shook her head and re-read the section. She had reasoned that Mansour was a bit young for the power and prestige that came along with being an executive producer, but the extent of Mansour’s success was still amazing to her. She sat back, staring at the screen, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Okay, so he’s a big deal, a sheikh no less,” Riley said, struggling to keep her voice calm as she talked to herself. “That’s…that really is something.” She glanced at the clock on her screen and realized that she would have to hurry to get ready by the time Mansour had said he’d pick her up. Riley went back into the bathroom and pulled her hair back into a simple, clean bun; the bobby pins nearly slipped out of her trembling hands as the shock of what she’d learned deepened.

  Glancing in the mirror, her dress looked a hundred times shabbier than it had when she’d picked it out, but Riley knew that she had nothing better to wear. At least I waited until after I put makeup on to check on who he is, Riley thought, fumbling with the latch on her necklace. I might have poked my eye out with the mascara if I’d found out before.

  Somehow, Riley managed to finish getting ready with only minutes to spare. She slipped her feet into a pair of modest heels and checked the time. Her heart fluttered and skipped in her chest as she realized that—provided he was on time—Mansour would be at her door in five minutes.

  TEN

  No sooner had she got her shoes on, Riley heard a knock at the door. “A guy doesn’t get to be that successful without being punctual,” she muttered lowly to herself.

  Mansour was standing on the other side of her door, dressed in a new pair of jeans and a tee shirt, with a sharp blazer over the shirt. Riley wondered irrelevantly if the shirt was a regular brand, or some kind of designer tee shirt, made from Egyptian cotton or some other expensive material.

  “Right on time,” she said, smiling nervously.

  “My father always used to tell me that if I didn’t show up five minutes early, I was already late,” Mansour told her. He looked her up and down slowly, his hazel eyes warm, his lips curving up into a slow, appreciative smile. “Are you ready? You look stunning.”

  “I just finished,” Riley admitted. She picked up her purse and glanced around her apartment, at a loss for what she was looking for. “I guess let’s go.”

  Mansour stayed one step behind her as they walked down the hall; he invited her to step onto the elevator first and his hand brushed her elbow, sending a little tingle through Riley’s body.

  “I hope I didn’t park illegally,” Mansour said as they rode down together. “Wouldn’t that be a great first date? Getting my car out of the impound yard together?”

  Riley chuckled. “I think it would create a bond,” she pointed out.

  Mansour laughed, and in a moment they were stepping out of the elevator together, walking across the ground floor lobby. Mansour opened the door for her, and Riley reflected that if nothing else, he clearly had lovely manners.

  “I’m parked right over here,” Mansour said, pointing.

  Riley followed the gesture, and her eyes widened as she took in the sight of a sleek-looking sports car. It wasn’t the flashiest car she’d seen, with a straightforward black exterior and clean chrome fixtures, but Riley caught sight of the hood ornament quietly proclaiming the car to be a Jaguar. While she wasn’t sure exactly what Mansour had spent on the car, she thought that it was probably more than she earned in four years or more.

  “Let me get the door for you.”

  “I think this is probably the nicest car I’ve ever had the chance to ride in,” Riley said, breathing in the smell of clean leather as she slid onto the seat. She looked up to see Mansour smiling faintly. He waited for her to settle and reach for the seatbelt, and closed the door behind her, walking around the front of the car to the driver’s side.

  As Mansour pulled out of the parking spot and navigated onto the street, Riley remained silent, racking her brain for topics of conversation.

  “So where were you planning on taking me?”

  Right, start with the most boring subject possible, she thought ruefully.

  “I was thinking that Le Roi would be great—have you ever been there before?”

  Riley felt the blood rush into her face. “Actually I have,” she said, struggling to keep her voice normal. “In fact, I used to work there.”

  “Really?” Mansour gasped and shot a startled glance in her direction.

  “I quit right when the filming started,” she admitted. “So please—I beg of you, anywhere but there.” She laughed, hoping that Mansour wouldn’t think very much of her reasons for not wanting to go; the thought of all of her former coworkers watching her on her first date with Mansour—a power player in Hollywood—filled her with dread.“I’ve eaten a lot of meals there; the food is wonderful, but I think by now I’ve had my fill of it for a while.”

  Mansour nodded slowly. “That’s what it was,” he said, more to himself than to Riley.

  “Sorry?” Riley frowned in confusion.

  Mansour brightened, smiling at her once more. “At the audition,” he explained, changing lanes with brisk efficiency. “I knew I recognized you from somewhere—it must have been the restaurant. I have business lunches there all the time.”

  Riley’s blush deepened and she struggled to keep an amused smile on her face.

  “You didn’t just give me the part because I served you lobster or something, did y
ou?”

  Mansour glanced at her quickly and shook his head, smiling again. “No,” he said reassuringly. “I noticed you when you walked into the audition because I knew I recognized you from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where.” He licked his lips briefly. “And then your reading just blew me away—that was why I was staring at you when you left: I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

  Riley closed her eyes for a moment, willing the burning in her cheeks to subside. The compliment left her almost speechless. A moment later, she heard Mansour chuckle and opened her eyes.

  “I have an idea,” he said, glancing at her. “Instead of taking you to your former place of employment, what would you think about going to one of my favorite restaurants? It’s a Persian place downtown—amazing food. It’s a real taste of home.”

  “I’ll admit I haven’t had much Persian food,” Riley said, recovering from her embarrassment. “That sounds like fun!”

  “That’s what we’ll do then,” Mansour said, smiling.

  He cut across traffic deftly, and came to an intersection; as soon as the light changed to green, Mansour made a U-turn and started off in the opposite direction, heading downtown. Riley assumed that the restaurant that Mansour wanted to take her to would be of the same caliber and style of Le Roi; that it would be a stuffy, high-class place. As Mansour navigated the LA streets, making small talk about the weather and observations about the other drivers on the road, Riley wondered if even her best dress would be good enough.

  Finally Mansour pulled into a parking lot, and the first hint of the restaurant’s style came across to Riley in the form of beat-up old cars in the lot; half of them had worn spots showing the primer underneath, while others were obviously pimped out, every modification possible made to them. As Mansour cruised through the little lot, creeping around in circles to find an open spot, Riley took in more details: the buildings on all sides of the lot were far from the tony, stylish facades of the most expensive restaurants in the city; some of them were yellowed, plaster crumbling, rust stains trailing down from vents.

  Mansour parked the car and hurried out of the driver’s seat to open Riley’s door for her. He took her hand to help her out, and once more Riley felt a tingle work through her body at the contact. Her heart beat a faster for a moment in a way that had nothing to do with fear; but then Mansour’s hand fell away from hers and he closed the car door.

  “I really hope you’ll like this place,” he said, taking her hand once more and leading her away from the car. “I’ve been coming here since I moved to the city.”

  Up a narrow, dimly lit staircase, and down a short hall, Mansour led Riley into a tiny, packed restaurant. For a moment she was taken aback; the smells of cooking briefly baffled her nose, and there seemed to be far more people in the tiny dining room than could possibly be safe, all of them talking and laughing and moving around. It looked more like the living room of someone’s house than like a proper restaurant. But the smiles on faces around the room, and the plates full of delicious-looking food, eased her apprehension.

  “Mansour!” A man called out from the open kitchen maybe thirty feet away from the entrance to the restaurant. “We haven’t seen you in a month! We thought you were too good for us.”

  “Never!” Mansour beamed at the older man. “I’ve just been busy, Wahid!” Mansour’s hand tightened on hers. “I hope you won’t hold it against me; I’m bringing a newcomer—she deserves the best experience, even if I am a scoundrel.”

  A petite woman—no older than twenty-one, Riley thought—with long, stick-straight hair trailing along her back, approached from the area of the kitchen.

  “Welcome to our restaurant,” the woman said, inclining her head towards Riley. “Both of you follow me.” The woman led them to a tiny, low table, pulling out the chair for Riley to sit down first.

  As Mansour chatted with the woman who’d seated them, Riley looked over the menu, trying to find something that she recognized in some way. The names, the ingredients, all seemed foreign, though Riley thought to herself that there had to be at least a few things in the restaurant that she would know if she saw them.

  “What looks good?”

  Riley looked up at Mansour’s question. “It all sounds amazing,” she said, unwilling to admit that she didn’t have even a small clue as to what she was choosing between. “Since you know this place so well, I’ll trust you to order for me.”

  Mansour gave her a quick, amused glance, and Riley wondered if he was going to call her bluff, but instead, when the petite woman came back, Mansour rattled off what seemed like an enormous order to Riley’s ears. The woman taking their order didn’t seem shocked by the excess; she simply nodded to each of the items, scribbling on her pad the way that Riley always had in her years as a waitress.

  When the waitress left to put their order in, Mansour turned his attention onto Riley once more. “I got us several things—but small things. I want you to be able to try as much as possible, so you’ll know what you like if you come again,” he said, and Riley smiled at the deft acknowledgement of her bluff.

  Almost immediately, dishes began arriving at the table, and Riley’s eyes widened at the sight of so many plates.

  “Some of these are expected at any dinner table,” Mansour explained, gesturing to a plate of herbs, a basket of warm flat breads, and a bowl of pickles. “Everyone thinks of the Middle East as this huge desert, but so many things grow there.” Their waitress brought them both plates that looked more to Riley like platters, and Mansour began directing her what order to serve herself in from the dishes covering the table. “Are you comfortable eating with your fingers? I can get you a fork and a spoon if you’d rather.”

  “I’ll try it the right way,” Riley said. “Show me how it’s done.” She mimicked Mansour’s example as best as she could, tearing pieces of flatbread to scoop up stews and vegetables and rice. Every bite seemed more flavorful than the last: spicy, sweet, savory, sour, a symphony of tastes and smells and sensations that blew Riley’s mind as she tried more and more dishes.

  “What do you think?” Mansour asked, pouring more of the fragrant, sweet tea into her cup.

  “It’s amazing!” Riley shook her head, serving herself more of the crunchy, sweet-sour pickles from the perimeter of the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything as good as this.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mansour said, smiling. “I love this place; it reminds me of home. Similar flavors, and the people are like my friends and family.” Mansour sat back slightly in his chair. “Whenever I feel a bit homesick, I come here and eat way too much food.” Riley nodded. “Are you originally from here, Riley?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I was born in Las Vegas.”

  “So you’re from the desert like I am,” Mansour said; the comparison seemed to please him. “Though I think Las Vegas is even drier than my country.”

  “Probably,” Riley agreed. “I’m surprised you even were able to find a place like this, it seems to be tucked away.”

  “One of my friends told me about it,” Mansour explained. “I was complaining about missing my favorite dish—how much I craved it, and couldn’t find it anywhere in the city—and he told me to come here. Unfortunately, they can’t have shisha here; I have to get my occasional hookah fix elsewhere.”

  “Is hookah specifically a guy thing? It always seems that way to me.”

  Mansour considered it for a moment. “It depends where you are; in some countries, it’s considered improper for a woman to smoke hookah. In others, they have separate cafes where they go, and spend the afternoon.” Mansour took another bite of the lamb stew he’d served himself before continuing. “Anyway, enough about my culture; tell me, what’s your favorite movie?”

  As they spoke about their passions, Riley was surprised to find that she had much more in common with Mansour than she would have expected; they both liked the same bands, and many of the same movies. Riley thought about the f
act that Mansour was in a category of his own, in terms of wealth, and the fact that he boasted about camping out in front of a venue to make sure he was up front for a standing room only concert was entirely different from the image she had of how wealthy people operated. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he didn’t just use some of his vast fortune to hire someone to camp out for him, or even pay his way backstage, but she realized that it was probably an impertinent question. It amazed Riley to realize that Mansour—who had easily ten times the money and power that Alex did—was sweeter, funnier, and a kinder person overall.

  As dinner wore on, their conversation turned to their respective pasts.

  “I went to Yale, partly to piss my parents off,” Mansour said, grinning.