The Sheikh's Baby Bet Read online

  The girls cleaned their plates and sipped the last of their cocktails before stepping into the wild Friday night. On all sides, 20-somethings cackled, blasting down the street from one club or bar to the next. Zarina exhaled loudly, wringing her hands. “Do you think we’re wasting our youth?” she asked.

  “Because we don’t go clubbing, like the Sheikh?” Tiffany laughed. “No way, Zarina.” But as she spoke, her heart tweaked slightly. The girls would part ways in mere minutes, heading off to their lonely apartments. Perhaps they shouldn’t have given up on living together so soon. Perhaps they should have stayed together for those long nights, laughing over magazines and silly television shows. If only to quell the sting of loneliness.

  “All right,” Zarina sighed, rolling her eyes. “I know better. I do.”

  The girls clung to each other in a firm hug, and then parted. They each lived just a few blocks away, in opposite directions. Tiffany’s shoulders shivered slightly as she walked along, feeling the crispness of the desert night air. Several couples passed her, holding hands, seeming to snub her single status.

  Once inside, Tiffany removed her dress carefully, hanging it back on a hanger and shoving a large T-shirt over her head in its place. Falling onto her couch, she reached for a stack of business papers she’d need to go over by the next Tuesday. As she leafed, she turned on the television to the tabloid station—wanting nothing more than to fill her head with garbage before she went to sleep.

  Immediately, the TV flashed with an image of the Sheikh himself, and Tiffany nearly dropped the pile of papers. Mid-interview, the Sheikh was speaking about the “unfortunate events” that occurred recently at his penthouse. After a pause, during which the station played jangling, cheesy music, the reporter dove into the “story.”

  Apparently, the Sheikh had held a blasphemous party over the previous weekend, inviting his common core of celebrities and models. Unfortunately, this time, the party had bled out onto the streets and into other apartments in the high-rise building he lived in, making it difficult for the cops to close it down when things got too rowdy. As a result, the party had continued well into the early morning, disrupting the order of the city and forcing a large fine on the Sheikh himself. Tiffany couldn’t help but note that he seemed to smirk when he spoke, as if this “fine” was really a small cost for wreaking such havoc.

  “You can imagine,” the journalist was saying, her eyes penetrating and dark in the camera. “If you’re a young woman, the Sheikh’s charms are borderline irresistible. And if you’re living in this city, the nightlife is just a part of who you are. With the Sheikh beckoning from his lavish tower, who can avoid him?”

  Tiffany’s nostrils flared. Jabbing her finger on the power button, she brought silence back to the room. Going to bed at 10:30 pm at 24 years old? Her shoulders slumped as she eased toward the bedroom, remembering Zarina’s sad eyes, and her lamentation about whether they were really living their lives. Was there any right way? Weren’t her career and her health the very core of her life?

  Frustrated, she closed her eyes and fell into a deep slumber. The next morning would be a time for exercise, for deep-cleaning her kitchen, for getting to the bottom of her emails.

  Wasting time was just a foolish way to live. Nothing more.

  Chapter Three

  The following Monday, Tiffany arrived at the office before eight. The desks were clean, bare, glittering in the morning light. The moment she glanced at her own desk, however, her lips parted with shock.

  There, in the center of her desk, was the most dramatic bouquet of roses she’d ever seen. All two dozen of them, structured into a great bouquet, with their stems tied tight together and their blossoms bursting, like fireworks. At the base, there was a white card attached.

  Mallory walked into the office behind her, clinging to a steaming cup of coffee. She balked at the sight, then smiled—her eyes brimming with happiness. “You did it!” she cried. “You met someone.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” Tiffany sighed. “They must be for someone else.”

  “You know Kelly doesn’t make mistakes like that,” Mallory said, eyeing her suspiciously. “Come on. Aren’t you even going to go look at them? They won’t bite you.”

  Tiffany shook her head tentatively, her eyes growing wide. “Two dozen roses? They’re definitely not for me,” she said, although now that her mind was spinning, she wasn’t so sure. They couldn’t be from the Sheikh, could they?

  “Hey Kelly!” Mallory called into the secretary, her voice bright and effervescent. “Are these flowers definitely for our girl Tiff here?”

  “That they are!” Kelly called.

  Finding a note tucked beneath the blooms, Tiffany fished it out and began to read:

  My darling Tiffany,

  I can only apologize for my brutish behavior the other night; I must have made a terrible impression.

  Allow me to make it up for you over dinner?

  Yours,

  Sheikh Kazra El-Youradi

  With fluid motion, Tiffany crumpled the card in her fist, and then picked up the flowers and threw them into the trashcan beside her desk. She stared at them, a feeling of sadness making her heart suddenly heavy. He’d sent her flowers as a trap. That arrogant monster had attempted to use her.

  Mallory’s mouth was ajar when Tiffany glanced up. She pointed, incredulous. “Those were the most expensive flowers I’ve ever seen. And you’re just going to…”

  “Yes,” Tiffany said, sniffing. “It’s a long story, one I’d rather not go into.” She perched at the very edge of her chair, and flipped open her laptop. With Mallory, and now Kelly, staring at her, she began to click through emails, starting out the day. Unfortunately, as she tore into work, her heart continued to hammer with fear—and a strange tinge of hope.

  Over the next few days, the gifts continued. On Tuesday, a large cheese plate, from all regions of Europe, arrived on her desk. Another day, three bottles of vintage red wine. Another day, a selection of imported French chocolates, which she considered throwing away but eventually donated to the office candy box.

  She tossed away the note each time, telling herself that the Sheikh’s words would only poison her mind. Even a single, “You seem interesting,” or “I would really like to get to know you,” would probably topple her over the edge and into his arms.

  And she couldn’t let herself falter to his powers.

  When she discussed the presents with Zarina, her friend’s eyes flickered with jealousy. “How on earth did he find you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe the restaurant?”

  “Maybe he just knows everyone in this city,” Zarina hummed. “Do you think he’d know me?”

  “Don’t do this to yourself, Zarina,” Tiffany laughed. “He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. His valet tells him who has which name, and when and where they’re from. You know that.”

  “Sure. But you’re getting some really fine presents out of it. Milk that for all it’s worth, I say,” Zarina said, laughing. “And if you need help eating that chocolate…”

  “You’ll be the first one I reach out to,” Tiffany said, her eyes rolling. She felt she was in the midst of a real crisis, one she couldn’t discuss with anyone without sounding like she was actually “interested” in the Sheikh, or that she’d set the whole thing up to get closer to him.

  This wasn’t who she was, or how she’d set out to live her life. She’d been a total stranger to love, until this false form of it had interrupted her daily life.

  She didn’t know where she wanted it to lead. She knew, in her heart, that she would be safer ignoring him, safer sticking to the quiet life she had built for herself.

  She also knew, beyond all doubt, that she didn’t want it to stop.

  Chapter Four

  On Thursday evening, Tiffany stretched out on her bed alone—another in a long stream of nights alone—and stared into the darkness around her. She couldn’t push thoughts of the Sheikh from her mi
nd, and found herself daydreaming about him: what it would feel to have his hand over hers, what people would say if they saw them out together, what the magazines would write about her! The thoughts were foolish, bizarre, and glittering with childishness. But she couldn’t help but daydream about him until she fell into slumber, knowing that this bout of excitement couldn’t possibly last forever.

  Early the next morning, the jangling of an acoustic guitar cut through her open window. Tiffany’s eyes popped open, and she blinked several times, trying to remember the day, the time, the reason she was awake. Rolling off her mattress, she crept toward the open window and peered down to see a tall, lanky man, holding a guitar and singing a love song.

  “If only, if only, Tiffany would hold me…” he began. “I’d be the happiest man in the desert. She’s the only water I need…”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes. Her stomach clenched with the humor of it, knowing that the Sheikh had pulled out every faux-romantic stop. Suddenly, she found herself mildly impressed, almost touched. Mid-song, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and bolted down the staircase, into the street below. She allowed herself to feel the depth of the song, leaning against the brick wall behind her and falling into waves of lust and excitement. Glancing around her, she wished that the Sheikh would burst out from behind a pillar and greet her in the warm light of the morning.

  The song was over far too soon. The guitarist waved his hand, and then bowed his head, letting his curls fall forward over his face. Tiffany clapped her hands and cheered her approval.

  “That was gorgeous,” she said, her smile stretching wide. She felt like a blubbering fool. But after a week of being wooed, of presents thrown at her, of experiencing luxury in a way she’d never dreamed, she couldn’t help it. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

  “Thank you, my dear. You seem to have completely captured the heart of my client,” the guitarist said. He reached into his front pocket and drew out a small envelope, which he then gave to her. Tiffany inhaled the scent of deep, expensive cologne, which made her stomach tighten with excitement. “It’s from my client,” the guitarist explained. “He requests that you read it before making your final decision.”

  Tiffany placed the envelope against her chest and watched as the guitarist spun toward the road, the guitar still strapped against his stomach. He flicked at the strings, whistling along to the song he’d just given her. Tiffany watched him until he was out of sight, and she could no longer hear the notes of the guitar.

  Without waiting another moment, Tiffany opened the letter, tearing the envelope along the top. The sun blasted against her cheeks and glittered against the paper, making her blink wildly. The scrawl was oddly personal, like the handwriting of a dear friend, rather than the future Sheikh of the country.

  She began to read:

  My dear Tiffany,

  This will be my last attempt at contacting you. I’m sure this comes as a surprise. After the chocolates and cheeses and flowers and attention I’ve thrown at you, how could it end so abruptly? I may be a stubborn man, but I am not stupid. If you do not respond to this final attempt at contact, I will let this infatuation fade away. It is the nature of life.

  This is what I’d like for you to do, if you so choose. I’d like for you to meet me at the pier at 7 o’clock this evening, and be sure to bring a bathing suit. I won’t tell you anything else about this, as surprises are some of the most beautiful things we can create in one another’s lives. I’d like to do that for you, if you so choose. And if not, I will leave you alone. Forever.

  Yours (at least for one day more),

  Sheikh Kazra El-Youradi

  Tiffany held the paper tightly in her hands. Her first inclination was to ignore the letter, stay home and continue a long trajectory of nights spent alone and indoors. But then, with a stab of sudden energy, she realized that if she didn’t say yes to this—if she didn’t take this one, singular chance—then she might be dooming herself to a lifetime of Friday nights alone. And was that truly what she wanted?

  A car whooshed past on the road, jolting her out of her reverie. Blinking wildly, Tiffany burst up the steps toward her apartment, realizing she was going to be late for work. As the water poured over her in the shower, she played the letter’s words over and over in her head.

  I am a stubborn man, but I am not stupid.

  God, his arrogance. It folded over her, making her yearn to be with him, to feel that ego bumping against her. She wanted to feel anger and excitement and happiness and fear, all bottled up at once. She wanted to open her arms to emotion; she’d been hiding from it for so long.

  “Fine,” she whispered to herself, as she pulled a brush through her wet hair. “I’ll go. I’ll do this one, horrible thing. But if it fails, then I won’t leave my house for another five years.” Her eyes burned in the mirror, filling her with wave after wave of excitement. Her body was suddenly, wonderfully, alive.

  The day went by horribly slowly, with each minute feeling like an hour, each second stretching itself out. Tiffany glared at the clock on the wall, marking time. Every problem that came into the travel company seemed silly, with tourists mistaking dates and times and blaming the issues on Tiffany, rather than their own bad organizational skills. Tiffany found herself huffing in the kitchen over a cup of coffee, her eyes wide.

  “I can’t take another one of those phone calls,” she informed Mallory in a huff. “If they’re not intelligent enough to figure out even one element of their vacation to Al Barait, then I don’t think we want them here.”

  Mallory chuckled, giving her a bright eye. “I’ve never heard you say anything like that before! Let me guess, you’re just sour because you didn’t receive any presents today. I mean, you threw almost all of the others away. Except for that cheese I rescued. It’s still in the fridge, if you want some.”

  “Ha,” Tiffany chortled, feeling her stomach clench. She lowered her voice. “I actually did get a present this morning.”

  Mallory’s eyebrows began to dance across her face. “Oh?” She leaned forward conspiratorially, her coffee swirling slightly in her mug. “And why on earth are you being so secretive about the sender, my girl?”

  Tiffany stifled a smile. “I’m in over my head.”

  “He’s really in love with you, isn’t he?” Mallory laughed. “And you’re finally coming around to the idea? Here I thought you were our own office ice queen!”

  “Nothing’s happened yet,” Tiffany said, sliding her fingers through her hair. “Although I will tell you, I’ve agreed to a first date. Tonight.”

  She felt her throat tighten with excitement. Why was she allowing herself to fall down the rabbit hole of emotion? And why had no one ever told her it felt so damn good?

  Lightning fast, Mallory’s hand gripped Tiffany’s arm, squeezing her bicep tight. “I never thought I’d see the day when you actually had decent Friday plans!” she said, laughing. “What does he have planned for you, this mysterious man?”

  “He’s said to arrive at the pier at seven,” Tiffany said in an excited whisper. “With just my bathing suit. That’s all I know!”

  “A surprise first date,” Mallory sighed, looking wistful. “God, to be young again.”

  “The thing is,” Tiffany continued. “I’d already written this guy off as a complete jerk.”

  “That might just be a good thing, my dear,” Mallory said, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “The arrogant ones make us women go wild. Read any romance novel. Watch any movie. The cocky bastards are the ones we lust after, every single time. The nice guys miss out. It’s just the law of the land.”

  Mallory’s words echoed in Tiffany’s mind the rest of the day, until she began packing up for her journey over to the pier. She remembered the anger that had sizzled through her when she’d seen the Sheikh at the restaurant: oh, how she’d wanted to slap him across the face! That crooked grin, the five o’clock shadow, and the darkness in his eyes—he was the most attractive, most hopeful person she’d ever
seen in her life. What did it mean to latch herself to someone like that? Did it mean she would burn out all too soon?

  Tiffany arrived at the pier a few minutes before seven. She stood, feeling jittery, and leaned against a signpost, gazing out over the water. The water that swirled against the docks made the boats bump against the wood. People had begun to gather for their own Friday night festivities, stretching blankets out and arranging picnics. Lovers walked, hand in hand, as the sun continued to shine brightly overhead.

  She realized, then, that while all this life had existed just a mile or so from her apartment, she’d spent the majority of her Friday nights locked away in her kitchen, eating takeout pizza, or else sitting chatting with Zarina. Why hadn’t she agreed to life before this?

  She saw the Sheikh out of the corner of her eye, stepping from a long, black limousine. He was dressed in an immaculate suit and wearing sunglasses, a far cry from the traditional garb he often wore.

  Immediately, Tiffany’s heart began to hammer with anticipation. She tucked her hair behind her ear, shifting slightly and pretending not to notice him until he got too close. Despite feigning ignorance, she still noticed the strength of his body, his biceps stretching the fabric of the suit, the way his hair swept back slightly with the breeze off the water. He was the perfect portrait of a prince: tall, dark, and handsome, with a knowing smirk on his face. For a long minute, she forgot to breathe.

  “I can’t believe you came,” he said when he approached. “The infamous Tiffany, finally answering my call.”

  Tiffany turned, her eyes wide and bright. Immediately, she made eye contact with him and felt her tongue freeze with apprehension. How was she supposed to answer that?

  “Hi,” she said, her voice high and awkward.

  Oh my God, she thought. How on earth was she going to get through this date? She gazed down at her shoes for a moment, trying to rework her thoughts. She felt as though she were back at school, called on in the middle of class without the answer.