The Sheikh’s American Love - A Box Set Read online

  “Okay…” In the dark, I patted around on the table for paper and pen. “Where?”

  “We’ll speak about that tomorrow. Until then, Evangeline.”

  FIVE

  I turned down Joel’s offer to stay with him and instead retreated to a fitful night of sleep in my own bed. Tossing and turning, the future was a wash of confusing black mess in my mind, and it felt like all I could do was cling to my blankets and wait for the night to pass, hoping I hadn’t made the wrong choice by agreeing to Rafiq’s proposition. Once I started to count up the amount of money that would be charged to his platinum card, which was at this moment waiting safely in my own purse next to the front door, relaxation finally fell over me enough that I could get some sleep.

  The gentle morning sun soothed me awake, and made me forget all about the troubles in my life for all of a few minutes. I lingered in bed, reaching for my phone, and saw I had a text from Rafiq. My heart stopped a moment as my fingers pulled it up.

  Hello Evangeline. My penthouse is located at 126 Riverview Drive. Come join me for brunch, and we can discuss our arrangement in greater detail. Remember to pack whatever you will need to get through the week.

  Checking the time, I licked my lips and sent him a reply saying that I would join him in about two hours. He replied straight away, saying that the doorman of his building would be expecting me.

  Nerves afire and butterflies tossing around my stomach, I forced myself to complete my morning routine despite how un-routine this morning truly was. After my shower and coffee, I ran down to the gallery checked that there were no voicemails on the landline from any clients.

  Then, I sat down with my inventory ledger and calculator and very, very carefully tallied up the grand total of what Rafiq would be charged for purchasing the art. I couldn’t believe the number staring back at me, and checked it another five times before I finally let myself cry a few tears of relieved happiness. I wrote up an invoice for him, and texted him a photo of it for approval.

  Wonderful. We can make arrangements for delivery today, too. I very much look forward to seeing you.

  He didn’t complain about the price—he didn’t even seem to have noticed it. I shook my head in disbelief and, with every I dotted and T crossed, charged his seemingly limitless platinum card for the full amount. By the time it was finished, I was grinning like an idiot, the weight of the world suddenly having been lifted from my shoulders. I placed a note on the gallery door explaining we were closed for the day due to personal business, and returned upstairs to finish polishing my look.

  Skimming through my closet, I sighed. I had no idea what to wear to meet my rich, arrogant, fake boyfriend. Not a single issue of Cosmo had prepared me for this eventuality.

  A royal blue dress made of comfortable cotton caught my eye, and I decided to pair it with a tan calfskin belt and matching boots. Simple gold earrings and my grandmother’s diamond necklace completed the look. I spun in front of my full-length mirror a few times before I was satisfied I looked a good mixture of professional and attractive. I had no idea what to expect, but professionalism seemed like a safe choice.

  It didn’t take me very long to pack an overnight bag for my stay at Rafiq’s. I selected a blend of casual and professional outfits. I had no idea what kind of activities we would be engaging in, so I tried to pack for as many eventualities as possible. I stuffed toiletries into my makeup bag, and took an unfinished novel for good measure.

  The taxi I flagged took me to a part of the city I had never been to, except maybe to pass through on the way to somewhere I could actually afford to be. It was a district of billionaire sky rises, open-air upscale malls, and parks so manicured, they didn’t look real. The view flew by the window, and with every passing mile, every new luxury thing I spotted made everything seem all the more surreal.

  I stepped onto the curb next to a glittering glass penthouse tower with 126 marked in swirling design on the awning that stretched out to protect residents from the weather. Before I could get to the door, a well-dressed man with graying temples and a beaming smile came through the dark glass doors to greet me.

  “Miss Pryce?” he asked, extending a white-gloved hand my direction.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “The Sheikh is expecting you. Allow me to escort you up.”

  “Certainly,” I said with a smile.

  He led me into the extravagant lobby, with marble floors and gold accents surrounding plush maroon furniture. In the middle of the room, an enormous spray of flowers sat on a round table, their scent so powerful and breathtaking that I could smell it the second I came in the door.

  We headed through the lobby, around the table and past a small doorman’s desk with charming wooden drop boxes for the residents, until the doorman stopped in front of elevator doors which were polished to such a shine, they were basically a mirror.

  Seeing myself standing there, in that luxurious world, was the most surreal part of all. And yet, I didn’t look as out of place as I assumed I would.

  The opening doors interrupted my thoughts, and the doorman waved a hand to allow me inside first. He followed me in, and inserted a small gold key into a hole in the elevator panel as he pressed the button for the topmost floor of the tower. Then he removed the key and stepped out of the elevator.

  He gave me a little salute. “The elevator opens directly to the apartment. Have a lovely day, miss!’

  I smiled at him as the doors closed and left me there alone, trying to focus on my breathing as every floor passed. Of course he lived on the top floor of the fanciest building I’d ever been in—why would he settle for anything less?

  With a soft bing, the elevator arrived at his apartment. The doors opened on a long, shadowed hallway, with crystal light fixtures that hadn’t yet been turned on. The hallway opened up into a wide living room, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the entire space with bright morning sunshine. The floor was marble here, too, and my boots clicked on its polished white surface as I stepped out of the elevator.

  The sound of female voices stopped me in my tracks, and I suddenly worried the doorman had sent me to the wrong floor. Two women came around the corner, wearing skimpy dresses that had almost certainly been picked out the night before. On wobbly heels they came down the hall toward me, but didn’t seem to be bothered by my presence. Talking to each other and giggling, they breezed right by me and disappeared inside the elevator.

  At least I know what to expect from Rafiq, I guess—the same guy I saw in the gallery that first night. His reputation was no joke, it seemed; I knew the tabloid stories Joel had found weren’t exaggerated, now that I had seen it with my own eyes.

  But it was difficult to remind myself of all that when Rafiq suddenly appeared in the living room, sidling up to his windows to look out over the city. He was shirtless, wearing only some soft looking, dark grey leisure pants, and holding a cup of coffee in his left hand as he leaned on the window with his right. To my surprise, he had quite a collection of tattoos that he had hidden in his fine tailored suits up until now. Colors and shapes swirled around his cut biceps and muscled back in designs unique to my eye.

  He was one of the most attractive men I’d ever seen. Despite that, it was clear even from a distance that he wasn’t feeling himself, and apparently had quite the hangover. The room was scattered with refuse that indicated that a raucous party had probably happened here last night.

  He didn’t know I was here yet, and I felt guilty for gawking at him secretly; he probably didn’t intend for me to see him like this so soon. I started toward him, taking heavier steps on the marble floor that he couldn’t help but hear. He whirled from the window, but when he saw me emerge into the living room, he smiled.

  “Evangeline,” Rafiq said. To my surprise, he didn’t seem uncomfortable or embarrassed at all about being caught shirtless. In fact, I think he was rather enjoying it. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Hi Rafiq,” I said, setting down my suitcase. Was it ruder to avert m
y eyes or to keep looking at him? “Did-did I come at a bad time?”

  “No,” he said, twisting his wrist to look at the shining gold Rolex on his thick forearm. “Actually, you’re late.” He took a sip of his coffee.

  “Oh,” I said, swallowing against my tight throat. “I’m sorry. Traffic was a little cluttered.”

  Rafiq let out a low, quiet laugh that made me shiver. And then he came right out with it. “If you’re bothered by my outfit, I can fix it.” The glint in his eye as he took another sip of coffee told me the offer was more of a challenge.

  My nervousness gave way to an awkward smile and flushed cheeks. “It’s your house; you can wear whatever you want.”

  He laughed again and moved away from the window to sit on one of the plush couches, stopping first to push off a pile of unclaimed clothes and empty beer cans. Drinking his coffee, he lifted his eyebrows and pointed at a door that was ajar on the other side of the living room. “That’s your part of the house,” he said.

  Following his lead, I peeked inside a huge, beautiful bedroom, fully furnished in a clean, modern style. The top of the dresser was practically brimming with lush white roses in an array of decorative vases. Everything looked brand new, and the room smelled incredible.

  “Wow,” I said under my breath. “This is where I’ll be staying?”

  “Is it suitable?” asked Rafiq from the couch. “I had to guess what type of mattress you would prefer. If you can’t sleep, we can exchange it without a problem. There’s no need for you to be anything but comfortable.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said honestly. “I’m sure the bed will be fine. It certainly looks better than the one I sleep on now.”

  I didn’t say it, but I was distinctly relieved that Rafiq had no expectation that I would be sleeping in his bed.

  As I retrieved my suitcase from the hallway, the sound of a buzzer interrupted the quiet of the apartment, and Rafiq cursed under his breath. He pointed to another door. “That room next door is yours, too. Excuse me a moment,” he said, before disappearing down the hallway to answer the doorman’s call.

  Curious, I dropped my suitcase in the bedroom and moved to investigate the second room. It was just as big as the first, but this room had been fitted out for something completely different: painting. Three easels of varying sizes waited patiently against one wall. A collection of canvases was propped in one corner, and next to it, a long supply table filled with any and every tool I could ever have use for. Too excited to help myself, I opened the doors on the cabinets underneath the table top and discovered rows and rows of paints.

  This was a very surprising development. Suddenly, this whole arrangement was starting to feel less like a weird-but-necessary hassle, and more like a very well-deserved vacation. Generally speaking, taking time off from the gallery was a prospect so laughable, I never even considered it in my plans. Life ran month by month in my world, revolving completely around keeping my gallery and myself afloat for just a little bit longer.

  What Rafiq offered me, I realized, was the chance to finally take a breather. Whether he knew it or not, it was something I really needed. I could stay in this gorgeous apartment and paint all day while Rafiq did whatever it was that he did. It was almost too perfect an arrangement.

  As I waited for Rafiq to return, I wandered around and gave myself a quick tour. The penthouse took up the entire top floor of the building, and most of its space was open-plan, very much like my studio apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the living room and dining room, draped with delicate, sheer white curtains that did little to block the excess of natural light. Hardwood floors were covered by ornate rugs with beautiful patterns and bright colors, surely from Rafiq’s homeland.

  All of the furniture was modern, with clean lines and minimal patterns, including the chairs and tables scattered around the wrap-around porch outside. Gray leather couches surrounded a flat marble coffee table, stacked with magazines, as well as forgotten, empty bottles from the night before. A chaise longue stretched in one corner near the windows, adjacent to the dining room table that looked barely used. The kitchen was silver polished and completely modern.

  The penthouse had four rooms, and two of them were mine. It seemed like a freaking fairy tale, and I was the princess. I peeked in one of the other rooms, darkened as it was, and saw a four-poster bed made of wood and draped with a deep blue comforter. The room had the feel of cocooning isolation, like a cozy log cabin tucked in the middle of the woods, but the lack of décor sapped some of the warmth from the room.

  Peering in further, something large caught my eye, and I realized the room wasn’t barren of décor at all; hanging on the wall opposite, facing the bed, was Oceanic, the painting Rafiq had taken home from my gallery.

  I flushed a bit. This had to be Rafiq’s bedroom, no doubt. Had he really loved my painting so much that he wanted to see it right from his bed? Something about that seemed so unusual. I’d figured, after his proposition, that he had purchased Oceanic just to sweeten me up for the eventual offer. But that didn’t explain why it was here, now, in such an intimate place.

  The sound of Rafiq’s voice startled me out of my thoughts. “I would be happy to give you a full tour of my bedroom, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  I whirled around, embarrassed, my cheeks flushing. “Oh, sorry, I… I was just looking around…”

  Rafiq had a wicked grin on his face. He didn’t seem upset. Instead, he leaned past me and flipped on the lights to his room, getting close enough to me with his muscled, shirtless chest that I could feel the heat emanating from his skin.

  “Have a look around, then. After all, this is your home for the time being.”

  Since he didn’t seem to mind, I stepped inside the room to get a better look at the painting.

  “I’m surprised to see this up here,” I said, pointing.

  “Why’s that?” said Rafiq. He moved around a huge dresser that matched his bed, and disappeared into a walk-in closet. The rustling sound of fabric and wire hangers chimed within.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Art hung in one’s bedroom usually tends to be pretty significant to a person…I suppose I didn’t expect to see this here.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think your work is special?” said Rafiq. He was buttoning up a soft pink long-sleeved shirt over his muscles, grinning at me.

  The sight was incredibly attractive, and judging by the look on his face, he knew it well.

  “It’s not that,” I said. The look on his face gave me feeling he was teasing me. “Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?”

  “A little bit, yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m just trying to help you relax. I can see you’re nervous. There’s no reason to be.”

  I flushed red. “Well, I don’t exactly have a lot of experience in this particular world. I’ve never been someone’s pretend girlfriend before, and certainly not for a client who has my art hanging in their bedroom.”

  “Don’t worry, Evangeline,” he said. “I’m going to make this easy for you. We will both benefit and walk away better for it.” He smiled at me. “Now, unless you’re wanting to stay for the show, I have to finish getting dressed.”

  I scoffed at his assumption and rolled my eyes. There was the Rafiq I was waiting to appear.

  “No, thanks. I’ll wait out here.”

  Rafiq laughed gently to himself as he followed me to the bedroom door and shut it behind me.

  SIX

  He emerged a few minutes later, looking like he stepped off the pages of a men’s magazine; all tailored suit and slicked-back hair.

  “Let’s grab something to eat, and we can get down to business,” he said, adjusting his cufflinks. “Do you have a nickname, Evangeline?”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “A nickname. If you’re my girlfriend, it would make sense that I have a pet name for you. Any suggestions?”

  “Oh, uh…” Unprepared for the question, my mind turned, looking for an a
nswer. “Sometimes people call me Evie.”

  “Evie, that’s perfect,” he said with a sweet smile. “Shall we, Evie?”

  Following his lead, we left the penthouse and loaded into his divine-smelling town car. After a few minutes’ drive, we arrived at a bistro with a line of people waiting out the door, and were immediately led to a private patio dining area.

  Judging by the way the tables were fewer and more spaced out, not to mention the way we immediately bypassed the line of hungry, waiting patrons, this was clearly an area for guests of Rafiq’s stature. He told me to order whatever I wanted, and so I let myself splurge on an indulgent seafood lunch. I went with sweet tea to drink, but Rafiq ordered whiskey without any self-consciousness or hesitation.