The Sheikh's Bought Ballerina (The Sheikh's New Bride Book 6) Read online

  And completely, utterly exhausted.

  The time difference, combined with the stress of the tour and all the last-minute changes to it, had left her in a more than usual post-show slump. As she peeled herself out of her costume in her dressing room, her thoughts wandered to the hotel room waiting for her, just a few minutes’ cab ride away. The softness of the sheets. The blackout curtains and the seemingly perfect sound isolation. The hot tub with the jets…if she were somehow able to avoid just climbing into the impossibly comfortable bed and passing out.

  She was in a state of longing euphoria as she began cleansing her face of the heavy layer of stage makeup, when a knock on the door startled her.

  “Come in!” she called out lazily, after making sure her dressing gown was on and closed, just in case the new owner was milling about backstage.

  But she needn’t have bothered. It was only Katie, who had somehow had the opposite reaction to the show. Instead of exhaustion, the girl seemed to be vibrating.

  “Did you hear?” she asked, and Ophelia noticed—not for the first time—that Katie’s voice went up almost a full octave when she was excited.

  “Hear what? Was there something I was supposed to hear?”

  “We’re all going out to dinner!”

  Ophelia returned to the mirror and went back to removing her makeup.

  “Oh, okay. Have fun, then. I think I’ve had more than enough excitement for one day.”

  At that, the younger girl came all the way into the dressing room. Ophelia noticed that she had managed, already, to get out of her costume and makeup, and put on the perfect dress for an exciting night out, and re-apply her makeup to go from stage to evening. How she still had the energy to jump up and perch on the side of Ophelia’s dressing table, Ophelia had no idea.

  “But you have to come! Everyone’s going. And the place we’re going to is supposed to be the best restaurant in London. Or, at least, that’s what people are saying. No idea how the Sheikh got the reservation at the last moment, but I guess being royal can have its privileges…”

  Ophelia felt her hands stop moving involuntarily.

  “The Sheikh? He’s here?”

  Katie looked at her quizzically.

  “Did I not say that? Yeah, the Sheikh’s taking us out. He saw the performance tonight, apparently, and was really pleased, and wants to take us all out to celebrate.”

  Ophelia stared at her half-cleaned face in the mirror—foaming cleanser, blurred mascara, and all. The perfect, wonderful image of her hotel room— and the immediate sleep that it promised—would have to wait.

  “I’m going to need a minute,” she told Katie, who squealed and ran off, doubtless to go ruin some other tired dancer’s evening.

  He was here.

  The thought of it kept reoccurring to Ophelia as she got ready for an evening out rather than an evening in. She didn’t know why she found it so shocking. He was the owner of the company, after all, and this had been the first performance with him as the owner. Why shouldn’t he be here? It would make more sense than anything.

  But, at the same time, she felt somehow foolish for not knowing—as though her knowing he was there, sitting in the audience, would have changed anything.

  She resented the space in her mind that this stranger, who had waltzed in with his pile of money and upset her life, was taking up. She resented that she was now going out to dinner, instead of going to bed, even though she rationally knew that it was her choice, and she could still very well go back to the hotel if she wished to.

  But the instant she got to the restaurant, and sat down, and saw that she had, by chance, been seated quite a way down from where he sat at the head of one of their reserved tables, she found that she resented even more that she was not next to him.

  She was tired. That was it. That was why her mind and her emotions were making no sense, she figured. She shook her head, trying to clear the weird haze of Sheikh-influenced thoughts and emotions from her mind, and focused on dinner.

  The food did not disappoint. Ophelia couldn’t say for certain if it was the best restaurant in London, but she could certainly say that it was the best food she’d ever eaten, by quite a margin. And, between the amazing four-course meal, and the wine that paired perfectly with the food that she didn’t remember ordering, she found herself relaxing more and more, and letting her exhaustion turn from a problem to a source of calm.

  Ophelia could barely remember, now, what she’d been so upset about. This evening was certainly better than any bed, no matter how perfect the bed at her hotel certainly was. All was well in the world.

  So relaxed was she that she didn’t even startle when a voice, deep and firm, wound its way into her left ear.

  “Ophelia? I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve missed getting to speak with you this evening. Would you be up for a walk along the river?”

  Her exhausted body said no. Her brain, that knew she had another performance the next day, and that she needed to get some sleep to remain at the top of her game, said no. Her better judgement, which had been warned about rich men and their entitled attitudes, said no.

  But, as a surprise to every other part of herself, Ophelia heard her mouth say yes.

  Chapter 12

  Ophelia

  It felt strange to just walk out of the restaurant without paying the bill, but nothing really seemed normal at the moment. Intellectually, she knew that the Sheikh probably had people who took care of that sort of thing for him, the way he had assigned people to take care of all sorts of tasks for the dance company. It was a luxury she was still getting used to.

  The light pressure of his hand on the small of her back as he gently guided her to the left, towards the Thames, felt strange, too. Not because she was unused to being touched—being a dancer she sometimes felt like her body belonged to everyone but herself—but because his hand somehow both felt certain and gentle at the same time. She wasn’t used to that.

  Ophelia had to stop herself from laughing at her own thoughts. She was overtired. She was slightly, pleasantly tipsy, and she was wandering off into the night with a strange man. So much for the good influence she was supposed to be on Katie.

  “What is it?” the Sheikh asked, as they stepped up onto the riverside walkway.

  “What is what?” Ophelia asked, her confusion genuine.

  “You found something funny, it seems. I’d love to be in on the joke.”

  Or, perhaps she hadn’t managed to stop herself from laughing at her own foolishness. She waved her hand.

  “It was nothing; I was just thinking of something another dancer said a few days ago. Not interesting to you, Your Highness.”

  This time, it was the Sheikh’s turn to laugh.

  “Please,” he said, “call me Salim. And I find it funny that you think you know what I would and wouldn’t find interesting, when we’ve spent hardly any time together.”

  Ophelia shrugged.

  “I don’t know about that. I know a little about you. I know, for instance, that you have no business buying a dance company.”

  She hadn’t meant to bring that up to quickly or so boldly. She’d been curious, sure, but she’d at least meant to ease her way into the questions she had, if she thought she was going to get worthwhile answers. But now that she was here, walking by the side of the man, with the mist by the river making the street lamps look like magic and the world feeling completely different to the one she’d spent the last twenty-four years in, she found her intentions were unravelling.

  “So, you’ve looked me up.”

  Ophelia shrugged.

  “Did you not think we were going to look you up? And did you not think we’d find out that you have nothing to do with ballet, and you’ve never had anything to do with ballet, and you don’t know how any of this works? How did you think we were going to feel when we found out that you have no idea what you’re doing, and that you’re going to run the company into the ground with your big, expensive hotels and big, expens
ive dinners?”

  She hadn’t meant to say any of this, but she couldn’t help herself. All the self-control she had at the moment was going into not mentioning the other things she’d found on her quick internet search: the pictures of him with attractive women in beautiful locations. The gossip magazines and their insinuations.

  “I’m the third son of the Sheikh of one of the wealthiest nations in the gulf. Do you think for a moment that this company is somehow going to run up debts I can’t pay?”

  Again, Ophelia’s words came out harsher than she meant them to.

  “So, we’re a pet project, then? Our lives are a hobby to you?”

  She didn’t know what she expected him to say, or how she was expecting him to react, but his response surprised her anyway. He seemed, at least to Ophelia’s tired, tipsy eyes, to be genuinely hurt. And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than she’d yet heard it.

  “No,” he said. “Your lives aren’t a hobby to me.”

  It was enough to make Ophelia remorseful, and gentler in her next question. But it wasn’t enough to stop her, not when she’d managed to broach the topic that had been clawing at the back of her mind since the evening he’d introduced himself.

  “If it’s not a hobby, then what is it? Because it’s not a business to you. It’s not going to make you money. Not the way you’re doing it.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment before he replied.

  “Tell me,” he said. “You looked me up, so you know what I mostly do with my time, don’t you?”

  What, bed supermodels?

  “You’re an art collector.”

  “Correct. And how much money do you think I make, collecting art?”

  Ophelia’s mouth opened before she wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I don’t imagine you make any money collecting art. Can you make money collecting art?”

  Salim laughed.

  “Now you’re sounding like my father. No, I don’t make any money collecting art. There is a way to do it that’s financially motivated, if you’re going that way. If you invest in works by up-and-coming artists, or if you mean to hold onto your collection for decades as the works gain value. But that’s not why people do it. Not usually. That’s not why I do it, certainly.”

  “So why do you do it?”

  Salim paused. He didn’t answer her question, and instead posed another of his own.

  “From your search, does it look like collecting art is a hobby to me?”

  Ophelia tried to think. It was harder than usual with the way her body felt, and the way her mind felt, and the way the night felt. All those articles. All the evidence of the passion that he’d displayed. All the effort, it seemed, that went into collecting art for Salim. It was evident in everything she read about him that wasn’t about his women or his family.

  “No,” she said slowly. “Hobby isn’t the word I would use. I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “Right,” Salim said, with a quickness that indicated he was picking up speed on a path he wanted to go down. “So, it isn’t a job, because I don’t make any money at it. And it isn’t a hobby. It’s too important to me to call it that. So, what do you think collecting art is, for me?”

  Ophelia stumbled over the words in her mind.

  “I don’t know…a passion? A calling?”

  “Those both sound like good words to me. A vocation, maybe, if you’re going that way. And, finally, tell me—knowing what collecting art is to me, that I pour myself into it, not expecting a financial reward, but not acting as though the fact that it doesn’t make me money makes it any less important…what would you say I’m doing here, with you, with the Williamsburg Ballet? What would you say that is?”

  Ophelia smiled and looked up at him, framed by the backdrop of the dark water of the river, and the diffused light of the boats on it through the fog. She’d thought she was being harsh and interrogating him, but she had really been allowing him to lead her down a path, just as he’d led her here, to this place on the river.

  “I don’t know. A passion? A calling? A vocation?”

  He smiled.

  “That sounds about right to me.”

  They walked along in silence for a moment, with Ophelia trying to put into words what bothered her about his response.

  “That’s not quite right, though, is it?” she said eventually. “It’s not the same. With art, you might not be making money, but you’re still investing. This…all this. The hotels, that amazing theater… It’s all just money spent and gone.”

  “I disagree,” Salim said immediately. “Yes, it’s spent and gone, that much is true, but I don’t think it’s spent with no value added to the art I’m curating. First, the most obvious one: the theater. That, on its own, is immediately paid back. Not that the theater Tomas booked within the modest means he had at the time wouldn’t have been perfectly serviceable, but how much do you think we gained by moving it?”

  “Do you mean in ticket sales? Well, the previous one was four hundred seats, and the new one was…oh, I don’t know the math, but I take your point.”

  “Do you? Because it isn’t just the number. You’re now the company that debuted their first international tour in London at that theater. I couldn’t change the sale price on the tickets for this tour, sure, because so many were already sold. But next tour. And the next after that… this one fixed-cost, this one time, creates a value over time, and I expect we’ll be still reaping the benefits long after everyone has forgotten what it cost to begin with.”

  It was strange, hearing him talk about the company years in advance, having him speak as though he had a grand plan for it all and was going to stick around to see it through. The way he’d come in—all flattering words and big gestures—had made him seem as though he were playing at company owner, and he would be gone before the ink had fully dried on all their contracts.

  “And the hotel, the limos, all of that, is really a version of the same thing. Only, in this case, the perception of value I’m trying to shape is the perception of value that you all have of yourselves…”

  She could hear him continuing to talk, though she wasn’t really paying attention at this point. His long-term view had reminded her of Tomas, and of the passion for the long-term future of the ballet that he used to have.

  “And what about Tomas?” she asked, interrupting him and coming to a dead stop on the sidewalk at the same time.

  “And what about Tomas?” he asked.

  He seemed startled, turning slowly to face her, and she was struck again by the impossible handsomeness of his face, and the careful perfection of every piece and part of his appearance.

  “I mean, you talk about this like it’s this big dream of yours. But it isn’t your dream, is it? It was Tomas’. He founded the Williamsburg Ballet, you know.”

  “I know,” Salim said quietly. And, again, Ophelia thought she saw something like regret on his face.

  “He didn’t give us any explanation. Just gone, suddenly, without a trace. And now, you’re here. What did you do? I know people like you. Well, I don’t know any people like you, but I know about you. You’d be surprised how many rich men think they can buy me just because they see me on stage and they like what they see, and they’re used to being able to buy everything that they want. And that’s what you did to Tomas. You saw the ballet, and decided you wanted it, and it didn’t matter that it was already someone else’s life.”

  They were at a standstill for a moment, facing each other, motionless on the sidewalk.

  “I wouldn’t be,” Salim said, at last.

  “What?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. About the men who think they can buy you. You’ve met some of them, I know. But I’ve lived all my life around men like that.”

  “Men like you?”

  The way he reacted, it was like she’d struck him across the face.

  “No,” he said, in that same quiet tone she’d heard twice before. “Not men like me. And about Tomas—I under
stand you’re suspicious. I understand why. But I promise you, I didn’t make him do anything that he didn’t want to. I was prepared to, honestly. I was ready to come in with a big offer, and let his greed get the better of him.”

  “And that’s not what happened?”

  He held up his hands, like he was defending himself.

  “That’s not what happened. I found him when he was finished celebrating after opening night. He was tired. He was so tired, Ophelia. I don’t think he ever let any of you see that side of him, but he really was. How old do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know…sixty? Sixty-five?”

  Salim shook his head.

  “He’s nearly seventy. He’s spent his whole life doing this. Trying to create something like what you’ve made together. And now that he’s finally done it, he’s too exhausted to continue.”

  For the first time in their conversation, doubt began to creep into Ophelia’s mind. Had she really not seen this in Tomas? Would he have let her see it, knowing how much she needed him to always be strong and encouraging so that she could do what she needed to do?

  “It’s sad, in a way. Very sad, even. But I promised him that I would take care of the work of art that he created, and I would nurture it for him. I made sure that he was well enough paid that he can go wherever he wants and do whatever he wants, now that he’s finished. I don’t know why he made it so mysterious. I guess he just didn’t want to worry you all. But I promise you, when you get back, he’ll say the same if you talk to him. I didn’t steal anything from anyone.”

  Ophelia paused, not sure what to think. On the one hand, he’d answered her questions, and possibly her suspicions. If what he was saying were true, then the reasons that she had for mistrusting him as she did were unfounded. But on the other hand, there was no real way of knowing if they were without talking to Tomas, and that wasn’t possible. At least, not right now.