Engaged To The Sheikh

“Nothing,” Kamar said sourly. “The Greenhouse will be fine—9:00 a.m.?”

“I’ll make a reservation,” Jerome said, eyeing Kamar with an uneasy expression.

“Oh, no problem, sir.” Janis removed Kamar’s empty martini glass. “I’ll leave a note for the concierge before I go off shift. What would the name be?”

“The Asad party.” And without another word, Kamar stalked off.

“What bug’s up his rear?” Jerome asked.

“Maybe a potato bug,” Selina replied, and both women exploded with gales of laughter.

Chapter Two

Selina admired stability and safety, needed it, really. She worked hard to keep her life and everything in it well-organized. Her pumps, always leather and always polished to a dull glow, were neatly matched and hung two-by-two on her shoe tree in perfect order. She always bought bras with matching panties—two pairs, so one was always clean and at the ready—and folded them carefully in her lingerie drawer with their mates. Likewise, tap pants and camisoles. She bought outfits, not separates, and never ordered à la carte.

Grandpa Jerome, the only father she had and the most important person in her twenty-three-year-old life, was the opposite. Unless a maid picked up after him, his closet was total chaos. His secretary often remarked that she had a lifetime job because “Jerry doesn’t know where I keep the checkbook.” Indeed, his desk would remain a mountain of garbage if she didn’t arrange it.

Selina didn’t like the unexpected. Grandpa Jerry thrived on it.

Selina hated surprises. Grandpa Jerry liked to throw surprise parties and sweep her away on unplanned excursions. Like this one, to an exclusive resort on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Less than twelve hours ago, Grandpa Jerry had shot into her cubicle at VIP Publicity, grabbed her jacket, held it open for her and said, “Come on, little Sellie. Grandpa’s got a fun surprise for you.”

Since Selina had sought refuge in his home at age fifteen, Grandpa Jerry had said those words many times, and she’d come to trust that his surprises would be fun. Trips to the zoo, to museums, to shops. Sometimes the museums would be in Rome or the shops in Paris.

And now, her magic pixie of a grandfather, claiming she worked too hard, had swept Selina to Florida. On the plane, he’d admitted that he was brokering a real estate deal and that Selina’s presence would enliven an otherwise dull jaunt.

Selina wasn’t so sure. Now, getting ready for bed in the penthouse suite atop La Torchere, she brushed her teeth with the toiletries supplied by the resort before donning their thick terry cloth robe. She left her bathroom to meet Jerry in the living room of the suite. “I don’t know quite what I’m doing here,” she told her grandfather.

“You’re here to keep me company.” Jerry lounged on the sofa in a similar robe worn over a pair of checked pajama pants. He’d already left his mark on the suite. Recent copies of the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post littered the coffee table in front of him, and sheaves of computer printouts detailing various D.C. properties were scattered on the couch’s cushions.

“Your client doesn’t want me here. What’s so top secret, anyway?”

Jerry hesitated. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s a sheik.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. With that accent? And don’t sheiks live in desert tents with camels?”

“Not this one,” Jerry said. “Kamar and his brothers were all educated in England—Cambridge, no less. His country has one of the world’s most productive diamond mines. They recently opened diplomatic relations with the United States and purchased an embassy building in D.C. Now Kamar’s looking for the ambassador’s residence.”

“I’m impressed,” Selina said. “This is quite a lucrative set of deals for you.”

“And it does have to be top secret.” Jerome shuffled papers together into a messy stack. “If the location of the residence becomes public knowledge, the safety of the ambassador could be compromised.”

“Oh, so that’s why the snotty sheik was so upset with me.” Selina sat on a side chair.

“You were pretty hard on him.”

She huffed.

“You were mean, Sellie. I’ve never known you to be mean.”

“You should have seen him with the bartender.”

“What was the bit about the potatoes?”

“He was razzing the bartender about the vodka,” she said. “Only wheat vodka, nothing made from potatoes. He was quite specific. Who does he think he is, James Bond?”

“A man has the right to choose his poison. I thought Kam was trying to be nice to you.”

“He was trying to redeem himself. Unsuccessfully, I might add. He’s affected and arrogant. The man can’t love himself enough.”

Jerome was silent for a second, then said, “Sometimes people who can’t love themselves enough suffer from a lack of love from others. Like you.”

She swallowed against her dry mouth. “I’m loved. You love me, right?”

“I adore you, but we both know that’s not enough. When was the last time you were involved with a man?”

“Hey, I date all the time. You know that. You call on Saturday night to check on me. I don’t call back until Sunday morning because—”

“Because on Saturday night you’re out breaking hearts.”

Selina grinned.

“Yes, you date,” Jerry continued. “But do you ever become involved?”

She compressed her lips. “So I’m picky.”

“Sellie, baby, you’re beyond picky. Don’t you think it’s time you got over Donald?”

She dropped her face into her hands and mumbled, “Grandpa Jerry, I was in therapy for seven years. My head’s been shrunk so much I’m surprised you can still see it. I’ve meditated. I’ve rolfed. I’ve yoga’ed. I’ve sought enlightenment and personal growth everywhere I could. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get over Donald. Or what Mom did.” She hadn’t seen her mother or her stepfather for years.

Leaving the couch, Jerry knelt by her side. “If you don’t get over it, they win.”

She nodded, rubbing her temples where a headache had started banging at her brain. “I know, but I—”

“Try.” Her grandfather took her hand. “Try. I won’t be around forever—”

“Why, where are you going?” Selina raised her head, her insides turning wintry. “Pawtucket, maybe, or Poughkeepsie?”

He wiggled her chin. “Laugh all you want, sweetheart, but I’m an old guy, and getting older every minute. You need to be with a man your own age, not some old fart with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Selina scoffed. “You’ll outlive all of us.”

“No, I won’t. Promise me, Sellie, that you’ll make an effort.”

Sobered by her grandfather’s seriousness, Selina said, “Okay, I promise. Sometime. I’m still young, okay?”

He fixed her with a stern look, though his eyes twinkled. “Be nice to the sheik.”

“The snotty sheik?”

He laughed. “People magazine calls him the sexy sheik.”

“He does have a certain George Clooney appeal, if you like the type.”

“Do you?”

She squirmed. Grandpop was hitting a little too close to home. She didn’t want to talk to him about the kind of men she liked. Too weird. “Maybe.”

“Well, why don’t you let that maybe turn into a yes? At least give that little maybe a chance.”

She chuckled. “Maybe I will.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Sellie, are you truly happy?”

“Sure I am. I have a great job, a great home and you.” She hugged him around the shoulders. “Why should I want more?”

“There’s more to life, and you know it. But for now, be nice to Prince Kamar.” He winked. “Especially since I want to take quite a large wad of cash out of his wallet.”

She sighed. “For you, anything…even Prince Kamar.”

Chapter Three

The sharp-eyed brunette approached the concierge desk and said to the woman seated there, “Uh, can I ask for some help?”

Lilith Peterson, aka Lissa Bessart Piers, scrutinized her. That depends upon the kind of help you want, she thought. She didn’t like the brunette’s briefcase, her gray pinstriped pantsuit or her overly lacquered hair. Most people who came to La Torchere were on holiday and looked it, but this woman was all business.

Instead of challenging her, Lissa schooled her features into a hospitable smile, in keeping with her role. “Of course,” she said. “How can I help you?” She smoothed the lapel of her jacket.

“I’m trying to find a guest,” the brunette said.

“We maintain the security of all our guests. Are you a guest here, Ms….?” Lissa raised politely inquiring eyebrows.

“Yes, of course,” the brunette said, a little too quickly. She offered a hand. “Marta Hunter.”

Lissa touched the woman’s fingers and let go. She didn’t want extended contact with Marta Hunter. A strong grasp could trigger any of Lissa’s array of magical abilities. She didn’t want to inadvertently cast a curse or start a fire.

More than being the ordinary concierge Lilith Peterson, Lissa Bessart Piers was a member of the royal family of the enchanted realm of Silestia. Because she’d cursed her spoiled, disobedient niece seven years before, Lissa felt a responsibility to remain in Meredith’s life, making sure Merry remained safe while she worked to lift the curse.

But Lissa’s disguise as a concierge carried obligations, such as caring for the needs of La Torchere’s guests. She said, “Good morning, Ms. Hunter. We haven’t met before, have we?”

“I arrived early this morning on the first ferry of the day.”

“Welcome to La Torchere. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for the sheik, Prince Kamar ibn-Asad,” Hunter said.

“Oh, I recall making a breakfast reservation for Mr. Asad’s party,” Lissa said. “If you move along, you should catch them in The Greenhouse.”

Upon seeing it for the first time, Selina thought that The Greenhouse deserved the appellation edifice. A massive glass structure with fanciful Victorian-style domes and turrets, it not only housed a casually elegant café but a glorious collection of tropical greenery.

It was crowded with plants, which in her apartment remained measly little sprouts. She had a nice pothos vine at home, but here a pothos wound heart-shaped leaves the size of dinner plates high around the bole of a graceful palm, fully twenty feet into the moist, scented air. Ferns that struggled to survive in D.C. grew to prehistoric heights here.

Masses of orchids, sporting exotic colors, shapes and fragrances, were set in banks around mossy stones. A natural-looking spring flowed through The Greenhouse from a waterfall at one end to a pool at the other, surrounding a slate-floored “island” where a group of linen-draped tables were clustered.

Holding her grandfather’s arm, Selina, cautious in new sandals, negotiated a rickety bridge to the island. When she’d purchased the red dress, she’d bought other clothing to last her for the week, including the denim shorts and T-shirt she now wore with the slippery-soled sandals.

Safely on the rough gray slate, she looked for and found Kam Asad seated at a large table. Like her grandfather, he evidently liked to read, for several newspapers were spread over the white cloth. His cell phone sat next to a silver pot. As she watched, he refilled his cup before turning a page of the paper.

A polo shirt stretched across Kam’s truly admirable torso, showing muscled forearms. The emerald-green shirt set off his amber skin and thin gold watch. The only other item of jewelry he wore was his diamond stud, a rakish touch.

She couldn’t check out his legs because they were under the table. But when she and her grandfather approached Kam’s table, he stood until Jerry had seated her. His legs matched his arms in terms of their fitness, and she had to admit that Kam was a total stud muffin. If he weren’t such a jerk, she might even be attracted to him.

“Good morning, Selina, Jerry,” he said. He handed her a menu before pouring her a cup of tea.

His old-fashioned chivalry disarmed her, and she said, “Good morning, Kam,” as courteously as she could, even though she didn’t drink tea. She assumed that he had developed his tea habit while at Cambridge.

Opening the menu, she scanned the breakfast selections. “Too bad I don’t like breakfast. There’s a lot to choose from here. Even potatoes.” She winked at Kam.

“You will never forget that incident with the vodka, will you?” He leaned back in his chair with an uneasy smile.

Jerry kicked her under the table, and she said, “Um, consider yourself unforgettable. It’s not a bad thing.”

He visibly relaxed. “Why do you not like breakfast?”

She shrugged. “It’s just such a strange meal. Except for fruit, almost everything is carbohydrates or fried. It’s as though you’re not allowed to eat anything healthy in the morning.”

“Cereals are healthy. Are there not some of your corny crunchies on the menu?” He waved at a passing server.

“I doubt it. At this point we’re just designing the ad campaign. The cereal won’t be on the market for some months.”

“When I traveled to Japan, I ate soup with tea in the morning. It seemed quite healthful.”

“Soup and tea? I’ll have to try that sometime. But for now, I guess I’ll just have a croissant and coffee.” She slid the menu in the direction of the server.

“And you, sir?” the server asked Jerry.

Jerry ordered a full breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, while Kam, like Selina, ordered a croissant. “And fresh fruit compotes for the lady and me.” He smiled at her as the server left.

She smiled back at Kam. “Thanks. What did you do in Japan?”

“What I am doing here. Opened diplomatic relations, rented an embassy, found markets for our diamonds.” Though he’d lowered his voice, Prince Kam had evidently accepted that Selina was Jerry’s confidante.

“We have a few minutes before our orders arrive, so…” Jerry opened his briefcase and took out a stack of printouts.

“Yes, let us get to business.” Kam looked toward the paperwork. “Are these from your multiple listing service?”

“Yes.” Jerry slid the printouts across the table to Kam. “I weeded out the obviously unsuitable properties, but—”

Jerry broke off when Kam’s gaze left their table to focus on the bridge to the café. He said something in Arabic that sounded vaguely irritable before flipping over the printouts so no information showed. He said, “Let me handle this, all right?”

A brunette with narrow, pale features and a chin-length bob neared, whipping out a small black box from a side pocket of her gray pantsuit. Thrusting it at Kam’s face, she clicked a button. The box began to whir, and Selina guessed it was a tape recorder.

“I’m talking with Prince Kamar ibn-Asad, emissary from Zohra-zbel, labeled by People magazine as the ‘sexy sheik.’ Prince Kamar, are you here in Florida to close a deal involving diamond futures on the world market?” the brunette asked.

“I beg your pardon.” Kam gently moved the box away from his face, pressing the button to stop the recorder. “I am not in the habit of discussing business with women I do not know.”

The brunette stuck out her hand. “Marta Hunter, from the National Devourer magazine.”

“Ms. Hunter, I am not authorized to make a statement for your magazine. Please forgive me.” Kam’s voice was polite, but he barely touched the woman’s hand.

“Our readers have a right to know if your country’s machinations will alter the world diamond market.”

Kam raised his brows. “I am not involved in any machinations, I assure you. I am only eating breakfast with my friends.” His gesture encompassed Selina and Jerry.

“And you are…” Marta Hunter’s avid gaze fixed on Selina.

Remembering the need for security, Selina said with a smile, “I’m just someone who’s eating breakfast.”

Kam grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.

“I smell a story here,” Hunter said.

“I smell tea here.” Although she preferred coffee, Selina picked up her cup and sipped, waiting for the reporter to leave.

The server, laden with filled plates, came to their table. “Shall I set another place?” She eyed Hunter while setting out the breakfasts, including Selina’s coffee.

“No,” Kam said. “This lady was just leaving. Ms. Hunter, are you a guest at this resort? I was told that only guests and employees were allowed on this island. Otherwise, I would not come here.”

The server scrutinized the reporter. “If you aren’t a registered guest, ma’am, I’ll have to call security. They’ll escort you to the ferry.”

Hunter reared back defensively. “I’m a guest here, just like these folks.” From another pocket, she hauled out a card key embellished with the candelabra-shaped resort logo.

Kam grimaced. “Can’t you get rid of her?” he asked the server, who paled.

“You’re in a difficult position,” Selina said to the server, mentally chastising Kam for again mistreating staff. “Sorry.”

“Just our luck,” Jerry said. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag, Kam. We might as well come clean.”

Selina stared at her grandfather. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kam’s brown eyes widen. The server fled.

“Yep,” Jerry said. “She’ll get us dead to rights.”

Kam exchanged an uneasy glance with Selina, who sensed that one of her grandfather’s surprises was about to be unveiled.

“Ms. Hunter, my granddaughter, Selina, and Prince Kamar have been corresponding via e-mail for some months.”

Marta’s eyes bugged out, and she clicked on the tape recorder. “Keep talking! Keep talking!”

“There’s not much more to say.” Jerry picked up his fork. “You must understand that negotiations between our families are of a very sensitive nature. We’re willing to give you an exclusive if you respect our privacy until arrangements are concluded.”

Selina gaped at Kam.

Kam gaped back. What on earth was the old man implying? That he, a prince of the House of Zohra-zbel, courted Selina Carrington?

She was a pretty enough woman, but before heaven, she was trouble on a plate. Though he’d dreamed about her gorgeous neck last night, she was exactly the kind of female he’d never consider as a wife. He shuddered to imagine Selina and her smart mouth at a state dinner.

Truly, he didn’t intend to wed at all, at least not until his royal duties required it. He knew that at some point in his life—hopefully in the distant future—his father, the king, would arrange for Kamar’s marriage to a suitable girl. She would be a virgin of good family, of course, and the union would bring political advantage or riches to the House of Zohra-zbel, the royal family of the Diamond Mountain.

Selina was beautiful and smart, but she was a nobody. Not marriage material. Never.

“An exclusive? What terms?” Marta asked Jerome Carrington.

Carrington gestured expansively. “You leave us alone until after the wedding, and you get the whole story before anyone else.”

The reporter’s cold green eyes narrowed. “How do I know you’ll keep the bargain?”

Kamar found his voice. “You don’t.”

“Without some assurances, no deal. As far as I’m concerned, the two of you are fair game.” Marta dug into her pocket and took out a cell phone.

“That’s enough.” Kamar stood. “My friends, I am sorry. Let us go back to our suites and I’ll make other arrangements to meet later today.”

“The suites? You’re in the suites?” Marta flipped the phone open and began punching buttons.

Kamar sighed. “Add the breakfast to my bill,” he said to the server.

As he left The Greenhouse, escorting the Carringtons, he could hear the pesky reporter talking on the phone to her superiors.

When they got outside, he exploded. “What in The Almighty’s holy name was that about?”

“Don’t yell at my grandfather,” Selina snapped. “He had a good reason for saying what he did. Um, you did, didn’t you?”

She turned to Jerome, who put a finger to his lips. “Not here, and not now. Kamar, can you find us someplace private to talk? Not our rooms. That woman knows where we’re staying.”

Chapter Four

What Jerome Carrington had said to the reporter kindled Kamar’s desire to corner the old man and find out what silly game he was playing.

If the story got out, Kamar would face a lot of trouble at home. His father had warned him time and again against sullying the family’s reputation. When People magazine had named Kamar the “sexy sheik,” his father threatened to relegate him to a boring desk job if he brought further dishonor on their house through his relationships with American women.

Kamar’s bad temper about this morning’s matter led him to rent a yacht from the resort so he and the Carringtons could find some privacy.

The rental was met with unconcealed glee by the resort manager, one Merry Montrose. Kamar couldn’t fathom why. Surely none of the proceeds of the rental would make their way to Ms. Montrose’s pocket. Nevertheless, she reacted to the news that he intended to take the Carringtons on a boat ride as though he’d guaranteed that his country would supply the resort’s jewelry shop with free diamonds forever.

The forty-foot craft boasted a galley, sleeping accommodations for three and a crew of two: one to pilot the boat and the other to manage the passengers’ food and beverage needs. After the yacht was provisioned, Kamar gave the galley crew member the afternoon off. He didn’t want anyone to overhear the conversation he planned to have with Jerome. Kamar assumed that Selina would handle the galley chores while the men talked.

At twelve-thirty, Selina minced aboard, ungainly in the same ridiculous sandals she’d worn that morning. Their heels fully three inches high, the white platforms forced her to clutch her grandfather’s elbow as she tottered. Jerome carried a briefcase in his other hand.

The rest of Selina’s ensemble consisted of a lime-green bikini with a halter top and high-cut panties, only partially covered by a loosely crocheted white tunic that fell to the middle of her hips. The lime-green emphasized her pearlescent skin and absolutely unbelievable legs.

A white canvas beach hat flopped over her face and shoulders, protecting them from the sun. Unfortunately, the hat also concealed her sexy, swan-like neck, the sight of which was the only thing that could compensate him for an afternoon he dreaded.

Sure that the Carringtons were setting him up, Kamar gritted his teeth and swore that he would not be enticed into a liaison he didn’t choose, even with bait as delectable as Selina.

As the Carringtons settled themselves into deck chairs, the pilot cast off the ropes tying the yacht to the dock. He climbed a short ladder to the flying bridge, and a few moments later the boat’s engines rumbled to life. The yacht began to back out of its slip.

Selina took off her white tunic, exposing lithe curves, then reached into a carry-all and took out a tube of sunscreen. Opening the tube, she squeezed a dollop into her palms, rubbed them together and began smearing the cream onto her belly.

Kamar swallowed and looked away. On the wharf, an angular figure in a gray pantsuit rushed toward the slip while pulling a little camera from a pocket. Stopping at the end of the dock, Marta Hunter began snapping pictures.

Scowling, Kamar stationed himself between Selina and the reporter, then turned his back toward land. He might suspect the Carringtons of ulterior motives, but they were still his guests. He refused to subject them to publicity in a sleazy rag like the National Devourer.

“The woman won’t leave us alone,” he grumbled.

“You poor thing. Being known as the sexy sheik must be such a burden.” With a brilliant smile, Selina joined him at the rail.

He told himself he wouldn’t be affected by her proximity, her lime-green bikini or her smile. Or the knowledge that her seductive neck was now only a few inches away from his lips.

She continued, “Why don’t we head below and see if this tub has something to eat? That way the mighty Hunter can’t spy on us so easily.”