A Sheikh for Christmas (All I want for Christmas is... 1)

“We?” Murph asked, his expression coy.

“Melody helped. She’s actually quite good at puzzles and figuring out things like this. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have found these words on my own.” He took his time bringing up the photos on his phone, more to avoid Heath’s narrowed stare than anything. “Have a look at these.”

Heath took the phone and scowled down at the screen. “Corruption? Illegal? Fraud? Software?”

“Yep.” Daveed sat back and sipped his coffee. “I circled them in red so they’d be easier to spot. Melody also deciphered an address on one of the other notes you sent over. 124 West 52nd Street. She and I went over there yesterday, before we met you at the pub. Didn’t find anything though. Just another high-rise filled with offices—an eco-energy company and some financial firm. Both multi-national. No sign of Aileen ever being there at all.”

“Well, fuck,” Murphy said, his broad shoulders slumping.

“Exactly.” Daveed agreed, before shifting his attention back to Heath. “So, what’s the plan for today?”

6

Melody woke up with a new determination bubbling inside her. After spending hours tossing and turning and wrestling with her growing affection for Daveed, she came to a realization. If she wanted to start a new life, one she could be proud of—one that Daveed might be proud of too—then she needed to change her thinking.

She got up, got dressed, then headed out to the kitchen, only to find a note from Daveed beside the still-warming coffee pot stating that he would be gone most of the day working on Aileen’s case with the guys and that he’d see her later.

After fixing herself a mug of caffeine, she took a seat on one of the stools at the bar and grabbed

paper and a pen. Daveed was always so fond of his lists, maybe she’d start using them too. But the longer she sat there, staring at the blank page, the more she realized lists really weren’t her style. She was more of a spontaneous, go with the flow, see where the adventure takes you kind of gal. She shoved the paper and pen aside.

If she wanted to be self-sufficient, she’d need money. She’d already pawned her ring to get the funds to return to the States, so all she had to her name at the moment was the two thousand left in her personal savings account and the clothes in her suitcase. The money in her account wouldn’t go far in an expensive city like New York. The clothes might be a different story.

Sliding off her stool, she took her coffee back to her bedroom and began pulling everything out of her suitcase to see what she had. Beside the jeans and T-shirt she was wearing, she also had four designer dresses from the most recent resort collections. Three pairs of handmade designer pumps. One Judith Leiber evening bag and assorted lingerie from Paris.

The underthings were out as far as resale, but the rest was up for grabs. There were several vintage shops she frequented in Chelsea. She’d stop by them later and see if they’d be interested in the dresses and shoes. The Leiber clutch—shaped like a sparkly pink seashell—she’d take back to Neiman’s. It was a one-of-a-kind that she’d picked up on a whim on her way to the airport with Jefferson that ill-fated night after her play. At the time, she’d thought she’d carry it during the wedding ceremony. God, what an idiot she’d been.

Inventory taken of her things, she walked back out to the kitchen to go through the newspaper classified ads. No matter what she got for her stuff, she’d still need a steady source of income for the future. But as she went through the ads, her heart sank. Most of the decent paying positions required experience, which she didn’t have. Living under her parents’ roof all her life meant really the only things she knew about were fashion and style. Sure, she had a degree from Vassar, but Daveed had been right to laugh. Liberal Arts was far too broad a topic to give her any real marketable life skills.

Still, she bolstered her resolve. Melody refused to go through the rest of her life feeling as crappy about herself and her situation as she did right now. She wanted to be self-sufficient, respected, a productive part of society.

With that in mind, she headed back to her bedroom again and selected the least flashy, most business-like outfit from amongst the other clothes she wasn’t considering selling. Other than shorts and jeans and T-shirts, she somehow managed to pack a black pantsuit. Pairing it with a white top and a pair of black ballet flats, she looked nearly executive. Shoulders squared, she combed her extravagant curls back into a tight ponytail at the back of her neck then squinted at her reflection. She looked staid and boring and exactly what she imagined all those nameless people who worked in those nameless skyscraper offices looked like on a daily basis. Hopefully, it would be enough to at least get her foot in the door at some of these companies that were hiring.

She finished her coffee and a piece of dry toast, then grabbed the paper and her much more conservative black Coach bag and headed out to get herself a job. But the first business she stopped at required a resume, which she didn’t have. The next was the same.

At the third location, the receptionist immediately recognized Melody from the tabloids and she quickly fled that place when the woman started speaking loudly about the whole debacle with Jefferson Hanks.

Dejected, Melody walked back outside and headed down the sidewalk toward the next job listed in the paper. It was still early and she was determined to get a job. But after four more rejections without even so much as an interview, her self-esteem was starting to take a hit. She headed back out of the latest generic-looking office building bedecked with steel and glass and stood at the corner, waiting in the crowd to cross at the light. She was near Times Square now and as she headed to the next listing in the classifieds, she spotted a hair salon. The sign outside said they were running a special that day of cut-and-styles for women for only twenty dollars. Mel had never spent less than three-hundred at her old salon, but she was on a budget now and this seemed like a great deal. But it was the stares and salacious gossip of the receptionist from earlier that made the final decision for her.

Yep. She was making a change all right, and a new cut seemed like the embodiment of that. Mel headed inside the shop and was immediately ushered to a station in the back of the salon by a young guy with purple hair and multiple piercings. He looked like a disheveled Johnny Depp and had a wicked smile that made her want to take all sorts of risks. He was also gay, as evidenced by the many pictures of him and his partner plastered up all over his work area.

“My name’s Matt and I’ll be your stylist today. So what are we doing, hon?” he asked, giving her an assessing stare in the mirror. He slipped the holder from her ponytail and ran his fingers through her thick blond curls. “All this hair. So pretty.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a sad smile. “But I’m ready for a change.”

“Yeah?” Matt paused, his wicked grin returning. “Like what?”

She glanced around at the various photos hung on the wall and spotted one of a European-looking model with white-blond hair and a short, spiked style. She’d never gone that drastic in her life, but now seemed as good a time as any. Mel pointed to the picture. “Like that.”

Matt’s brown eyes widened. “Really?”

“You don’t think it would look good?”

He pulled her hair back from her face and fussed with it for a minute. “With your bone structure, I think you could go completely bald and still be gorgeous. But it’s a huge change. Are you sure you’re ready for it?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “Yes, I need a change.”

His gaze narrowed. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look just like that socialite? The one who ran off with that actor and got splashed all over the tabloids?”