The Sheikh's Unruly Lover (Almasi Sheikhs 2)

This seemed to ease his doubts, because he complied with her tug instead of resisting. “I’ll call my driver.”

“No. I want an authentic experience.” She led him toward the sidewalk, her hand slipping into his. Heat flooded her like an electric shock, and she glanced back at him with surprise. Confusion shone on his face, and she squeezed his hand, pulling him faster. “Show me how to hail a cab in Minarak.”

On the sidewalk, cars meandered past the hotel, a few obvious taxis approaching. Something about Omar felt new right now. Nothing like the level-headed, confident businessman she’d interacted with thus far. This man was cautious, as if he’d just arrived at a party where he knew no one.

Omar paused, appraising her heavily. Oh God. He’s going to back out. He’s going to run away.

Marian deflated a little, but Omar raised his arm and waved it vigorously in the air. “This is how you do it. Just quickly. Several should stop.”

As if on cue, three taxis pulled over to the side of the road, and Omar smiled at her. This time it felt genuine.

“Well, thank you for that. I would have done it much more aggressively, based on my experience as a New Yorker.” She picked the first taxi that approached and slid into the backseat. “Now how do I say, ‘Take me to the fanciest restaurant in the fanciest district’?”

Omar laughed a little and leaned forward, instructing the taxi driver in Farsi. She caught a whiff of his cologne as he settled back into the seat.

“That’s a bit too much for the first lesson,” Omar said. “How about we just start simple?” He pronounced the word for restaurant, which he repeated a few times while she stumbled over it lamely.

“Yeah, that works,” she said finally, happy that he’d decided to accompany her. Something felt natural with him, as if she were reconnecting with a long-lost friend. Even though it made no sense, and she had no basis for it...it was there.

The taxi driver pulled up to a tall building, encased in reflective blue panes. The bottom level was a restaurant—she could see the maître d’s stand as a well-dressed couple entered. As she stepped out of the taxi, which Omar insisted on paying for, Marian craned her neck upward to see what lay above.

“This looks pretty fancy.”

“It’s just fancy enough,” Omar said. “They’ll let me in, at least.”

“Oh, please.” She waved her hand at him as they strutted toward the front doors. “You look like an off-duty underwear model.”

Omar lifted a brow at the same time her words crashed around her. Jesus, Marian, could you get a filter? She opened her mouth to smooth it over, but found nothing waiting on her tongue.

He opened the door for her, an amused air lingering between them. As they approached the podium, his hand found the small of her back. She relished the jolt of electricity that coursed through her again, made her toes tingle.

Omar spoke to the hostess, and soon they were seated at an intimate table for two along the front windows, overlooking the busy street. The glass was tinted from the outside, so they could peep out on the world in peace.

“This will be fun,” Marian said, settling into place. She smoothed the napkin over her lap in preparation. “We get to comment on everybody’s fashion choices without them knowing.”

“So you’re a voyeur,” Omar said, his eyes glinting.

“Maybe,” she said, teasing. “Important things to know about your business partner.”

A waiter came with glasses of water and the wine list. As Marian perused the choices, a thought occurred to her.

“Don’t think you have to pay for my dinner,” she said, her gaze traveling along his square jaw, over the five o’clock shadow. “You just ran into me at the hotel, so this isn’t me strong-arming you into a meal. I’m on an expense account, after all.”

“Please. I would hardly be a good man if I allowed a guest in my country to pay for her own meal.”

Marian batted her eyes at him. There were sparks here—right? She swore there were. Or maybe he was just being a sweet host. It was so hard to tell. The only thing she did know was how desperate she was to peel that shirt of his off and see what lay beneath.

They talked easily while waiting for the main course. Marian sipped on wine while Omar nursed a sparkling water. When she ordered her second glass, she said, “You don’t drink alcohol?”

“Not much anymore,” he replied, eyeing her as she downed the rest of her wine. “I…gave it up.”

“Any reason?”

A strange cloud covered his face, the same one that appeared when she’d caught him at the hotel. “Not really.”

“You’re just a good boy, then.” Marian folded her fingers over the table, casting him a secret smile. How many more hints did she need to drop? She’d held his hand and called him an underwear model. By all rights, he should be mounting her by now. At least, he would be if they were in New York.

“Not always.” He ran his thumb over the side of his glass, his dark gaze setting her pulse racing. There it is. The man could start a fire with so few words. That was a talent.