The Sheikh's Stubborn Assistant (The Sharif Sheikhs 3)

“What? Why?” She glanced out the window and saw him standing outside the door, waiting for her.

Grumbling under her breath about his ridiculous controlling nature, she climbed out and marched toward him. “What do you think that you’re doing?”

“You’re spending the night with me,” he said shortly as he opened the door. “Come on.”

Narrowing her eyes, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You couldn’t be bothered to ask me rather than order me?”

“You’re a little drunk, Katie. Do you want to go home to Sahaar like that? I don’t plan on taking advantage of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, I guess you had your fill last weekend,” she muttered in disgust. “If you wanted me to spend the night, why not say something at dinner? Why make the driver circle the palace and sneak me in as if I were some mistress of yours?”

“Katie . . .”

“Am I not good enough for your family?”

He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t think that you’d want the girls to know that you’re sleeping with me like this. I felt that you’d want to tell them yourself.”

“Slept with,” she corrected before stomping inside.

His hand snuck out and grabbed her arm. “Just so we’re clear, Kadija, I have not had my fill of you. I’m not even sure that it’s possible.”

Jutting her chin out, she stared at him. “Then what have you been doing this week?”

“Following your lead. You seemed hell-bent on ignoring me, and I didn’t want to push you.”

Oh. “That’s oddly nice of you. Okay. I’ll stay here tonight. I should have borrowed something from Liyah, after all.”

Khalid chuckled as he followed her inside. “I may not be taking advantage of you, Katie, but that doesn’t mean you have to wear clothes to bed.”

She expected his suite to be cold and impersonal and was pleasantly surprised to find it covered in art. Paintings and murals hung on the walls, some contemporary and some prints from well-known masterpieces. At least, she assumed that they were prints. The originals were supposed to be hanging in museums. His shelves and bookcases were littered with pottery and small statues.

And some of the paintings . . .

“Those are mine,” he said roughly. “I went through a landscape period. Dubai was my muse.”

The barren scenery glowed under the moonlight. His strokes were bold and deliberate, and there was a haunting beauty to his work.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispered as she reached out a careful finger to the nearest, stopping short of touching the surface. “Why would you stop?”

He was silent for a moment before he opened the doors to the patio to let in the small breeze.

Curious, she followed him out and stared down at the city below.

He gripped the railing and smiled sadly at her. “My father is a traditional man. He’s relented quite a bit in the past few years, but when we were growing up, he had strict ideas about what he wanted from us. I always knew that I would disappoint him. I used to sneak away and paint at night so that I could be what he wanted me to be during the day and be what I wanted at night.”

Night and day.

“He found out?”

“He wasn’t angry. My mother encouraged me to paint, and he’d always assumed that it was a hobby, but when I failed to take an interest in the family’s various businesses, he grew alarmed. The gallery was a last-ditch effort on his part. We fought—argued,” he corrected as if feeling the shock radiating from her. His look grew far away as if the conversation had transported him to the past, and she saw the sadness in his eyes.

“He’s a businessman by nature,” she said gently to pull him back to the present. “It can be difficult when children are so unlike their parents.”

Khalid sighed and nodded. “He felt that I was never going to amount to anything, and I guess I was starting to feel that, too. He promised me the gallery, to do whatever I wanted with it, if I gave up painting.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Couple of years.” He shrugged slightly, not meeting her eyes. “I’m okay with it. I love the gallery.”