The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs 3)

Chapter 1

Malid Adjalane could feel Fadin’s stare on him, but he kept his eyes on the sand that stretched before them. Trust the security guy to worry. It was best to get over such shifting ground fast, and Fadin knew that. But he didn’t look comfortable. He gripped the door rest of the SUV with white knuckles, and Malid had to smile. Fadin had taught him to drive, but the older man was a cautious soul. Malid wasn’t. Not right now at least.

Fadin broke the silence between them. “We crossed back into Al-Sarid two miles back.”

Giving a nod and a shrug, Malid lifted a hand from the wheel. Fadin knew why they were making this drive. Fadin had been with Malid for years, even through the exile that Malid’s father had imposed. Right now nothing was going to keep Malid from getting to his mother’s side—even if that meant he had to jump to his father’s orders.

However, as expected, Fadin’s dark eyes sharpened. Irritation pulled his mouth down. He looked younger than his sixty years. Gray had only started to show at the temples of his dark hair, which he wore close-trimmed. His beard was also close shaven—Fadin didn’t like anything that might be used against him in a fight.

Fadin gave a disapproving sniff—or Malid was going to guess it was disapproving. Fadin hadn’t liked the idea of this return to Al-Sarid. “I hope you have no intention of trying to meet all your father’s demands. Whatever they are, you can be sure he has something else hidden.”

Malid shrugged again. He had no illusions about his illustrious father, Sheikh Nimr, head of the Adjalane family, and one of the most powerful men in Al-Sarid. Nimr was a tyrant both in the boardroom of the family company and within the family. He and Malid had never seen eye to eye, and Malid was not about to be sucked back into his father’s world of control. But he would also not allow his father to stand in the way of what was owed to family.

Next to him, Fadin studied the landscape. The deserts of Al-Sarid could be beautiful—distant mountains of purple, shifting white dunes dotted with small clumps of grasses and palms near the springs that made travel possible across the hot lands. Al-Sarid hugged the coast of Arabia—a tiny sliver of a country that relied more on tourism dollars than on oil, but the land did have a huge asset. Access to the coast.

Voice gruff, Fadin said, “Opell Oil will want their pipeline to be low cost construction—that means Adjalane land, which has the best water, the best level ground.”

Hands tight on the steering wheel, Malid pushed out a breath. He hadn’t told Fadin everything about the phone call he’d had with his father—things within the Adjalane family were…complex. They had been between Malid and his two brothers, and between Malid and his father. Too much pride, perhaps, Malid thought. His mouth twisted. He wasn’t above having that same problem.

Glancing at Fadin, Malid gave in—Fadin would keep poking and making comments until Malid answered his questions. That kind of dogged pursuit was a good trait in a head of security, but it was also sometimes irritating.

“Yes, Opell Oil wants a pipeline, and my father asked me to handle the matter.”

Fadin nodded. “Asked because he wants you to prove something?”

Malid shook his head, but this was something of a peace offering—or at least that was how it appeared on the surface. Malid had butted heads with his younger brother, Adilan, over regaining a piece of land—an oasis called Al-Hilah. Adilan had gotten the land back into the family by marrying the American woman whose mother held the deed. A nice trick that. Mouth sour, Malid clenched his back teeth. Nimr had not approved of some of Malid’s plans to acquire the land by other means, and had thought the charges Malid had brought against that American were…dishonorable. As if such a matter of business was any place for honor.

However, now Nimr needed Malid’s business skills—Adilan was too busy with his new wife and other matters, Nassir was terrible at negotiations, and Malid had not enjoyed his time away from his homeland. This seemed a good opportunity for everyone.

Topping a sand dune, Malid slowed the vehicle. Below, on rocky ground at the edge of the dunes, two off-road vehicles with thick tires—much like on Malid’s SUV—were parked on a narrow track. Malid could see three people—two with survey equipment.

“Opell Oil?” Fadin asked. He didn’t sound pleased. “They seem to think they own this land already.”

Putting the SUV in gear, Malid drove down the dune and parked near other vehicles. At least these people knew enough to bring in desert equipment. Glancing at Fadin, Malid told him, “See what you can learn from the surveyors—I’m looking for any leverage in this deal. I must meet with the woman in charge.”

“Woman?” Fadin paused, one hand on the door. “Gordon Michaels sent a woman to negotiate?”

“Not just a woman. Gordon Michaels may own Opell Oil, but the woman in question is Nigella Michaels…his daughter. I expect we are both being tested by our parents.”

Fadin muttered a curse, and Malid had to agree with it. Family businesses ought to be more business and less family—or that was how Malid felt at times.

Getting out of the air conditioned SUV, Malid shaded his eyes. The sun and heat hit him at once—a welcome to his home. He had grown up in these deserts—he loved the heat. But he also knew the dangers. He grabbed a cap to better shiel

d his eyes and adjusted his sunglasses.

Nigella Michaels stood out at once. She held a map in her hands and stood with her back to him. She had to have heard the SUV’s engine, but she wasn’t paying any attention to it—that showed a certain confidence, or perhaps a certain recklessness. Bandits weren’t unknown in the desert.

Jeans encased long legs, and his first thought was she was like a gazelle—lean and graceful. Her head was uncovered—not wise in the desert, but it gave him a view of deep brown, almost black, waves. She turned and pulled down her sunglasses, giving him a glimpse of eyes the color of amethysts. Her complexion was perfect, and the white shirt she wore offered up a hint of the cleavage that lay underneath.

Nigella was a beautiful woman, and a surge of interest swept through him. He frowned. An attraction was not a complication he wanted—not when it came to business.

I’ve been without a woman for too long.

Well, nothing to be done about that just now. He strode to her side and held out his hand. “Nigella Michaels?”