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

She kept staring at him over the top of her sunglasses and she was frowning. “You must be an Adjalane. I don’t know who else would have that hawk nose or be able to track me down out here. So which one are you? The one who just got married, the one into sports, or the banished son?”

***

He smiled—it changed his face. She’d seen photos of Sheikh Nimr Adjalane—part of her homework to make this deal happen—and this guy looked a lot like him. Serious expression—or that’s what he’d just had—and black hair peeking out from under a ball cap that shaded his face. His hair was slightly too long in the back, giving him a rakish appearance that reminded her of the stories of marauding sheikhs who captured young women and carried them off to their desert lairs. He was clean shaven, but it looked as if his beard was about to grow back—it shadowed his jaw and cheeks. He was dressed in khakis and boots—so was the other guy with him—but they were crisp, clean and left Nigella feeling sweating and rumpled.

“Not so banished now. I’m Malid. And this is Adjalane property. Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

Nigella smiled. “Ah, Malid Adjalane. You’re the one they booted for lying. I’d heard your father never intended to see your face again.” She wanted to see if she could shake him—it was always good to find out just who you were dealing with.

His own smile didn’t fade, but it did stiffen. “Actually, I am here at my father’s request.” He waved a hand at her surveyors. “The question is what are you doing out here when access has not yet been arranged?”

Tucking her map into her messenger back, Nigella said, “It’s best to have some kind of idea just what we’re negotiating for.”

“You plan to put the pipeline through here?” Malid asked.

“That depends on your family, doesn’t it?”

Malid took a step closer. Nigella’s heart kicked up a little—the guy was good looking and obviously knew it. She didn’t trust him an inch. “You’re very blunt,” he said. “I like that.”

She thought about telling him she didn’t give a rat’s ass what he liked, but she was supposed to play nice here. Holding her ground, she looked him up and down, from the starched collar of his shirt to the laces of his boots—nice ones, leather and American made if she knew her boots. “Banishment seems to agree with you.”

“My father asked me to absent myself from Al-Sarid—he didn’t condemn me to a life of poverty. My palace is just over the border.”

The words came out so easily, and Nigella wondered if he realized how crazy his last statement was. My palace. He really was just like something out of some kind of desert fantasy—the gorgeous, brooding sheikh with a past and his wounds. She wished she could see his eyes to know if he was having her on, or was he really serious about all of this.

Sweat trickled down her face—and her back. She didn’t wipe it away. She wasn’t from this part of the world—not that it couldn’t get hot in Texas—and she was determined to earn the respect of not just her dad, but everyone in the business. This was her chance to prove she could cut tough deals in the Middle East.

Malid lifted a hand and wiped a drop of sweat from her cheek. “You have not adjusted to our climate yet.”

She pushed her sunglasses back in place and turned away slightly. Her pulse was jumping and she was hoping the heat on her skin really was just the desert. “I don’t think any amount of time here would get me used to these temperatures. And it’s only ten.”

“You would be wise to stay indoors during the hottest part of the day—that is what we do. With your fair complexion, you would burn easily. And that, Ms. Michaels, is why you should cover your head—a scarf, a hat, or anything is better than no protection from the sun.”

Nigella’s cheeks warmed even more. She’d been trying to make a statement with her Western clothing—she wasn’t going to look second class here. But it seemed she’d just shown herself not to be all that smart. She gave a nod. “I’ll think about that. And, please…it’s Nigella.”

Stepping back, Malid gestured to his SUV. It was black, big, and looked more like a military vehicle. “I would like to discuss your latest offer. I suggest you accompany me back to my palace. My chef will have luncheon prepared, and we can discuss matters in comfort.”

At your palace. Nigella almost giggled. It sounded so absurd. Or was this really about getting her off Adjalane land?

She wasn’t convinced this was the best path to the sea. If the ground proved too rocky, costs would soar. Or would they have to do an above-ground pipeline and what kind of exposure to terrorists would that create? She had a hundred questions about this deal—and she wasn’t sure if Malid Adjalane’s job was to sell her on a hunk of useless land, or was he here to fleece her for a ridiculous amount of money?

One dark eyebrow lifted over his dark sunglasses. Again, she wanted to see his eyes, and she might get a chance over lunch. She called out to her guys to pack it up for now. She turned to tell Malid she’d follow him to his…palace.

But Malid was waving to the guy who’d come with him and already had hold of Nigella by the elbow. “Fadin will drive us. Your men may not be able to follow, so they had best return to their hotel.”

The guy—Fadin—inclined his head and then spoke briefly with her men. Nigella stiffened at that bit of high-handed take over—they were her men. But she didn’t need to get into a battle this early in the game.

Malid opened the door for her, and she slid into the back seat. “Nice ride,” she told him.

“More dependable in the desert.” Fadin slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Air conditioning stirred cool air over her skin. The car smelled of leather and money.

She eyed Malid, who was slipping into the seat next to her. “You don’t have to sit back here with me,” she informed him.

He offered another of those charming smiles that he seemed to use so well. “But I want to. Now, what shall we talk of on the ride there?”

Chapter 2

“Your home is lovely,” Nigella said. And it was. They’d driven through a gated entrance into a courtyard. Palm trees, lush foliage, flowering plants, and fountains lined a circular drive. The building—pale sandstone in stark, modern lines—seemed almost a backdrop to the garden. On the drive over, they’d talked about Al-Sarid’s history—it’s struggle to hold onto its independence and not be swallowed up by other, larger or richer countries, and its efforts to modernize and adapt to a parliamentary form of government. Nigella came away with the clear impression that families such as the Adjalane were still informal rulers who influenced everything. She was going to have to be careful when dealing with them.