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

In the lobby, Malid noted that Opell Oil had offices on the thirty-fifth floor. He enjoyed the view of the city as the glass-enclosed elevator carried him upward.

Nigella would hopefully have another offer—if she didn’t, he had several ideas to present for her consideration. The idea of seeing her again sent a pleasant shiver over his skin. He was moderately curious to see if the attraction he’d felt between them the other day remained or had it been a passing fancy—an interest only because she had seemed so different from the other women he had met over his life.

Stepping out of the elevator, he took in thick, slate-colored carpets, a floral arrangement on a side table, a large piece of slate with water cascading down it, and the opaque walls of glass that provided the occupants inside the offices privacy.

The receptionist seemed to expect him for she showed him into a conference room with a view of Dubai and the sea.

Malid hated to be kept waiting—in his life, people waited on him, not the other way around. However, this was business. Hiding his irritation, he took a seat at the boardroom table. It was large and of a polished mahogany that spoke of money. He, too had dressed to impress—an Armani suit and tie, with a white taub over it and the keffiyeh favored by his family. Today, he was Sheikh Malid Adjalane. Anyone who saw him in traditional robes would know he was a person of importance and authority.

Staring out at the skyline, he wondered what Nigella would think of his garb—and what would she be wearing?

The snick of a door opening behind him had him turning, but Nigella brought another man with her. The resemblance was obvious at once

Gordon Michaels had the same eyes as his daughter, the same dark hair—almost black with a touch of brown. However, gray streaked his hair. Age, sun and weather had lined his skin. He obviously kept himself fit—but Malid was going to guess he had been ill recently. Instead of his coat being a perfect fit, it hung a touch loose. He came into the room, and Malid stood—the man’s personality was such that he swept in with arrogance and domination. Malid stiffened and glanced at Nigella.

She’d dressed in a black business suit—a thin skirt, a silk button-down blouse, a blazer over the top. Her hair was pulled back, and her makeup was as bold as her jewelry today. Judging by her expression, she was not happy to have her father with her today.

Malid turned to Gordon Michaels. “I assumed I would be meeting with your daughter.”

The other man didn’t even look at Nigella. It was as if she wasn’t even in the room. He glanced at Malid’s robes and said, “What seems to be the problem with my offer?”

Glancing at Nigella, Malid lifted an eyebrow. She dropped her stare to the floor—ah, so she could do nothing with her father. He knew the feeling. Turning back to Michaels, he said, “Nigella called you? Or emailed? And you think somehow you must fly here and fix this in person—that she was not able to handle this?”

Michaels huffed out a breath. “You trying to hold my company hostage? We put a huge sum on the table for what amounts to little more than piles of sand.”

“Daddy—?”

Michaels slashed his hand, silencing Nigella. Her cheeks pinked, and Malid’s face heated. This was a family matter obviously, but Michaels was pulling Malid into it. He forced himself to smile and sit down. “I came here to negotiate with Nigella—not you.”

Crossing his arms, Michaels said, “If I have to, we’ll go east and run the pipeline through Tawzar. And you and your backwards country can go on still livin’ in the dark ages.”

Nigella stepped forward, pushing between her father and Malid. “Daddy—can we have a word?”

Glancing from Nigella to her father, Malid wondered who would win this contest of wills between them. Until now, Nigella had seemed unable to do much with her father—now, however, now she looked a spitfire. A warrior ready to do battle. In heels, she stood as tall as her father—and she looked him in the eye. Michaels hesitated—and Nigella used that moment. She put a hand on his arm and her drawl thickened. “Please, Daddy.”

What man could resist that tone? Malid saw Michaels soften—the man’s eyes lost their sharp edge, his shoulders eased and he gave a quick nod. He shot a last look at Malid as if to promise this wasn’t settled yet, but he let his daughter lead him from the conference room, mild as a lamb.

And wasn’t that interesting.

It seemed there was an unofficial power struggle within the Opell Oil. In his research, Malid had read that Gordon Michaels was grooming possible successors. There had not been a word about any illness—but the man he had just met was not the same, robust man he had seen in so many images online. This put a new slant on things. Opell Oil might need this pipeline sooner than Malid had thought—if Michaels died while he was still CEO, Opell Oil stock would drop. That was only to be expected. It would no doubt recover—but the company would be exposed to hostile takeovers. Michaels would be wise to name a successor and ensure a smooth transition that would leave stockholders feeling secure enough that they did not rush to sell their shares

That meant Nigella Michaels would no doubt want to secure the pipeline at once.

Malid smiled—suddenly he knew it was in his best interests to drag

out negotiations. Opell Oil would soon be begging to sign any deal. All he must do is distract Nigella and keep the deal in play just long enough.

Chapter 4

Nigella stepped back into the conference room. It had taken coaxing her daddy, badgering him, reminding him what the doctor had said about his blood pressure, and then reminding him that he’d promised her she’d be lead on this deal. That had finally done it. Gordon Michaels might be a tough, stubborn son-of-a-bitch, but his word and handshake were legendary—as solid as gold in the bank. She’d outlined how she planned to go at Malid, and he’d finally agreed that her tactics were good.

She’d also gotten him to admit he didn’t understand the culture of the region, nor did he want to. In his mind, the universal language was dollars. She’d told him time and again that family and heritage often trumped monetary gain. He’d never gotten that message—but he had agreed she was still his problem solver.

And Malid was proving to be a problem.

Smiling at him, she came over to him. She’d left him sitting in one of the chairs, but now he was standing. He’d been staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows when she’d entered, but he’d turned.

“I apologize for my father—he’s…well, he just flew in and he’s never in the best mood after a long flight. If you’ll come with me, we can finish our meeting in my office. I can promise you there will be no more interference from Daddy. He’s got…well, he’s actually here on a different matter.” Searching Malid’s dark eyes—they looked hard and cold just now—she tried to convey how sorry she was and silently begged him to give her the chance she was asking for.