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

He nodded. “Life is simple in the desert. If you like, after we sign the deal, perhaps a return to celebrate?”

She was cautious with her answer, neither accepting or denying, and he wondered if this would now become a pleasant memory for both of them. A spurt of anger flared. He squashed it down. He had no claim on her—nor she on him. But…but what?

They had shared time and their bodies. They had found pleasure. He had gotten what he wanted. That was the end of this. If she chose not to repeat the experience…well, perhaps she was wise. They came from two different worlds—she was not the docile woman he had thought he would one day marry, and she was obviously married more to her work than to any man.

She changed back into her western clothes—as did Malid—and they left the desert behind. But Malid could not resist one last glance back at the oasis. Did he really wish to leave all they had shared behind?

***

Malid’s helicopter landed on his office building in Dubai. From there, he saw to it that Nigella was driven back to her hotel. She promised to draw up the papers for the deal immediately. She’d shaken hands with him again—and had allowed her hand to linger in his. He thought he saw something in her eyes—was that regret that their time was drawing to an end? Or something else?

She left, and he watched the elevator doors close on her. Turning away, he called his father’s private line. When Nimr answered, Malid said, “I have new terms from Michaels. I will give them to you when I come to visit my mother.” His father had always been an unyielding man and Malid had learned that same art of being stubborn at an early age.

Nimr’s voice came back over the phone, calm and firm. “You may tell me now or not at all.”

Malid bit down on his temper. He was tempted to simply hang up. Let the old man make his own deal. But this was more about his mother, not about his father. He would think of her first—and he would remember how Nigella had been able to keep her emotions firmly in check when it came to business. He took a breath and laid out the terms of the new deal.

“This is a good deal for the family.” He knew that if either of his brothers reviewed the deal, they would be more than pleased. Nassir would appreciate the financial advantages and Nassir and Adilan would be happy that water rights had been secured.

Sounding tired, Nimr said, “I am not so old yet that I cannot decide what is a good for the family. I will consider the offer.” Nimr hung up, and Malid cursed. He almost threw the phone across the room, but that was childish. His mouth curved as he thought again of Nigella—so abandoned when she wished, and so careful when she needed to be. He put his phone back in his pocket and began to think.

If his mother was as ill as he feared, he could not afford to keep waiting—he would not miss her last moments due to his father’s stubborn pride. He had proven to his father that he did not need the man’s controlling guidance—he did not need it now.

Pulling out his phone again, he called Fadin. “Ready the car. I’m going to go visit my mother. It is time that he learns that even a tyrant must face limits.”

Chapter 9

He arrived in Al-Sarid without problems—Fadin pulled up in front of the family’s palace just outside the main city, and Malid stepped from the SUV. He stopped in the courtyard, his heart tightening—there had been times he had thought he would never see this place again.

Adjalane Palace sat on a slight hill overlooking the city and the sea—it was dark enough, however, that Malid could only see the white towers and not the view of the sea or the distant mountains. The white stone walls gleamed, lit now by spotlights and the moon, the fragrances of the gardens wove around him, stirring old memories of him and his brothers playing here, of his mother tending to the roses she adored and would not allow a gardener to touch, or even of his father in rare smiles as he joined them outside.

Pushing aside the useless emotions stirring, Malid headed for the massive, oak front door.

This deal with Opell Oil had been useful—it had given Malid full access to Al-Sarid again—no one had turned him back at the border or at the palace gates. All he had to do was invoke the magic words that he was here to discuss Opell Oil.

He headed at once for his mother’s rooms—but they lay beyond Nimr’s study. His father came out of that room and blocked the hallway.

Pausing, Malid studied his father.

Nimr looked as if he had aged a decade—not just a few months. His jaw line sagged now, and his nose seemed larger, stronger on a face that had shrunken. Malid did not like the gray cast to Nimr’s olive skin—only his black eyes were still sharp and alert. He looked thinner, too. Unhealthy, Malid would almost say. He wore only an open-necked shirt, charcoal-gray trousers and black leather loafers.

Malid faced him—but as always his father’s presence left him feeling a boy of eight, a boy who could barely survive the desert. “I want to see my mother and then I will leave.”

Nimr lifted one eyebrow. “You have not completed the deal. But I have come to a decision—ask for an additional fifteen percent of the income from the oil transported across my land.”

Sucking in a breath, Malid stared at his father, his hands limp and shock cold on his skin. “Gordon Michaels will never agree to those terms.”

“But he doesn’t have to agree, does he? You only need to get his daughter to give you what you want.”

Face hot, Malid took a step forward. “What do you imply? That Nigella is no better than a whore I can use? You know nothing of her, and it is beyond rude for you to insult her.”

Both dark eyebrows rose. Nimr looked his son up and down, the look in his eyes calculating. “You have learned nothing yet. You may leave. If you do not, I will have the palace guard arrest you, and the police may bring charges. Was that not how you handled your brother’s intended?”

Mouth tight, Malid turned on his heel. He stopped at the door and glanced back at his father. “This isn’t over. I will see my mother, old man. And remember that when you are in your grave, I will be the son who inherits from you—that, you cannot change.”

He slammed from the house and into the SUV. Fadin gave him a sideways glance, but Malid only said, “Drive.”

With a nod, Fadin started the engine and pulled out of the courtyard. “Where to? Home?”