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

Twenty minutes later, he had her hand in his as they strolled along the paved walks amid the gardens that were shaded by trees and cooled by salt-tanged air from the ocean. Malid had bought them both iced lemonades.

Nigella had shed her suit coat and carried it over one arm. She looked far more relaxed now, but the worry had not left her eyes. “Hard to believe that not too far from here lies an inhospitable desert.”

Malid shrugged. “What you deem inhospitable is home to many. Now, come sit and tell me what you wish to speak about?” He led her to a stone bench next to an arbor of jasmine.

Sitting down, Nigella draped her suit jacket next to her and turned to face him, her paper cup of lemonade crumpling in her hand. Malid took the cup from her and set it beside him, and she blurted out, “Your father asked to see me.” Her mouth twisted. “He and my father have much in common.”

He glanced at her. “You met with him.” He made it a statement of fact and not a question. His stomach burned, but he swallowed back the reaction. He would wait and hear what had happened—but if Nimr had done anything to harm Nigella…

The urge to protect her surprised him—both for its heat and possessiveness. He had known her for so short a time. And yet in some ways it seemed as if she had been next to him forever. He didn’t understand it, so he shook his head and frowned. “That cannot be a good thing.”

She started to pleat a fold of her trousers. Malid put his hand over hers. “What troubles you?”

“My father’s flying in. And yours…well, he’s—”

“Impossible to deal with?”

She nodded. “But…well, have you ever wondered why he is?”

“Oh, I know. My father is the opposite of my grandfather—who nearly lost the family everything.”

She wet her lips, and Malid wanted to lean in and kiss her. But she put a hand over his and said, “You mean he’s afraid of the doing the same thing? Afraid even to show what he feels?”

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” Malid asked.

“No. I know my daddy loves me, he just doesn’t think I have what it takes to run his company. He’s trying to hang onto ‘his little girl’ being little.”

Malid shook his head. “You’re not trying to convince me that my father actually cares for me?” Pulling his hand from hers, he touched her cheek. “Do not even attempt to figure out the relationship between my father and me. I have been trying to do that for years with no success.”

“Maybe that’s ‘cause you and your father are too much alike. You ever think what it’d be like to have a son like you? Someone always pushing, always thinking he knows better?”

Malid laughed. “A son…what ideas do you have in mind now?”

She pulled in a breath, and Malid said, “Why do I feel like I’ve just walked into a trap?”

Smiling, she leaned closer, to kiss the corner of his mouth, and trail kisses to his ear. “Will you do one thing for me?” she asked, her mouth pressed against his skin and her breath hot.

Malid closed his eyes. How could he deny her anything? Putting an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. “You are playing unfair.”

“What’s that about love and war? And this is business. I have an idea.”

“I have one as well,” he said, pulling her even closer so her breasts pressed against his chest. He began to wish he had never thought of taking her away from her hotel—had met with her in her room so they could be having this conversation naked.

She pushed both hands against his chest and held him back. “First things first, and the first thing is—you’ve got a couple of brothers right?”

Chapter 11

It took an hour to convince Malid to call his brother Nassir—the one he supposedly wasn’t on the outs with.

They met him in an upscale restaurant that offered sheltered dining alcoves, and traditional low tables with cushioned seats that Nigella learned were called poufs. After they washed hands, the waiters brought the meal out—spicy chicken and grilled vegetables, something called a mezze, a plate with a lot of smaller dishes, including cheese, cubed melon, tabbouleh, mutabbal, and a grilled sausage, hummus, flatbread, and other side dishes that Nigella couldn’t name. Back home, this would have been called a pot luck—but the dishes were far finer and rich. Nigella dug in and listened to the brothers talk.

It seemed that Nassir ran his own company and owned a gym. Like his father and Malid, he had dark hair and olive skin, a strong nose and lean features. But his eyes were a tawny brown, and the lines around his mouth came from an easy smile. Nigella found herself thinking, Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with this Adjalane?

The thought froze her, and she started to choke on an olive. Malid patted her back, she grabbed for water and then stared at Malid.

Love. She was in love—falling, had fallen, was going deeper yet.

No—it couldn’t be.