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

She stared at Malid, seeing the curve of his ear, how his beard always seemed to come into fast. She was short of breath and her head was buzzing. This couldn’t be. She was a sensible person—she took her time with decisions. And yet…this wasn’t just about business anymore. This wasn’t about the deal. She wanted to see Malid happy—and that meant he needed to patch things up with his father. For his own sake. She wanted him happy because…because she’d done the thing she’d never done. She’d jumped in with both feet with him and she was in love with him.

Great—as if he’d want her to hang around once they got a deal done. She tore off some flatbread and chewed on it, not tasting a thing.

Nassir was telling his brother stories about his gym, and the bothers swapped some gossip. Nigella was glad to see there was at least one easy-going Adjalane around—maybe there was hope for this family after all.

After the meal had been cleared and a dessert of ice cream that tasted like roses was brought out—Nigella figured that had to be an acquired taste—she leaned forward and asked Nassir, “How is your mother?”

He stared at her. Malid cursed and said, “Father hasn’t told you, has he?” Frowning, Nassir shook his head, and Malid said, “Mother is ill.”

Face pale, Nassir shook his head again. “No. It can’t be.”

“Why not?” Malid asked. “You know Father. He tells us what he thinks we need to know—nothing more. When were you last at the palace?”

Nassir shifted his stare away. “I’ve been busy.”

Nigella cut in before an argument could start. “That doesn’t matter. Malid wants to see her—you should, too. And your daddy’s being a butt about this.” Both men stared at her and her cheeks heated. “Sorry, but he is.”

Malid grinned, took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “No, that is the right word.” He glanced back at Nassir. “Well, shall we go see mother?”

Nassir agreed to drive, but he warned Malid, “If Father sees you, he’s going to want an apology.”

Waving off that idea, Malid ushered Nigella into Nassir’s truck. He climbed in after her. It wasn’t exactly a family reunion, but it was a step, Nigella thought. The front seat was big enough to hold three, and she didn’t mind pressing up against Malid—he didn’t seem to mind, either, although he did seem distracted.

Nassir drove like a demon, leaving Nigella clutching Malid’s arm. Nassir’s truck was waved through the gates at the palace without a second glance. He’d barely stopped in the courtyard before Malid was out of the car and through the front doors. Nigella followed, leaving Nassir to deal with his truck, any guards, and possibly Malid’s father.

Following Malid’s echoing footsteps, Nigella headed down a hall and up a set of stairs. The place was huge, even bigger than she’d thought this morning—lord, was that only this morning she’d been here?

Malid threw open a set of double doors and stepped inside, and Nigella peaked in.

An older woman sat in a chair near tall windows that overlooked the garden. She looked comfortably plump, her dark h

air long and worn up, her smile very much the same as Nassir’s—welcoming and kind. To Nigella, Malid’s mother looked healthy and alert. A mix of jasmine and roses scented the air. Glancing up, the woman smiled. “Malid. What a pleasant surprise.” The soft melodic tone of her voice seemed strong to Nigella. If this woman was ill, it wasn’t with anything serious.

Malid stopped as if he’d been hit by a two-by-four. His mouth fell open, worked a moment, and snapped closed. He stiffened, his hands fisting at his sides. “Mother, you’re not…I was told you were ill?”

She smiled and reached for Malid’s hand. “Does your father know you are here? Have you made it up with him? Who is this lovely young lady you have brought to see me?”

Malid spat out his next words. “Father hinted to me that you were dying.”

She let out a sigh. “Ah, Nimr—always trying to manage everyone. It is not me who must see a doctor. It is Nimr. He is refusing to undergo the treatments that might prolong his life.”

Chapter 12

Malid’s skin chilled and his heart seemed to stop. He stared at his mother, the blood pounding in his temples. “Nimr is dying?” The words stuck on his tongue. It seemed impossible.

His mother stood and patted him on the chest. “Please talk with him. You must make it right. It’s not good for a family to be at war with one another—and it is not good for Nimr.”

Malid forced a smile and took his mother’s hand. “As long as you are well, that is all that matters.” He turned and started for the door, and saw Nigella standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. He ought to introduce her. Instead, he waved from Nigella to his mother. “Mother, this is Nigella. Please see she is made welcome.” With that, he left.

He headed for where he thought Nimr must be—in his study. The spider sitting at the heart of his web. It was time they had done with all deceptions.

His father’s study was a room he had come to hate—comfortable leather chairs, books lining one wall, paintings on two of the other walls, French doors that opened into the garden. Malid could only remember the times he had been left standing here, facing his father’s desk, waiting for his father’s disapproval.

Stepping into the room, Malid saw his father look up. Nimr put down a pen he had been writing with and folded his hands, his dark eyebrows lifted. “You have thought better of your words?”

“We had an arrangement.”

Nimr frowned. “I see you still have not thought about anything.”