The Sheikh's Triplet Baby Surprise (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise 3)

Between them, a man sat in an immaculate suit. He was sat with his ankle atop his knee, and he jiggled his leg lightly as he waited. His hands were folded over his stomach, and his mouth was a thin line beneath his sunglasses. He wore no vest, no hat. And yet, beside his two massive bodyguards, he was much more intimidating. Amity could not place why.

Amity proceeded to offer the three of them a bright smile as she approached. When she grew close enough, she raised a hand and waved to them, wiggling her fingers with an overt, American-style greeting. “Hi,” she said. She flipped her long, brown hair and righted her posture.

Finally, the man in the center rose to his feet. He beckoned toward the empty seat before him. When she stood before him, he brought his hand, dagger-like, toward her.

She shook it, flashing those bright white teeth once more. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Amity Winters,” she said confidently.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Winters. I hope your flight wasn’t too unpleasant?”

“Not at all,” Amity said, still wearing that smile. “And please, call me Amity.”

She felt hesitant as she sat on the chair, which sank deeper into the sand as she gave it her full weight. She placed her hands in her lap, still waiting for this man to introduce himself. The two muscled bodyguards beside him hadn’t made a single motion to greet her. They reminded her of the Taylor brothers back at the agency. She attempted to project her professional, PR persona. “It’s wonderful to be here. I’m ready to get started, if you are.”

The man brought his fingers to his sunglasses, then, and swiped them up and over his forehead. All at once, the motion revealed that he was not just attractive, but the stuff of Hollywood; of music legends. Amity didn’t allow her shock to show. She cleared her throat.

“I do apologize,” he said suddenly. “I’ve dragged you out into the middle of the desert, and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Sheikh Aziz al Arin.”

Ah, so this was the Sheikh; the incredibly important man whose image was on the line. Amity’s professional brain began to buzz, and she breathed a small sigh of relief—it was far easier to deal with an attractive man in the “image rehabilitation” realm. People love good-looking people; they’re far more forgiving and open to their antics.

“Sheikh Aziz. It’s marvelous to finally know what I’m working with,” she replied, her voice in that confident, PR-rep mode.

“And it’s good to finally meet you,” he agreed. “Trust me, it’s been a hard road, as far as my image goes.”

“That’s right. My director couldn’t tell me so much prior to my arrival.” Her chat with Charlie felt like it was years ago, rather than just two days before. “Please, Aziz. Get me up to speed, if you don’t mind.”

The Sheikh glanced briefly at both of his bodyguards. He cleared his throat. “I suppose, to begin, you have to know that I’m one of the richest men in Al-Mabbar. I became a billionaire when I inherited my family’s oil business—Arin Petroleum. You probably know by now that Al-Mabbar is almost exclusively oil rich.”

Amity nodded, scribbling notes in her book. She wished, abstractly, that Flora were there to help her remember everything.

“My father was well-loved in Al-Mabbar, and by much of the world, in fact. Aside from his work in the oil industry, he was a famous philanthropist and has been credited as helping thousands and thousands of lesser-off people. He was a constant figure at the Al-Mabbar hospital, for example.

“As I’m sure you can imagine,” Aziz continued, “it’s been a struggle escaping my father’s shadow since he died. The people loved him, but they did not pass along that love to me. In fact, in my teenage years, I might have had a handle in creating this lackluster image of a—ahem—a kind of playboy, a party animal. A spoiled son of a billionaire, you know.”

“It can happen,” Amity said, nodding once more. Spoiled billionaire’s son who appeared to party constantly and live the life of a hedonist. It was nothing new to her. She’d seen so much worse. And yet—something about the man before her gave her pause. He seemed genuinely concerned; he seemed to care, deeply, about his countrymen and his father’s memory.

“I loved my father,” Aziz continued. “He truly cared for this country and for this world. But of course, as a teenager, I couldn’t quite see it that way. And that’s something I regret every single day.”

To the Sheikh’s left, one bodyguard shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with how heartfelt the conversation seemed to be. Amity wanted to grin, but she held back.

“Anyway. I’m hoping you will help my country to see me as myself—as the man I actually am—a person who is quite similar to my father and to my father’s father. I come from a long line of important men. And although I do like to do my fair share of partying—”

“Don’t tell me that,” Amity teased. She tapped her pen against the notebook, glancing around her once more. The air was nearly impenetrable with the heat of the sun.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you out here,” Aziz said. He snapped his fingers, then, and one of the bodyguards stood, reaching beneath the table and producing a pot of tea and several plates of Middle-Eastern breakfast foods—pita breads with feta cheeses and olives. He placed the plates in front of Aziz and Amity, and Amity rubbed her palms together. She was famished.

“I did think it a little…eccentric,” Amity said, accepting a fork. “But I didn’t want to say anything. Perhaps this is how you always operate.”

The Sheikh gave her a half smile, tilting his head slightly. “Well, Amity. Now that you’ve agreed to help me, I can tell you: the setting for this meeting is a metaphor.”

“I didn’t know you worked in metaphors here in the Middle East,” she said.

“The first and last time, I can assure you,” Aziz laughed. “You see, out here, under the sun, between the dunes—this is what every American pictures when they picture the Middle East. Am I incorrect in saying that?”

Amity considered this for a moment, remembering the image she’d had in her mind mere days before, when she’d first learned of this life-altering commitment. She nodded. “I suppose this is what we imagine, yes. We know so very little of your world. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?”

Aziz waved his hand. “People imagine what they want to imagine, which is why so many of my countrymen imagine me as a hedonistic, playboy billionaire. It’s a romantic notion—that they should hate the son of the man they loved. Don’t you think so?”

“I think people like to create drama,” Amity murmured, placing her fork on the table. She still hadn’t eaten a single morsel. “I think that’s why PR is so important. To turn that drama on its head. To allow people to imagine something else.”

“Exactly, Amity,” Aziz said. “Westerners, they imagine this world with sandy dunes, hot sun and a dearth of culture. Once they arrive, however, they find so much more to Al-Mabbar than they could ever dream of. They find complex people; they find stunning vistas. They are allowed to grow from their preconceptions and really understand the world around them. And in the same way, I hope that you’ll come to think of me differently,” he said, averting his eyes to the table. For a moment, he didn’t appear so confident. He seemed earnest, hopeful that he could become the kind of man he dreamed of being. “I hope you will come to think of me as more than my terrible reputation. I hope that you will see this and translate this to the rest of my people.”