Sheikh's Fake Fiancee

“Maybe this is a great idea.”

Rose nodded as she made goo-goo eyes at a tall, Nordic-looking blond across the bar. “No, this is definitely what I needed. After all, I think with Mr. Tall, Dark and Chris Hemsworth over there, I’ll be seriously thinking ‘Tony who?’ by morning.” She gave Jennifer a concerned frown. “Is this okay?”

“Sure, I want everyone to have a good time. I think me and Jim Beam will hang out here.”

“I can stay,” Rose offered, shooting the blond guy an apologetic look.

“No, you deserve a great time. Besides, I didn’t mean for you to be at the office so late. Knock yourself out. You never know. Once upon a time, I was able to get a guy or two to dance with me.”

“Man, Jen, in that dress, you’ll get the whole club!” Rose said as she started across the bar.

Jennifer shrugged and ordered water the next time around. She was really beginning to feel the light headedness that came with moving past tipsy to drunk. It was probably a good idea to slow down. Pulling out her smartphone, she looked over the e-mails from the day. The pressure was on, and she was fooling herself if she thought a few hours sitting pathetically at a bar alone was going to help her tap into some inner freedom. She was twenty-seven but hadn’t dated seriously since Dustin had dumped her in a spectacular fashion. Married to her job, that’s what her mom always said. So at least she was trying to mull over what was on her agenda for Monday.

“Excuse me,” a man said next to her. “But I’ll have what the lady is having.”

The bartender chortled a bit. “She’s having water.”

“Then make it a double on the rocks,” the man said, and she noticed his voice. It was a deep rumble that made her heart skip a beat, but it was also lightly accented, almost British but with a trace of something else there that she couldn’t place—something exotic.

Curious, she finally turned to see him and it made it harder to breathe. He was a tall man; she could tell that even with him hunching over the bar. His shoulders were broad, and the emerald silk shirt he wore clung tightly to his torso, highlighting the muscles of his arms and chest. His eyes were dark under the strobe lights of the club, and a well-trimmed goatee of dark hair covered his chin.

She watched, an eyebrow arched in amusement, as he picked up his glass and drank it as suavely as James Bond, even though it was sparkling water. “Well, that’s a bold move tonight, uh…”

“Bahan. Bahan Munir. And what is your name, lovely?” he asked, the sentence pouring from his tongue like silk through one’s hands.

“I’m Jennifer,” she said, unwilling to give her last name. You never knew the kind of crazies who were out in New York and looking to Facebook-stalk you or hunt for you on Twitter. She preferred to keep things more casual and removed in those few times she had been out to clubs recently.

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Yours isn’t too shabby,” she said. “But I have to admit that I adore your accent. Where are you from?”

“I’m from a small country called Yemen. Have you heard of it?”

She furrowed her brow and tried to recall the name. Some semblance of recognition trickled through her mind. “I think I’ve heard about it on the news back a few years ago. Middle East, right? I think we were allies with you in Iraq.”

“Among other things, yes,” he said.

“But your accent…” she started, stopping and feeling her cheeks flare when she realized how dumb it sounded to quibble over how he spoke. What? Was she supposed to say, that he didn’t sound like what she’d heard on news clips or in the movies? She’d never been there so it was presumptuous of her to make such guesses.

His dark eyes twinkled with mirth. “I went to boarding school in England and then Oxford. I’m afraid my accent’s a bit muddled. But do you like it?”

“Oh God yes,” she said. Then Jennifer shoved her face in her hands.

Jesus, just kill me now. I know I’m rusty in the dating game, but this is so pathetic. He’s going to run any moment now.

He laughed again, his voice as rich as velvet. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had many women…”

“Oh have you?” she said, quirking her head back at him. “Now that’s quite a brag.”

“No. I just mean you’d not be the first to like this accent, although I admit I’m no novice to many things,” he said, laying his hand over top of hers on the bar.

His hand was warm, heavy, and lightly calloused, which confused her. She assumed someone that well dressed and with such a sterling education would never have had to do anything rough and tumble, wouldn’t have worked with his hands. She’d have to ask him about that later.

Am I planning on a later?

“I think I’m getting that impression too,” she said.

“I’d love a dance. You look too enchanting to ignore. I think that scarlet is a ravishing color on you.”