Sheikh's Scandalous Mistress

“One day, my sheikh, you may wish to actually settle down.”

“That’s what my parents and brothers say. Now you?”

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“Well, I do admit that Sheikha Bahan may have called earlier this week lamenting how the throne still has no heirs, and how long it’s been since she had a grandbaby in the palace.”

“Then I suggest that Naseef and Jasmine have a third child. They’re surely up for toddlers running around and smashing things all over again,” Amir replied, folding up his files and sitting back in his chair. This was obviously a setup. His mother and the assistant she’d corrupted had been waiting a while to confront him about his playboy ways.

However, he was thirty-five and busy expanding the Bahan building empire. He was preparing to unveil the first in a cadre of successful casinos. He didn’t need romance. Sure, he occasionally loved having the attentions of one lucky lady for the night (or sometimes more if he were feeling adventurous). What he didn’t need was to be dragged down into anything else. He didn’t need commitment, didn’t need his prying parents getting involved, and he certainly didn’t want whiny brats who destroyed everything they touched. As much as he cared for his nieces and nephews, he appreciated them a lot more as six-year-olds than he had when they were toddlers.

He just wasn’t paternal, and he wasn’t sure how to get Mother and Father to understand that.

Of course, since he was the oldest of his brothers and the legitimate heir to the throne, it wasn’t just his family that was interested in him having children. There was a whole country waiting with bated breath for the next sheikh in line.

“Mother doesn’t need to deputize you to do her dirty work, Mafir.”

He shrugged and suppressed a smile. “My sheikh, between you and Sheikha Bahan, I’m going to listen to her. She’s far scarier than you’ll ever be.”

“That’s seriously undercutting my mystique.”

“No, it’s not. I know the sheikha is a hair puller and fights dirty. You would engage me in a duel with honor. She’s definitely the person to be more wary of,” Mafir continued. “I only suggest from her, ahem, ‘advice’ that you think less of one-night stands and jewelry as signs of insincere gratitude.”

“Even if they’re not the best or most enthusiastic partners, I appreciate every woman who shares my bed,” Amir objected, folding his hands behind his head and leaning even further back. “I just have a tier system.”

“And the sheikha thinks that you should, perhaps, engage in that final top tier and, as the Americans say, put a ring on it.”

“Well, I can’t wait to speak more to Mother when she’s here for the opening gala this week. I’m sure she’ll talk my ear off about how I’m ruining the family, breaking her heart, and being an utter cad about town.”

“Oh she used a far more colorful word for you, my sheikh,” Mafir said with a smirk.

“Quite. Just get Svetlana up and thank her kindly. Also, what’s the next thing on my schedule? I’ve been slammed going over the final plans and financials for the art gallery opening—”

“Let it never be said that your luxury resort doesn’t have a bit of everything,” Mafir conceded.

“Exactly, but what’s next on the docket? I know that the sous chef at Sayonara has been clashing with Yoshi. Also, I’m still not sure I’m happy with the Gucci display in our retail venue. I think it could do better, be more eye catching.”

“Sir, you can exercise your micromanaging tendencies soon enough. Right now there’s a reporter from the Style section of, I believe, the Washington Sentinel here to interview you.”

“Can’t Kantaya do another one? That’s what the press secretary is for.”

Mafir shook his head. “Market research indicated that at least twenty percent of interviews should be done with you directly. Since this is an American outlet, and we’re trying to make sure the whale gamblers from the United States feel safe and secure here, you know that speaking with Miss Sinclair will be best.”

“You say that now, but I find those interviews mind-numbingly boring.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, the property won’t sell itself,” he said, bowing low again. “I’ll take care of, uh, Svetlana and see Miss Sinclair in. Be nice, my sheikh.”

“I’m always nice. I’m practically a teddy bear,” he replied gruffly.

“Quite, how could I have ever been mistaken?” Mafir said before disappearing out the door.

He really had to find a way to get his assistant squarely on his team. He’d be damned if he’d be getting the responsibility spiel forever from every corner—even from his freaking manservant! Shaking his head, Amir rose and came to stand at the huge bank of windows that were the main focal feature of his office. The casino was a massive structure, standing as the tallest high-rise in Abu Dhabi. It wasn’t just a casino; it was an entire compound of fine dining, shopping, and entertainment. Ali Babba Casino’s boasted three separate concert and entertainment halls, as well as a gallery featuring a collection showcasing the most beautiful art from the ancient world and his own personal favorites. It was a huge gamble—something bigger than any of his father’s or grandfather’s holdings—but if it all worked, it would put the Bahan family on the map in the same way that the American casinos were so closely tied to the Maloofs.

Of course, if it failed, he’d be the laughingstock of Middle Eastern business.

He wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Ahem, are you going to stand there all day?” a clipped voice rang out.