Sheikh's Scandalous Mistress

Amir could barely suppress his grin. He knew all about body language, had dated so many women that he knew the signs. From her breathy voice to her refusal to look him in the eye, he knew for sure that she was lying to him, but most of all to herself.

“We’ll see about that.”

Chapter Four

“I think I’m in trouble, Margey,” Amanda said, holding the cold rag to her head, gracious for the casino’s decision to decorate every hotel room with blackout curtains.

When she finally woke up around 10 a.m. that morning, her head had been spinning, her temple throbbing, and her mouth as dry as the desert around her. It was only after she listened over again to her recorder from her coverage of the press conference that everything came flooding back to her—the insults traded back and forth, almost slapping Sheikh Bahan, and then the make-out session. She wanted to believe that all of that was the result of far too many scotches back in her room yesterday afternoon, but even she knew better. Even if her life weren’t in freefall, there was something about Sheikh Bahan that called to her, made heat flare in her belly and her legs become weak like overcooked pasta.

She’d broken all her journalistic standards and kissed someone who was the focus of her story. Granted, it wasn’t hard hitting, but that wasn’t who she was.

Then again, so far, being herself had gotten her exiled to nowhere.

“What’s wrong? You’ve only been there a day and a half! How could you possibly have messed up?” Margey asked, her brown eyes brimming with concern.

“You somehow sound incredulous but hopeful,” Amanda said.

“I’m serious. You’re the most in-charge person I know. How could you have made a mistake?”

“I made a big enough mistake to be here in the first place,” she lamented.

“No, you pissed someone powerful off with the truth. That’s different. What’s wrong? Offload on me.”

“I…well I got pretty drunk yesterday. I shouldn’t have done it, but I tuned to CNN and saw the coverage of Senator Jackson’s handiwork in El Salvador. The guilt was too much and I got pretty blottoed.”

“And you missed the press conference. Well, I’m sure you can cobble something else together for the Style editor later tonight. That’s not a big deal.”

She sighed and rubbed at her temples; God, did they throb. Her usual trick of eating coffee grounds wasn’t doing jack to help eliminate her pain. “Oh, I definitely went.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“I was so trashed, I made an ass of myself at the press conference—not that my question wasn’t valid, but I could have been more tactful.”

“Well that sounds like you.”

“Ha!” she said, glaring over the shaky Skype connection at her best friend. “But then the sheikh wasn’t pleased and he confronted me out on the balcony. I have no way to explain any of this, but one thing led to another and we started kissing,” Amanda finished that sentence by flinching just a bit.

It was so embarrassing. It was as if she’d thrown all caution to the wind since Harris had called her into his office.

“I see,” Margey said, her tone measured.

“Wait, ‘you see?’ That’s it? Aren’t you going to tell me I have gone nuts and just ruined what’s left of my career?”

“I don’t know if you did. This isn’t the subject of an investigation lasting several months. It’s not even a source for a big piece. Next week, Style will assign you to an opening of something in Milan or Venice and then that will be the subject. I don’t see how having one private slip while tipsy can hurt, especially since only three people know about it.”

“Except,” she added, biting her lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood.

“Except what?” Margery asked, arching her eyebrow.

“I really liked it,” she said, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over her face. Her voice was muffled as she spoke the next part. “I’m so messed up. I seriously have no idea what I’m going to do. He even invited me to be his guest for an extra interview to the art gallery opening tonight. I don’t know if I can do this. I just…he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. I get near him and my higher thought goes out the window.”

“Hmm.”

“And?” she prodded, hoping her best friend would go total drill sergeant on her and kick her ass in a way it needed to be.

Getting her head back in the game was crucial. She couldn’t escape in passion or attraction or even odd fantasies. Damn it. She was Amanda Sinclair, the best reporter that the Metro section of the Washington Sentinel had ever had. So why couldn’t she act like it?

“You don’t need to jump down your own throat all the time,” Margery continued. “If you get an extra article out of it and that’s your reason for going, then that’s great.”