Sheikh's Revenge

“Then if we’re being informal, I have to confess that I love the way your last name rolls off my tongue, Miss Sinclair,” he said, enunciating each syllable slowly to help convey his point. “Still, I’ve rarely had a reporter come and question where I was even standing in the interview. What’s your story?”

“That’s not part of the interview,” she said, her tone clipped. “I think the only thing that is would be a plethora of airhead questions about what the best sushi dish will be and

how you were able to get Lagerfeld to set up a store for you. I have that all prepped. You give me the pat answers, and I can be out of here in five.”

“Where would the fun in that be?” he purred, as he circled her chair. She sat up straighter, and the way he was clearly getting under her skin only encouraged him. “Let’s do a bit more quid pro quo.”

“Well, I’m not Clarice Starling, and you’re not Hannibal Lecter, so I’m not sure that’s what I want to do,” she said.

“You know some actual honesty would be more interesting than ‘puff-piece bullshit,’ as you put it.”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. That hint of pink only served to make his heart race and push blood to places farther south.

“But you were thinking it,” he added as he passed behind her again. Reaching out, he swept her hair back from off her shoulder. Dear Allah, it felt like silk against his skin. “I’m thinking it too. I’ve done at least two dozen of these this month, and we both know I’m not going to tell you anything you can’t get from the press release or that hasn’t already been said by my press agent.”

“Exactly, so if you would just give me whatever spiel you need out there, then I’ll be happily back to my room.”

“Oh, so you’re staying here?”

“I’m sure I’m not the only reporter here who’s being spoiled,” she said, tilting that chin of hers back up at him. “You’re sparing no expense to wine and dine potential critics and naysayers. Are you nervous about the speculation? The thoughts that tourism to Abu Dhabi doesn’t merit a spectacle like you’ve created?”

He stopped sauntering and leaned back against his desk. “That’s not the usual question someone from this beat would ask.”

“Maybe they want to, but all of them are too scared and keep kissing your ring,” she said, her chin jutting up sharply.

Her blue eyes sparkled with intensity, and he wanted nothing more than to sweep everything off of his desk and have his way with her. At least she’d be more rewarding for him, help him ease off more tension that Svetlana had. He was on edge; that was all. If Svetlana had been up to her reputation, then he wouldn’t be taking a second look at this plump reporter.

“Then tell me more. What do you actually think about the casino and resort?”

“I just flew in yesterday. So far, I do find the pool the best spot. It’s hot as hell out here, and I don’t have any patience for it. I think there’s sand in every crevice of my body and definitely in my mouth. I don’t think I was ready for Abu Dhabi at all. I used to think that one family vacation I had once in Texas was too much. This is like trying to murder me in a sand sauna.”

“Alright, so the pool’s a hit. You don’t care for the rest?”

“I haven’t had time to window shop with designer labels or see shoes I can’t possibly afford. I also am not a huge sushi fan.”

“We have traditional Middle Eastern and French dishes as well. These are all Michelin chefs who are beyond amazing,” he countered.

“Yes, and yet you named it Ali Babba’s. That’s beyond cheesy,” she objected, wrinkling her nose up in a way that was equally annoying and adorable.

“To be fair,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “my PR department decided that naming it something that could be a nod to tales that Americans and other Westerners would know would help with tourism. You’d be surprised how hard it is to get Westerners out here, even though we’re a completely safe area.”

“Well, most Westerners can’t tell Dubai from Abu Dhabi if you held a gun to their heads,” she admitted. “But this is completely off the record. You have to admit that it’s a terrible name.”

He nodded, rejoicing in her candor. It was so rare for even the press to be forthright with him. “I wasn’t in love with it. I wanted to name it after my little sister, but the focus groups were against it.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister. The briefing materials didn’t list anything on that, and neither did my online research.”

“Well,” he said. “I suppose you don’t know everything then, Miss Sinclair. I was a twin, but she died of a fever when we were seven. As for the name, I went with what I thought would sell because the old axiom isn’t wrong. Everyone has a price.”

She frowned, and for the first time, something besides hardened skepticism glinted in those blue eyes of hers. Maybe it was understanding; he just hoped it wasn’t pity. He never should have said as much, but he’d always loathed himself for letting go on that one point. He shouldn’t have budged on the name.

“You shouldn’t have sold out on that one thing. It’s a sweet gesture, and frankly, it would have made a great story.”

“I wanted to honor Farana, but maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know if I have the strength to explain about her to everyone. Perhaps I should, though. It’s a shame how easy it is for family to grow forgotten.”

She nodded and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “I get that. I love my dad, and my stepmom has always tried so hard. God knows I gave her so much crap as a teenager. Still, there’s something about my dad remarrying at all that burns me up. I know it’s selfish, and still childish in some small part of my mind, but I sometimes feel like even that much moving on makes it seem like Mom’s been buried a second time.”

She surprised him then by reaching out and touching his hand. “Don’t ever hide the truth about someone you care about. Trust me, I know that way too well.”