Sheikh's Scandalous Mistress

“No, I knew her well. We both came up as beat reporters here and were good friends,” he said, pacing a bit, huffing a little as he did it. “I never told you because I didn’t want to compromise our relationship or to have you ask me for favors.”

“I wouldn’t have.”

“Other staffers might have said that,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “The point is, you need to get your head screwed on straight. I don’t care about that affair. While it was foolish, it’s not that big of a deal. I mean, you need to get focused around danger. I watched your mother disregard the rules and it got her killed. I want to get Jackson as much as you do, but be smart. Alright? Keep working on it, and I’ll collaborate and help you. It will come out, but don’t risk yourself. I need you to keep yourself safe too.”

“I feel like I can’t do anything right,” she admitted. “A week ago, I had a career. Now I have a pink slip and I’m a laughingstock.”

“So?” he pressed. “You know the news cycle better than anyone. In two days the presidential nominee will make an ass of himself, and no one will remember. The one thing that matters is your story, getting the right version out, so just take care of yourself, kid, and keep e-mailing me. That’s what we need.”

She considered him then frowned. “You really did know my mom?”

“I did.”

“I bet she never did anything as dumb as I did with Amir.”

“She made her own mistakes. Just stay alive, kid, and then we can all breathe easy.”

“And nail that bastard?”

He grinned, an easy expression, but one so rare it shocked her. “That goes without saying.”

***

Three Months Later

“Javier, I promise I’m working on it,” she said, pulling out her notebook.

She was already ten minutes late and cursing herself for that. It had been hard enough to get Javier Alvarez to speak with her about what he knew of the cartels, but to be late to meet with a skittish source? That was foolish and unprofessional. Granted, that seemed to be her tune ever since she’d been swept away by Sheikh Amir Bahan in Abu Dhabi months ago, but it was no less true. Until today, she didn’t realize there was one odd problem, though; it seemed that none of her best button-down shirts fit like they used to. That made some sense, as embarrassing as it was to admit it. She might have binged on some ice cream as a form of therapy in all of this. But still, she’d also had a lot of mornings lately where she’d been too nauseated to eat. There were days when she’d barely been able to keep food down. It seemed that the minute she took a swallow of cereal she’d be racing to the bathroom.

Whatever the reason, none of her clothes had fit like she’d planned and she’d torn her closet apart finding something to look presentable down at the trendy El Salvadorian restaurant in DC. The chef there had escaped from the corruption down south and one of his brothers was feeding him information on the senator. He’d been one of her best anonymous sources in her first gutted article, and now she was pressing him again.

She hoped something else had come up over the months, that he had other leads within the DC community as well, maybe other people who were tired of it. Maybe even someone who’d go on record with her.

“I gave you everything I had, Miss Sinclair. I don’t want to do this anymore. Arturo can’t get any facts out to me. Yeah, he left that gang, but people are suspicious in his old neighborhood when he asks questions.”

Sighing, she fumbled for her pen. “I was hoping for better news. Frankly, the paper…all of it…the expose couldn’t come out fully because I didn’t have enough people who wanted to go on record with me. I was hoping you or Arturo might actually come out as sources.”

“That,” he said, his face going pale, “would be suicide. My brother would be shot, and that’d be the nicest form of e

xecution that the gangs could offer him. Me? I don’t want to get deported or find my visa in question.”

“But there must be something. Is there anyone else in your current neighborhood, anyone else in Washington who wasn’t ready to speak to me three or four months ago, but would be willing to now?”

Javier rubbed his palm over his face and looked away for a long moment. He waited so long to speak that she thought he might never reply. Finally, he eyed her again, his eyes like obsidian. “I’ll write down a few names for you…but I didn’t give you the names. Good luck, Miss Sinclair, because that bastard needs to pay.”

She gratefully waited for him to finish writing out three names for her to contact as soon as she could, but that was as long as she could dally. Almost as soon as he was done, a wave of nausea hit her again—something so strong that she almost lost her meager breakfast before she reached the bathroom. Launching into the ladies’ room, she found a private stall and wretched until she couldn’t wretch anymore. She was shaking, covered in sweat, and mopping at her mouth with a tissue.

“God, this is nuts.”

Then it dawned on her, this certain horror. She and Amir hadn’t used protection that night they had fooled around in the bathtub then the bedroom. Yes, she hadn’t had her period in three months, but she struggled with polycystic ovarian syndrome and she was rarely regular. Add in the nonstop stress of trying to find a new job and trying to live down the humiliation of the gallery opening, and it hadn’t seemed odd that she was irregular these last few months.

But now it was all too clear—the vomiting, the early morning nausea, and her weight gain. It was only about ten pounds, but…

But I can’t be. That’s impossible…okay not impossible…but it’s not like it happens every time. It was just one night.

She dug out her phone from her purse with shaking hands. It seemed like she was moving through molasses, all her actions slowed, but she finally pressed the dial button. The voice on the other line was reassuring and calm.

“Hey,” Margery said. “Did everything go well with Javier? You’re breathing so hard!”