His Hired Bride (The Sheikh's American Love 1)

The Sheikh only huffed and hooked his arms around the necks of each of the girls as he led them back through the gallery, toward the drinks. Joel smiled until the Sheikh passed, and then he turned to me with a bitter and twisted look on his face, like he smelled something nasty.

Joel and I stood at a distance, trying not to crowd or rush the trio, as they poured glass after glass of champagne and drank them faster than anyone I’d ever seen. After ten minutes, it became clear they’d forgotten they were in an art gallery.

Joel stealthily put his hand on my back, a gentle gesture I knew too well.

He was trying to keep me calm, but I couldn’t help myself. Instead I asked in a loud and firm voice, “Can I answer any questions about the art for you?”

None of them turned or even acknowledged I had spoken. Heat crept up my neck and face.

The Sheikh tipped over the last of the champagne bottles, and it rolled across the table and hit the wooden floor with a loud crack. He looked around a moment, ducking to glance under the table by lifting the black cloth, and once he didn’t find anything else to drink, he pulled the blondes close by their tiny waists and whispered something in a deep timbre in each of their ears. Whatever it was made both of them blush and shiver.

“Ay dios mío,” said Joel to himself. He shook his head and walked away from the scene.

I couldn’t walk away. I was too furious. Like a car wreck, I couldn’t look away from the horrible mess this night had turned into.

The drunken party headed back toward the door, breezing by me as if I were a ghost. The Sheikh said nothing to me, not even glancing at the paintings before he disappeared into the night with the two women.

Dark realization came over me as it became apparent that the Sheikh had never intended to purchase any of my art. He didn’t care about me or my work at all; he only wanted to put on a show for his lady friends, to impress them into sleeping with him. He had wasted an entire day of my life just so he could get laid.

That was the last straw. Heels pounding like a judge’s gavel on the hardwood, I marched through the gallery and out the front door to follow them. A shiny, intimidating black car sat idling on the curb, and the blondes were trying to fall inside without hurting themselves as the Sheikh and a well-dressed chauffer waited.

“Hey!” I said, stalking up to him.

The Sheikh turned at the sound, wobbling on his feet just a bit.

“What do you want?” he said.

“You’re an inconsiderate asshole, you know that?”

Suddenly the sound of the idling engine was all I could hear. The blondes had stopped wrestling with each other, and even the thin chauffer seemed to have frozen in surprise. The face of the Sheikh had lost all pretence of humor.

“What did you say to me?” he asked in a deep voice.

“I said you’re an inconsiderate asshole. You wasted my time and the time of my assistant tonight. I know the art world is just another playground for people like you, but this is my life. This is everything I am, and you just crumpled up all my work and threw it away like a piece of trash. You’re an asshole.”

The Sheikh stared at me silently, his dark eyes piercing through mine. Before he could respond, I whirled on my heels and headed back inside, slamming the door behind me and locking it. By the time Joel and I cleaned up the gallery, the car was gone.