The Sheikh's Triplet Baby Surprise (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise 3)

conversation downstairs, if you feel up to it,” he continued. “In the gardens. I can’t sleep when I feel like we have a million things to cover.”

Amity felt her eyes open wide. He wanted to hang out—with just her—even after those women had latched to him and refused to let go?

“Sure, perhaps for a while,” she whispered. Why did she seem so meek?

Aziz led her out through a back staircase, a direct route from his chambers to the outdoor gardens. In the moonlight, the reds, oranges and yellows of the flowers seemed to leap out at them. The large bushes, which lined the walkway, were enormous beasts, their leaves rustling in the breeze.

“Frankly, I’m relieved you agreed to not talk about work,” Aziz said, shaking his head. “I know I seemed all business this morning, in the desert, but it really does scare me—hiring you to work on my image like this. I’ve been this way my entire life. Why do I need a professional to help me show the world who I am? What am I doing wrong?”

Amity had heard these words from other clients before, and already, she felt inclined to protect him from himself. “You know,” she began, searching for the right words, “Image isn’t everything. In my line of work, you start to learn that when you show people who you are, truly, down to your bones, then people begin to trust you and like you. It’s bizarre to hear it, I know, but the way to come out from under your father’s shadow is just to be yourself.”

Aziz looked at her for a long time. She felt vulnerable, waiting for his answer.

“You know, that’s probably the most sense anyone’s ever made to me,” Aziz said, laughing.

“That’s why I make the big bucks,” Amity grinned.

They walked slowly for a while, without words. Amity noted how bright the Sheikh seemed, especially given how somber he had seemed at the nightclub. So fascinating how people can switch on and off like that, she thought.

“Who were those girls?” she teased him after a moment. “They certainly latched onto you.”

“You know, that happens everywhere I go out. It’s like they can smell the money on me,” Aziz stated. “It’s not that they’re not fun. They are. But they don’t have anything going on back there.” He gestured to his brain. “Not that I blame them. It’s probably far more fun to live without brain matter.”

“Sometimes I want to ask Flora,” Amity admitted, grinning. “How much easier it is for her, without brain activity.”

Aziz laughed. “She’s bright, that one. She’ll sniff out a dumb billionaire yet. I know the type.”

“But for now, she’s supposed to be helping me help you.”

“Trust me,” Aziz said, his eyes flashing. “She’s already been scooped up by the Al-Mabbar party scene. We won’t see her again until you’re boarding your flight home. And even then, who knows if she’ll join you.”

“Such a California girl. I can’t imagine her not going home.”

“But even you. You’re from Minnesota, and you wanted to live miles and miles away. You like the displacement, don’t you?”

“I think I do,” Amity admitted. “I crave different worlds. I crave things I don’t know. I think that’s why I like PR. I like building characters I could never be. Images I could never relate to. It’s entertaining. Like molding clay.” She laughed at herself. “It sounds silly when I put it into words.”

“Everything does, doesn’t it?” Aziz began. “Love, especially. Madness. Eating, drinking, sorrow or grief. Everything sounds silly when you try to describe it. Which is why you must accept feelings as what they are.”

“Now you’re the one with wisdom,” Amity said.

“You’re just saying that because I’m paying you,” he said, winking.

They walked along like that, eyeing each other between sentences, chatting like equals. They dug into their opinions about nightlife, about why people liked to see and be seen.

“It’s this strange, electric energy when you’re out on the dancefloor,” Aziz explained. “But then, at some point, after you’ve done it for over a decade, you realize how false the energy becomes. It tastes foul in your mouth. And you crave real human interaction, like this.”

These words made Amity’s heart warm. She longed to slip her fingers through his. It had been years since she’d felt this close to someone.

Nearly an hour later, when they said goodbye at the entrance to the mansion, she felt as if she floated to the top floor. She was daydreaming about him, and about his words, as she drifted off to sleep.

She lost herself to the beautiful madness of it, knowing only that she’d wake up responsible, recharged the following morning. She had to.

NINE

Amity awoke to a knocking at the door. She blinked awake, her heart beating erratically, and shuffled from beneath the sheets. She had no concept whatsoever of the time, given that she’d been thrust halfway across the world the previous day—and then hadn’t bothered to go to bed at a decent hour. This wasn’t like her. She reprimanded herself internally as she shuffled toward the door—calculating the time she’d lost.

“Hello?” she said drowsily, ratcheting open the door. She blinked heavily as her eyes took in the sight of a maid.

“Miss Winters,” the maid said in a thick accent. “The Sheikh has asked me to inform you that he’s left for the day, for a business meeting, and that your office has been prepared for you downstairs.”

Amity continued to blink, trying to make sense of the words. “He’s already awake?” she croaked.

The maid nodded. “It’s nearly noon, miss,” she piped. “He wanted to go over the details of his meeting prior to his departure—”

Amity held up a hand, mortified. She should have set an alarm, something. God, this was a juvenile mistake. She roughed her fingers down her crinkled nightdress. “Allow me to get dressed, then. I’ll come downstairs to the office in ten minutes. And, if you could, alert my intern to meet me downstairs—”