SHEIKH'S SURPRISE BABY: A Sheikh Romance (135 page)

The look she gave him was one of relief. He was relieved that she was relieved: she, too, had been anxious about not being just another notch in his belt. She, too, had truly felt a connection, and the confirmation that the feelings were mutual brought a bigger wave or relief than he’d thought it would, for it had occurred to him that they were being hopelessly naive and romantic, declaring that they were in love after just a day and one date.

Yet there was something about her that he’d never felt for any of the many women he’d known, in any of the many ways that he’d known them. This attraction was intense, and as she reached up and kissed him, it pleased him to know that it was mutual. Her lips were hot against his—a promise of what could be his.

***

He spent the afternoon making phone calls to London; arranging to rent out his flat and talking with his thesis adviser. He sensed that Professor Parker wasn’t too keen on the idea of him staying in Bahrain, but then again his father was covering his tuition and then some, so he wouldn’t complain to the deans. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he was the first student to do his studies from abroad. The university policies were rather flexible with respect to “family matters”, and while Melinda wasn’t technically family he did hold out hope that she might one day join his.

“Aren’t we leaving?” asked Misha. His bodyguard had appeared at the door, of his room, both of their bags packed and ready to go.

“Not anymore,” Bashir said. The look of shock mingled with confusion that passed over Misha’s face was almost funny, mostly because Misha simply didn’t move his face most of the time.

“Sir,” Misha said, after he had a moment to process it. He made a short bow with his head and began to leave.

“No, wait,” Bashir said. “I need you to go to London for me and get our things. I’ve made arrangements with a realtor to rent the place furnished, but it’ll need to be cleaned and you can make the necessary arrangements—”

“Sir, I am
your
bodyguard,” Misha said. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I went to London and left you here.”

Bashir managed not to roll his eyes. He appreciated Misha’s devotion and sense of duty, but he couldn’t deny that it wasn’t tedious sometimes. “I’ll be fine here,” he said. “This is the royal palace, after all. There are guards all over the place. And it’s not as if I can leave until I’ve arranged for a place to live here, so you’ll definitely get back before I’ve moved out.”

“Does your father know about this?”

“He knows I’m in love.”

He could almost feel the exasperation rolling off Misha, but the man thought better of voicing it and merely said, “I’ll be going to London, then.” He left one of the bags at the entrance to Bashir’s suites.

It seemed that no sooner had Misha left than Miriam came to see him, though at least thirty minutes passed, because he’d managed to find a buyer for his car in London (a slick Audi R8 was an easy sell, especially in London). He was in the process of finalizing the deal when Miriam appeared at his door, saying, “What’s this I hear about you not going to London?”

He grinned at her. “I’ve got other plans.”

“But you’re just three months short of finishing your thesis,” she said, frowning. “You’ll be defending soon.”

“There’s not much that requires my presence in London,” he said, “and if I do have to go to London, then I can go.”

She shook her head, smiling ruefully at him. “Spoken like the spoiled little brother you are. So who is she?”

He was surprised that Miriam had caught on so soon. It must have shown on his face because Miriam laughed and said, “Come on, litte brother,” she said. “I’m three years older than you. I will always know more about you than you do. So tell me, who is this girl?”

For the first time since his date he felt embarrassed—not because he’d gone on a date, and had the audacity to call his feelings for this woman “love”, but because his sister had figured him out so easily. “The caterer from Papa’s wedding,” he said, after a long moment.

Her eyes went wide and she gasped in shock. “A commoner? And a Westerner? Papa will have a heart attack if he knew.”

Bashir shrugged, grinning. “That was the one question Papa didn’t ask me this morning,” he said. “I don’t think he wants to know.”

“Of course he doesn’t want to know!” she said. “Bashir—you can’t do this—”

“I’ll be staying in Bahrain,” he said, using his wheedling voice. Of all his siblings, she was the one who wanted him to stay in Bahrain the most.

She grew flustered, but still said, “I’m telling Papa—”

“He won’t care,” Bashir said. “He told me as much this morning.”

“Maybe not,” she retorted. “But he still ought to know.”

Bashir shrugged. He wasn’t worried about his father anymore. In fact, as he checked off “Tell Papa and Miriam” on his list, he felt cocky, as if for once everything was going his way.

***

“And that’s when everything went downhill,” he said.

He was sitting on the floor of Melinda’s apartment, recounting what had happened that he ended up disavowed, written off, and essentially abandoned at the bus stop closest to the palace. “If I’m not mistaken, my father is on the phone with his lawyers even now, telling them to cut me out of the trust.”

Melinda took a sharp breath, but it was from the shock of hearing the news, not from the loss of his money. “Then what are you going to do?” she asked.

He shrugged. “What any man must do—find a job.” Melinda nodded and curled against him, saying, “Of course you will.”

Of course I will? I don’t even know if I can
. Then he shook his head, to clear away the doubts: he could, because he had to. There was no choice for him anymore. There never had been.

After Miriam had left him, he’d finally finished with the paperwork part of transferring his life from London back to Bahrain. The physical aspect of the move would take a few weeks, in his estimation, and he figured would take him another week to get everything settled between the Bahrani banks and the trust fund. He was thinking about how he’d have to go to London to settle with the bank there, when his father came into his room, a look of horror and shock on his face. “Tell me,” the king had said. “Is it true? Is the woman you are in love with a Westerner?”

“Yes,” Bashir had said.

The king took a deep breath, letting it out in one long hiss. “I am going to pretend that you made a mistake. Now tell me who she is.”

Bashir had glowered. “You said you wouldn’t interfere.”

“That’s when I still thought you had enough common sense not to want to marry a Westerner!” his father said. “They’re too different—the difference between royalty and a commoner is already vast—to add a Western girl to it—”

“I’ve lived in London for eight years,” Bashir said, evenly. “And she’s lived in Bahrain for at least six. I’d say we know a little about each other’s cultures already.”

“If you do this then I will disown you, and cut you out of the trust.”

He’d always known that losing the trust was going to be a risk, but now that his father had spoken the words aloud, his course of action was laid out for him. It didn’t even feel like a choice at that point. It was just what he had to do. The only words out of his mouth were, “How long will I have to settle my accounts in London?”

His father had not, apparently, expected him to accept the loss of his funds so easily. It would have been enjoyable watching his father’s expression morph from anger to disbelief—disbelief that he’d lost control of the conversation and of his son—had the conversation not been so serious. Finally the man managed to spit out, “You’re no son of mine!”

At first Bashir thought his father was merely angry—that he couldn’t possibly mean those words. But then his father turned and left his suites, calling for the guards. Bashir had been unable to believe his ears—his father was calling him an intruder, telling the guards to evict him and take him to the closest bus stop and leave him there. It was all Bashir could do to grab his laptop, phone, and the bag that Misha had packed for him, before the guards grabbed him and dragged him out and into the back of a Land Rover. They began to rattle over the dusty strip of asphalt.

Ordinarily Bashir had a casual relationship with the guards—they knew who he was, and that he didn’t like being saluted or groveled at. “If you need to tell me something, just tell me,” he’d frequently tell them. “I may be royal but I promise you, my ears won’t bleed if you tell me something terrible. Even if it is about my father.” That last sentence frequently left them in fits of laughter, and they’d spent whole afternoons griping about his father.

But how quickly this camaraderie vanished. The guards that left him at the bus stop—guards he’d frequently played cards with and chatted about girls with—were stone-faced and silent as they stopped, pulled him and his belongings out. They didn’t even look back or wave him good-bye. For some reason that hurt more than being kicked out of his home.

He’d sat at the bus stop—a little plexiglass shelter with a too-narrow-for-comfort stool in the literal middle of the desert three miles from anywhere. The bus took over an hour to arrive, but he never remembered how he’d spent that hour. His mind was a complete blank. Every time he tried to think of what to do next he’d fall into a stunned stupor again, so that when he finally saw the bus approaching it felt oddly like waking up. It was something to focus on, something more substantial than the nebulous dread that was clouding his mind, at any rate.

The coughing, wheezing bus that was spewing a noxious cloud of gas responsible for the deaths of at least five polar bears by global warming creaked to a stop thirty feet too late. Whatever optimism the sight of the bus had given him was quickly dispelled as he gathered together his things and approached the bus. The inside stank of piss and shit and was still stuffy from the heat of the day.

“Five dinari,” the driver said, when he’d said he was going to Manama.

He looked in his wallet—and the first of his problems came to light: he had no cash on him. Shame burned him—he’d never not been able to pay for the things he’d wanted—and for a moment his mind went blank as he fought back the terror at the thought of having to spend the night at the bus stop—or forever. Eventually he was able to convince the driver that Melinda had five dinari—that he could call her and she’d meet him in Manama with the money. The driver scowled but let him on, grumbling about how terrible rich people were. The other people on the bus—mostly women, some men—and one chicken farmer, apparently, who had a contraption with three cages, each holding two fat chickens—stared at him, their faces blank, their eyes resentful. Or maybe it was just that he was imagining things.
I am the prince of Bahrain
, he wanted to shout to the world. But the words would not come—because for all he knew his father was striking his presence from everything in the palace.
I
was
the prince of Bahrain
. Somehow that only made him sad.

Melinda, thankfully, managed to meet the driver, as she’d promised. She paid the five dinari, smiling ruefully at Bashir as she did so. “Thanks,” he’d said, as they got into her car.

“You don’t use much cash,” she observed.

“Never had to,” he’d said.

Now, sitting on the floor of her apartment, looking out over the sparkling city below them, the emotions came to him, hitting him like in waves, one after another—anger, despair, dread, fear. Anger that his father could still be so close-minded in the twenty-first century, despair that he was twenty-eight and had no idea how or if he could survive in the world, dread anticipating a life where every cent would have to be scraped from the gutters his own hands, fear that that wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t stupid. He’d read the papers, he knew how hard it could be for a man like him.

“Then maybe we should go to London,” said Melinda. “The jobs are there.”

“I just opened my flat for renting, and sold my car,” he said. “Misha is there picking up my personal effects. If my father hasn’t ordered him back to Bahrain already.”

“That’s really bollocks,” she said.

“You have no idea,” he said. “I’ve lost everything I ever had, in three minutes.” Suddenly he laughed—it wasn’t really his, and part of him had known this all along.

“You think your father is really going to cut you off?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea what he’s going to do,” he said. “He could decide to forgive me tomorrow, or never.”

She put her head on his shoulder and sighed. “You should have just agreed,” she said. “I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“I know,” he said. “And part of me is kicking myself for being so obstinate. But I don’t think I’d be able to live with myself if I had.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she said, kissing him.

“Even if it means I’ll be a deadbeat boyfriend?” he asked, smiling. Making a joke of it was the only way he could keep his sanity right now, with the swirling mess of muddy emotions in his blood.

“I’m going to say ‘yes’,” she said, pushing him down onto the floor. “Because even though you’ve never held a job before, I think—” she began to unbutton his shirt, her hands kissing his bare chest like flowers, cool and pale. “I think that you can’t not want to pull your own weight. I think you’ll eventually be glad to be out from under your father’s thumb. We’ll spite him with our happiness.”

It was the best way to get revenge on his father for being so cold as to kick him out like that—he couldn’t refute that. And her hands running up his body felt so good—and her perfume, a blend of jasmine and lilacs, accented the heady scent of her, the delicate scent of her skin, soft and soothing to his mind and body. Despite the turmoil of the night, he could feel the fires of desire begin to glow within him. “You’re a good man,” she whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

“How do you know I’m good?” he asked, as she undressed before him, her body twisting and curving as she slipped out of the confines of her dress. The lights were dim, and the windows were open to the desert chill, which made goose pimples spring out on her skin, making her nipples stand up. He reached for her breast, and felt her heart beating, sending its pulsing shivers through the softness and into his hands. “We barely know each other.”