The Sheikh's Triplet Baby Surprise (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise Book 3) (4 page)

“My father was well-loved in Al-Mabbar, and by much of the world, in fact. Aside from his work in the oil industry, he was a famous philanthropist and has been credited as helping thousands and thousands of lesser-off people. He was a constant figure at the Al-Mabbar hospital, for example.

“As I’m sure you can imagine,” Aziz continued, “it’s been a struggle escaping my father’s shadow since he died. The people loved him, but they did not pass along that love to me. In fact, in my teenage years, I might have had a handle in creating this lackluster image of a—ahem—a kind of playboy, a party animal. A spoiled son of a billionaire, you know.”

“It can happen,” Amity said, nodding once more. Spoiled billionaire’s son who appeared to party constantly and live the life of a hedonist. It was nothing new to her. She’d seen so much worse. And yet—something about the man before her gave her pause. He seemed genuinely concerned; he seemed to care, deeply, about his countrymen and his father’s memory.

“I loved my father,” Aziz continued. “He truly cared for this country and for this world. But of course, as a teenager, I couldn’t quite see it that way. And that’s something I regret every single day.”

To the Sheikh’s left, one bodyguard shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with how heartfelt the conversation seemed to be. Amity wanted to grin, but she held back.

“Anyway. I’m hoping you will help my country to see me as myself—as the man I actually am—a person who is quite similar to my father and to my father’s father. I come from a long line of important men. And although I do like to do my fair share of partying—”

“Don’t tell me that,” Amity teased. She tapped her pen against the notebook, glancing around her once more. The air was nearly impenetrable with the heat of the sun.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I brought you out here,” Aziz said. He snapped his fingers, then, and one of the bodyguards stood, reaching beneath the table and producing a pot of tea and several plates of Middle-Eastern breakfast foods—pita breads with feta cheeses and olives. He placed the plates in front of Aziz and Amity, and Amity rubbed her palms together. She was famished.

“I did think it a little…eccentric,” Amity said, accepting a fork. “But I didn’t want to say anything. Perhaps this is how you always operate.”

The Sheikh gave her a half smile, tilting his head slightly. “Well, Amity. Now that you’ve agreed to help me, I can tell you: the setting for this meeting is a metaphor.”

“I didn’t know you worked in metaphors here in the Middle East,” she said.

“The first and last time, I can assure you,” Aziz laughed. “You see, out here, under the sun, between the dunes—this is what every American pictures when they picture the Middle East. Am I incorrect in saying that?”

Amity considered this for a moment, remembering the image she’d had in her mind mere days before, when she’d first learned of this life-altering commitment. She nodded. “I suppose this is what we imagine, yes. We know so very little of your world. It’s rather sad, isn’t it?”

Aziz waved his hand. “People imagine what they want to imagine, which is why so many of my countrymen imagine me as a hedonistic, playboy billionaire. It’s a romantic notion—that they should hate the son of the man they loved. Don’t you think so?”

“I think people like to create drama,” Amity murmured, placing her fork on the table. She still hadn’t eaten a single morsel. “I think that’s why PR is so important. To turn that drama on its head. To allow people to imagine something else.”

“Exactly, Amity,” Aziz said. “Westerners, they imagine this world with sandy dunes, hot sun and a dearth of culture. Once they arrive, however, they find so much more to Al-Mabbar than they could ever dream of. They find complex people; they find stunning vistas. They are allowed to grow from their preconceptions and really understand the world around them. And in the same way, I hope that you’ll come to think of me differently,” he said, averting his eyes to the table. For a moment, he didn’t appear so confident. He seemed earnest, hopeful that he could become the kind of man he dreamed of being. “I hope you will come to think of me as more than my terrible reputation. I hope that you will see this and translate this to the rest of my people.”

Amity’s heart pitter-pattered in the silence that followed. She didn’t know what to say. Her other clients with awful images, who were often involved in hedonistic parties or terrible divorces or this or that, never really cared how she saw them. They generally treated her like garbage and expected her to pick up the pieces of their reputations, without remorse.

And yet: this first meeting with Aziz confused her, spun her on her head. Here was a billionaire who truly cared about his countrymen, about his deceased father’s image, about his future. And furthermore: he cared about what she, the PR rep, thought of him. She felt cold chills spike up her arms, despite the 90-degree heat, and she rubbed at them with absent fingers.

“I understand,” she finally spoke, her voice meek. “And I appreciate the metaphor.”

“I had a good feeling about you,” Aziz said warmly. He gestured toward the plates, then, trying to wade through the awkward waters he’d drawn for them. “Eat up, Amity. Trust me, it’s going to be a difficult couple of days, readjusting to the schedule here. I’ve flown from Los Angeles one too many times; the jetlag is not an easy one to crack.”

“As long as I can get a nap in later, I’ll be fine,” Amity said, opting once more for her professional voice. “Would it be possible for the limo to take my intern to the hotel while we eat? I’m sure she’s ready to sleep in a bed by now.”

“Of course,” Aziz said, gesturing to his right-hand bodyguard, who then rushed off to tell the driver to leave. “You can ride with me. We can eat here before heading into the city—if that suits you, of course.”

Amity agreed and watched as the limo containing Flora spun tires from the scene and rushed back towards the city, winding down that dune road. “I assume our accommodations are close to yours?”

“Your intern’s hotel is located directly across from my apartment block,” Aziz confirmed. “I’ve booked her the presidential suite. You won’t have to interact with each other unless you’re meeting on business.”

“That’s perfect,” Amity said. “And I’ll be staying at that hotel, as well?”

The Sheikh hesitated, his eyes searching the horizon. “Actually, I’ve arranged different accommodations for you. I’ll need to work with you incredibly closely, you understand. I want this to be a swift process, which means we’ll need to work together basically every day.”

“And what does that mean for my accommodations?” Amity asked hesitantly.

“You’ll be staying in my downtown mansion. Fear not, it’s big enough for two—several floors, not a studio like you might be used to in Los Angeles,” he offered. She could tell his voice was genuine, not attempting to brag.

“Anyway. You’ll have a suite of rooms all to yourself, with plenty of time to work. I’ll show you when we arrive.”

Amity looked down, her heart beating strangely in her chest. Why did it excite her to be staying in the same mansion as this man? It never normally excited her to speak to a client. Pure business. That was her mantra. Pure. Business.

The pair finished their breakfast, and Aziz stood up, adjusting his suit. He looked so suave, it nearly took Amity’s breath away.

She stood as well, donning her sunglasses. “I don’t know how you handle this heat all the time.”

“Not so different from L.A., now, is it? Maybe fewer tourists…” he said, winking before sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. He lifted his elbow to her and she accepted it, walking alongside him as they descended from the dune.

The bodyguards flanked them until they reached the second limo. Aziz cracked the door and allowed her to enter. She leaned her head against the rest, taking a deep inhale of the air conditioning.

“All right,” Aziz said, cracking her another smile. “Let’s get into the city. I want to show you what this place is really about.”

FIVE

The limo spun its wheels, making clouds in the sand, much like the car that had whisked Flora away. Amity wrung her hands together, gazing out at the dunes. The beauty of the scenery was unimaginable, truly—a world she couldn’t yet comprehend. She couldn’t find the correct words to say to Aziz, so she sat in silence, her brain humming.

But Aziz continued speaking, telling her about his life in the city and what it was like growing up there. “My mother died when I was eight,” he explained, bowing his head. “I suppose I went a little crazy after that. My father left me alone often, given that he was so busy with the company and then with his charity work. That was really when the city was booming. We were competing with so many other countries, but the money just kept streaming in. Oh, look. This is the best view of the city.”

Amity’s gaze zipped toward the window again and she caught the view: dozens of skyscrapers rocketing into the sky, sprawling apartment blocks, and towering palm trees. The beauty was staggering, and yet, she tried to stay nonchalant. After all, she was meant to be the yuppie from L.A. Nothing was meant to distract her; nothing was meant to seem “bigger” than her.

“So,” Aziz began, his voice warm. “When did you arrive in Los Angeles? I assume you aren’t from there. You don’t seem like a born and bred California girl, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

Amity raised her eyebrows. Clients rarely wanted to discuss her personal life. And really, what kind of personal life did she have, anyway? “Um, you’re correct, actually! I’m from the Midwest. Minnesota.”

“But California called your name?”

“At least for a while,” Amity admitted. She felt bizarre, already divulging this information. But she kept her chipper, professional demeanor. “I’m planning to open a New York office quite soon. I’ve longed to travel for a long time. This opportunity to come to Al-Mabbar—well, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Aziz said.

The limo took a left then, and led them down a massive shopping avenue. The ambiance could not have been less like L.A., Amity thought.

Glancing around her, she was nearly speechless. Gorgeous, olive-skinned people sat outside cafés, their chins pointed toward the immense blue sky. They sipped coffees and teas and ate breakfasts similar to the one she’d just enjoyed in the desert. The skyscrapers eked closer to that turquoise water, which gleamed so brightly, Amity couldn’t quite look at it straight-on.

“My city is quite beautiful,” Aziz said in a whisper, as if he could sense what she was feeling. But Amity couldn’t answer. She could hardly open her mouth.

Finally, after a few minutes more, the limo pulled over in front of a large downtown mansion, just a few blocks away from the largest skyscraper. It was clear that the mansion was older than the city that had been built around it.

The limo driver scurried from his position up front and opened the door for Amity, lending her his hand. She accepted it graciously and emerged into the sprawling, frenetic street. Taxis and motorcars whizzed past her. She walked over to the entrance, Aziz following close behind.

“Ready to see inside?” he asked her.

“I’ve never felt so ready.”

And it was true. That mad energy she’d craved—that she’d longed for with traveling and moving across the country—was fueling through her now. She followed the Sheikh from the limo and into the broad foyer, which was lined with flowers, with eclectic, Middle-Eastern plants, each of which reflected the light from the surrounding windows.

“You seem to have quite a green thumb,” she murmured appreciatively, eyeing them.

“My parents loved plants. It was what drew them together, that love of gardening,” the Sheikh said. “I tried to mimic their talents, but I didn’t quite have it in me. I hire a gardener. He comes every couple of days and wags his finger at me—telling me everything I’m doing wrong.” Aziz chuckled, leading her from the foyer to the main hall, where a staircase swept in a dramatic curve into darkness.

“This has been my home since I was nineteen years old,” he said, his hands placed on his hips. “I’ve had a lot of grand times here—many of which, I suppose, are your job to cover up.” He chuckled. “But what was I to know at nineteen? What did you know at nineteen, Amity?”

“Not a lot,” she murmured, remembering that she’d crammed for college classes deep into the night while her fellow classmates had snuck into L.A. bars.

She cleared her throat, eyeing a large painting on the wall. She pointed at one of the two faces peering back at them. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

The Sheikh combed his fingers through his hair. “Me, as a child, yes. And that’s my father.”

The man beside the child in the painting appeared stern, yet kind—with dark, penetrating eyes that so matched Aziz’s. The painting was enormous—nearly ten feet tall, Amity guessed.

“Did you have to pose for it?” she asked.

“Of course,” Aziz said. “Now that’s a story my father loved to tell. How I wouldn’t quit picking my nose.” He laughed, tossing his head back. Amity didn’t think she had ever seen a client who was so comfortable with making fun of himself. Normally, her clients were committed to their image, unable to poke fun. Normally, they didn’t seem so human.

“I probably would have done the same,” she giggled. “Who painted it?”

“A rather famous artist from Al-Mabbar,” Aziz continued, walking past the painting. “He’s dead now, and the painting—well. It’s rumored to be worth several million dollars. I haven’t had it assessed. I like it, you know. It’s my father and I, during a time when we didn’t fight, and when he wasn’t sick. I like to remember it. I don’t wish to sell it. During those ‘grand parties’ I threw, I always made sure to hide this painting, so that it wasn’t damaged. I’m quite protective of it.”

These words hummed through Amity’s mind. They seemed so considerate, so kind. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too difficult to package this man into the perfect, attractive, friendly Sheikh that his countrymen so wanted to see.

They continued up the stairs, through another series of hallways and rooms, each immaculately decorated. Amity had never seen such grandeur, but she kept her lips sealed. She wanted to appear to understand this level of wealth, even though most of her L.A. clients were miles from this tax bracket.

She smiled politely as he explained original pieces of art work to her, when he showed her the sitting room in which he’d entertained royalty, and the dining hall in which he’d held grand feasts. “Nearly a thousand people can fit in there, if you can believe it,” he said softly, shaking his head slightly. “To see and to be seen. That was the mission—at least it was in my early 20s.”

For a moment, Amity’s mind drifted toward Flora, who was no doubt still sleeping across the street, in her hotel room. To see and be seen: that was Flora’s mission, eternally. Amity would need to call her later to organize Aziz’s strategy, but for the moment she was happy to spend this time with him, alone.

“Ah,” Aziz said as they mounted another set of stairs. “This floor is all yours, my lady. I give it to my guests when they stay—but I always try to suit it to their individual tastes. I did a little research on you, I have to admit.” He gave her a warm look before turning to the entrance of her rooms. “I hope you will come to like it.”

Amity could hardly breathe. The entrance to the guest rooms was lined with gold and mahogany wood. She placed tentative fingers on the material and shook her head, incredulous. Before she knew it, Aziz was ahead of her, marching along. She scampered after him, sanding her fingers down her hair. She gave him a bright smile as he gestured towards a bedroom, where a king-size bed shone in the center, alongside an antique wardrobe and a desk.

“I thought you could do your late-night work there, if you wanted to,” he said sheepishly. “Although, of course I gave you an office as well.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said, her eyebrows high. “I do appreciate it.”

In that moment, a maid whisked past, carrying what looked like Amity’s bags.

Amity placed her hand over her mouth, stunned. “Oh, I can deal with that—” she began.

But Aziz cut her off, slashing his hand through the air. “Nonsense. They’re already begun laying out your things, placing your dresses and blazers in the wardrobe. Please, don’t worry about it. I want you to focus on your time here, not on getting set up. It’s my fault that you’ve had to relocate, and now it’s up to me to make this transition happen smoothly.”

Amity felt her cheeks warm. She watched the maid unzip her bag and bring light fingers over her shoes, placing her various heels and boots in the bottom of the wardrobe. With her things in it, the space was already starting to feel like her own.

“Oh, you also have a small library,” Aziz said, bringing his fingers over his crisp suit. “I didn’t know if you were a reader—”

“I used to be,” Amity admitted, her voice tentative. She had devoured books as a child—ones that had made her imagine a better life elsewhere. L.A., Chicago, New York, even Paris had called to her from the pages of those books. Perhaps sometime while she was in Al-Mabbar, she might find time to read.

“Anyway,” Aziz said, his face lighting up, “I do have one more thing to show you. It’s my favorite part of the entire house. It’s outside, out back—concealed from passersby. Follow me.”

He strode quickly toward the elevator, which Amity was surprised to find in such an old building—and they whizzed back to the ground. Amity felt the heat between them and eased herself away from him, if only slightly, trying to catch her breath.

Aziz didn’t seem to notice. Rather, he was bobbing up and down on his expensive shoes, shifting his weight. “I had this next part installed about two years ago, and it’s always been a big feature at my parties,” he said. He rubbed his palms together. “I needed you to see them. They’re my babies.”

Amity’s stomach curdled for a moment. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Your babies?”

He grinned at her as the elevator door opened into the backyard. There, the scene that greeted them was so unexpected, Amity’s jaw literally dropped open.

Aziz swept his arm into a broad gesture as he marched into the backyard, where, beneath a large canopy, three tigers and two lions lazed in a massive enclosure. One tiger’s tongue leeched out, licking at his paw. Another’s head was tilted, its ears perked at the sound of the two humans walking toward them. The lions—one male and one female—sat together off to one side.

“The female lion’s pregnant!” Aziz said excitedly, walking up to the cage. A uniformed animal keeper—bald, with bright, chaotic eyes—stepped toward them. He was wearing dark green overalls and held a large stick—just in case, Amity thought.

“Would you like to see the animals today?” he asked.

Aziz looked to Amity to get her approval, but Amity didn’t budge, didn’t speak. “I think we’d like it,” he said then, without allowing another dead moment to pass. “Right, Amity?”

The keeper clinked the gate open and allowed them to enter. Amity eyed Aziz with panic, but Aziz waved his hand, whispering. “Don’t worry. They’re used to humans. I come in here all the time, pet them. They’re my animals. They know I’m their master.”

Amity wasn’t so sure about this, and her brain was buzzing. This was a massive red flag. She suddenly understood precisely what the people of Al-Mabbar thought of the man before her—that he was greedy, that he couldn’t comprehend that lions and tigers deserved better than to live in his backyard.

Amity hung back toward the entrance of the enclosure, near the animal tamer who handled the massive stick, while the Sheikh walked confidently toward a tiger who lay with wide-eyes, his paw outstretched. She wanted to call out, to tell him not to. But already, Aziz had splayed his hand atop the tiger’s head, and—incredibly—the tiger had begun to purr.

“She’s really a beauty,” Aziz called, his eyes like a child’s. “I adopted her first. She’s been the tamest. Never had a problem with her. Right now, I try to avoid the lions, since they’re expecting. I can’t wait for that lion cub to be born. Raising a cub from birth, Amity. Can you imagine?”

At that moment, however, the only thing Amity could imagine was racing out of there and never returning.