The Sheikh's Triplet Baby Surprise (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise Book 3) (7 page)

“All right,” he said, breaking the silence. “Let’s try it like this. What would you do if you had the night to yourself in L.A.? What would you, Amity, do with a little time to yourself?” He took a step toward her, his eyes connecting with hers.

Amity took a step back, searching for breathing room. “Um. I suppose if I was home alone, I might watch a film.”

Aziz looked pleased. He nodded. “You’d hide from the world and watch a film?”

“I suppose I would,” she said firmly. “Would you be willing to do that?”

“If you’ll let me choose the wine.”

“I’m assuming your taste in wine is far better than mine,” Amity laughed. “But you’ll have to let me choose the movie.”

“Deal,” he said. The air was tense between them. “Perhaps this is just what I needed.”

Amity cleared her throat, searching for the right words. She shrugged, faltering. “I suppose I’ll meet you—”

“In the living room, connected to my suite,” he said, then. “Give me a few minutes to get changed, first. Can’t very well watch a film in a suit. Unless you tell me that’s how you normally do it in L.A.?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “That would be sacrilege.”

“Comfortable it is, then.”

“And casual,” she added, stabbing her first finger through the air. She needed to assure him that she wasn’t expecting anything from this—that they were just pals, just a client and his PR rep, getting together to cool off after a long day of work. That was all. “I’ll see you there in half an hour.”

TEN

Amity arrived at Aziz’s living chambers dressed in a pair of jeans and a grey V-neck shirt, which gave a slight notion of her breasts, without divulging too much. She’d never tell him she’d tried on five outfits, all of them “casual,” before marching down to his rooms. She was mortified with herself, just from the memory of it. Professionalism had gone out the window.

Aziz was stationed in front of his extensive DVD collection, shifting his weight in a pair of dark jeans and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt. Amity could sense the strong muscles beneath the cotton, how sturdy he was. She’d never seen him out of a suit—besides that morning when she’d caught him nearly naked—and it was remarkable how he’d transformed, switched from stern businessman to a man she’d love to cuddle up with on the couch.

He heard her footsteps at the entrance, and he stepped toward her, an unopened bottle of wine glinting in his hands. He gestured to it. “It’s an Al-Mabbar classic, bottled nearly forty years ago.”

“Forty years? Are you sure you want to waste that on me?” Amity laughed. She glided toward him and took the bottle in her hand, her eyes flocking over the Arabic description.

He made intense eye contact with her, nodding. “I am.”

Amity shivered. She chopped through the serious moment and handed the bottle back to him, directing her gaze to the collection on the wall. “I’ve never seen so many DVDs in one place,” she said, unsure if this was a compliment or not. Generally, she just stuck to Netflix, on the rare occasions that she offered herself time away from work. “Have you watched all of them?”

“Oh, not at all,” Aziz laughed. He grabbed two wine glasses from the side cabinet. Light from the sunset gleamed orange through them. “But I have it well-stocked. One of the maids here is up on her movies. She watches them while she cleans, but she doesn’t think I know.” He winked.

Amity grinned. She parsed through the collection, noting that the films were ordered by genre, many of them from Hollywood. She breathed a sigh of relief, happy she wouldn’t have to pretend to know even a glint about the Al-Mabbar movie industry. Did it even exist? She didn’t want to offend him with the question.

“The maid, Addy, she really likes Meg Ryan movies. You’ll see that, maybe,” Aziz said. He poured the wine with small glugs.

“Oh, yes.
You’ve Got Mail
. It’s a classic,” Amity teased. “I’m sure you watch it all the time.”

“Only when I’m getting over a break up.”

“And tons of action movies, I see.
Mad Max: Fury Road
.
Kung Fury
.” Amity shook her head, her brown hair swishing around her ears. “I don’t know how you manage to leave your house, with all these options.”

“Oh, it’s a struggle all right,” Aziz laughed. He handed her the glass of wine and they clinked, their eyes meeting for a moment. “To you, Amity. For helping me come to terms with staying in. And for aiding in The Great Aziz Image Problem.”

Amity nodded gratefully, sipping the wine, reminding herself it was nearly priceless. She felt the taste of it glide through her taste buds, to the back of her throat. “Mmm,” she murmured. “It doesn’t feel right to drink it.”

“Don’t things that feel wrong always end up feeling so right, anyway?” Aziz teased.

He sat on the couch, leaning back and lifting his foot to his opposite knee. He took up space, like a man should, Amity thought. She felt oddly intimidated by his air.

Finally, Amity’s fingers touched a movie she thought appropriate—a New Zealand comedy called
What We Do in the Shadows
, one he’d never heard of before.

“She likes her films, Addy does,” Aziz said, shaking his head. He tapped the empty space on the couch beside him, watching her movement as she slipped the DVD into the player and pressed Play.

“It’s rather silly,” Amity said, her eyes turning to him as she sat. “But I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

“You don’t think I’m silly enough?” he asked her.

“You are a sheikh. And royalty. And a billionaire,” Amity added. Her eyes flashed. She pressed herself not to drink the wine too quickly. “Just saying.”

“You don’t frequently hang out with the likes of me?”

“Not off the clock,” she said pointedly.

The pair leaned back in their seats, their eyes on the screen for mere moments before their conversation rolled once more. Although the comedy—a mockumentary about vampires in New Zealand—rollicked on, their focus was purely on each other.

“Then, who do you generally hang out with?” he asked her, turning his head. “I mean, you’ve seen the kind of people I fill my life with. The millionaires of this city, and their children,” he said, mocking himself. “And lions and tigers, of course. But you—I’m curious as to what your world looks like.”

“I’ve told you, in so many words,” Amity said quietly. “I’ve told you that I struggle to find time for my social life. Last night at the club—it was a world I’m not used to. At one time, maybe, I craved that kind of life. That kind of recklessness. But I couldn’t find it within me to enjoy it last night.”

“I struggle to like it, as well,” Aziz said. He scratched at his five o’ clock shadow and Amity felt her insides squirm. She wondered, inwardly, what it would be like to kiss him, what it would feel like to have his tongue slip against hers.

“Of course, I often wonder if I’m allowing my twenties to pass me by. Unlike Flora,” Amity said, trying to lighten the mood. “She’s such a mad girl. Just before we left, she had some kind of break up with a guy in the office. I couldn’t keep track of what was going on.”

Aziz tossed his head back. Amity couldn’t believe that he cared enough about her story to laugh with her—didn’t he have a million things on his mind?

“I remember once, I tried to work in an office that wasn’t my own. I wanted to get out there on my own, to prove myself,” he began. “But the minute I got there, I started an office romance with my boss. And from then on, I knew I wouldn’t get a single thing done, not as long as I was sleeping with her.”

“You slept with your boss?” Amity gasped, actually shocked. “And you weren’t even trying to work yourself up to the top of the company?” she teased.

“I know. It was rather foolish. I think when I was younger, I was just spinning, in chaos. Partying nonstop, making friends with people who were only interested in the lifestyle I could provide. Donating to charities out of this sense of love for the world, not realizing that, deep down, I also wished that the world loved me, in return.”

Amity nodded. She felt her pulse quicken as he spoke. She’d always been such a logical person, always following the next, precise step to reach her goal. She’d been told by many people that she wasn’t a “dreamer,” and she’d always assumed this was a good thing. But the dreamer before her looked pretty good, really. He saw the world through less cynical eyes.

The movie ended and Amity chose another, pouring each of them another glassful from a second bottle of wine. She felt tipsy at this point, leaning heavy to one side before finding her balance. She heard the warm, honey notes of Aziz’s voice as he launched into another story, and she felt her laughter belt from her. Had she ever met anyone funnier?

She leaned back on the couch beside him, no longer listening to his words, instead assessing the way his facial muscles moved, the way his lips swept into a smile. And, before she could think another moment more, she placed her wine glass to the coffee table and pressed her own lips over his in a wide, singular kiss.

No sooner had she realized what she was doing, her eyes opened wide and she sprang back, shaking her head. The Sheikh had stopped speaking, and he looked at her with wide, cartoonish eyes. Beyond them, the TV was screeching with a mad racecar scene. Amity began to stutter, then, unsure of what to say. She felt like a schoolgirl.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Aziz. Oh my God.” She drew her fingers to her forehead and began to pat it lightly, feeling the sweat as it glossed on her skin. “I’m not normally like this. Oh God.” She was breathing heavily, her mind racing. She needed to get out of there. But the pulse, the attraction from the man before her kept her glued to her seat.

Without words, Aziz brought his fingers behind her neck and pulled her toward him gently, easily, and their lips connected once more. Amity breathed a sigh, easing her arms around the Sheikh’s neck, and allowing the kiss to stretch out between them. Their passion felt like electricity, fizzing from his lips down her neck to her breasts. She longed for him to touch her, to feel her. And she no longer had thoughts about that professional line she’d been toeing—no, dancing—ever since she arrived in Al-Mabbar. She’d snapped the line; she’d destroyed it. And here she was on the other side, in the Sheikh’s arms. And she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The Sheikh brought her over him and their kisses became more serious, more insistent. They weren’t messing around anymore. No longer could Amity sense where the line of her body ended and his began. She swept her fingers beneath his black shirt and yanked it up, feeling the pulse of his muscles as he revealed his naked torso to her. She felt a rush as his hands flew over her shirt and flung it across the room, unhooking her bra in the process.

Their kisses turned to so much more—such erotic movements, mixed with sweet kisses and sighs. They made love on the couch almost as if they’d craved each other for months, instead of only days. The music on the television screen was no distraction; the revving Al-Mabbar City outside the windows held no merit for them. They were simply entranced with each other’s body, wholly and completely, without remorse.

When it was over, Amity stretched her body over his and swept her hair across her back. She felt his sweat gleaming on his shoulder, and she leaned her body into him. Her eyelashes swatted against her cheeks, and she drifted off to sleep easily, listening to the rise and fall of the Sheikh’s breath beside her. She felt peaceful, deeply thankful for the moment—knowing, perhaps abstractly, that this bliss would be gone as soon as she awoke.

ELEVEN

Amity awoke alone the following morning. The drapes had been whisked to one side, revealing a stunning blue sky. She rubbed at her eyes, noting that she was naked beneath the blanket, that her hair was a mess against the couch pillow. Beyond anything, her head buzzed with a hangover of immense proportions—unlike any she’d experienced in years.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, rubbing at her temple, at her neck. “What have I done?”

Her words surprised her as the memories came rushing back: the Sheikh’s lips over hers; the way he’d removed her clothes and gazed at her naked body; the way they’d united, as if they’d been waiting for that moment their entire lives. And now, as if none of that had happened—he was gone.

She rose from the couch and grabbed her jeans, bra, and her shirt, whisking them over her body before anyone else spotted her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that the maids hadn’t seen her that morning, sleeping in his arms. But as she combed her fingers through her untidy hair, she reminded herself that she was perfectly capable of pretending that it hadn’t happened. It was probably just another in a long line of sleepovers for the Sheikh, and a mistake on her part. That was all.

She strutted through the living room, toward his bedroom. She wanted to attack this head-on, to start a new day back in professional mode. When she spotted him by the window, tying his silk tie, she gave him a bright, earnest smile.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was chipper, polite. “I hope you slept well.” She could have been talking to any other client in the world.

He turned to her, cinching the tie closed. “Well, there you are! I’m happy to see you.” His words were false, as well. It was clear there was space between them—an awkwardness. They weren’t going to talk about it. “I was going to wake you, but I know you’re probably still jetlagged.”

“That’s all right. I need to get started on my proposals for the day.” Amity bit her lip slightly, hoping she didn’t seem needy, like a child. “Where are you off to?”

“A business meeting,” he said, his voice still upbeat. “The one that was canceled yesterday. I’m running a little bit late, in fact. I’ll catch you later, all right?”

“All right,” Amity said softly. She couldn’t help but feel like she’d missed something, like she wanted to call out to him—to ask him what she’d done wrong. “You have a good day.”

She watched as he strode from the room, almost in race-pace. She knew he was running away from her, away from the tension between them. As his footsteps became lost in her ears, she collapsed on his enormous bed, remembering the previous evening and feeling like her entire body was about to cave in.

Just a one-night thing, Amity assured herself, trying to breathe evenly. She leaned back on the comforter, feeling the high-thread-count fabric beneath her cheeks. Just one night. She’d hardly had many one-night stands in her life, but she was a grown woman. She knew the score. Why, then, did it feel like this one-night stand had hit her, headlong, like a semi on a highway?

“Just breathe,” she whispered to herself. Just breathe. She counted her breaths: the inhales, the exhales, trying to find solace in the way her body kept itself alive. She couldn’t help but remember how wonderful it had been to have his hands on her breasts; how warm it had been to fall asleep on his chest. She couldn’t help but remember how it had felt—for just a moment—to have someone who cared about her needs. To have someone see her as a woman, rather than a PR agent.

But she knew, deep down, that she and Aziz came from different worlds. He was royalty, a billionaire. The moment he left his mansion, women of incredible caliber latched onto him, nuzzled him, reminded him that he was worthy of so much. Champagne burst open for him. Clubs buzzed for him. Amity didn’t exactly attract a crowd of people. She would bet her entire savings that most of her clients didn’t even remember her name. She loved her job, her position in life—but it didn’t match with the Sheikh’s in any way.

But, at the same time, it seemed to Amity that the Sheikh’s true personality didn’t align so well with this life he had in Al-Mabbar City—this life of clubbing, of women, of material possessions. Even after spending just a few days with him, she’d discovered that he was a kind and compassionate man; that he’d rather spend a night inside watching movies than pop priceless bottles of champagne at VIP clubs. Deep down, he was a good, kind and humorous man—the kind of man she hadn’t expected to find at the other end of this mission, nor anywhere else in the world.

Amity rose from the bed, stretching. The hangover rallied high in her brain and she swept toward her suite, on a search for water and whatever Al-Mabbar’s version of aspirin was.

She nearly collided with a maid on the way to her bed. The maid gave her a once-over, linked eyes with her, and lifted a single finger in the air. One moment, she seemed to say. She leafed through her pockets and drew out two pills—seemingly pain-related, Amity guessed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I think I do,” the maid said in broken English. She bowed her head, giving her a subtle wink, before scuttling off to another area of the mansion.

For a moment, Amity’s face burned red. Was the maid referring to her evening spent with the Sheikh? Of course she knew; word had probably gotten around. Her image was already tainted.

Embrace the shame, she told herself. And then rise above it. She remembered the blistering screams of one of her old pop-star clients in the months after she’d been discovered having an affair with a high-end Hollywood executive. The pain had riddled through her eyes, turning her nose red and her cheeks purple. “What am I going to do?!” she’d asked Amity, and Amity had known this couldn’t have been a question about PR. It was merely a question about a broken heart.

Instead of collapsing into her bed, Amity showered and brushed her teeth, feeling the bristles waffle too hard into her gums. Blood splattered into the sink. But she shook it off, her damp hair slinging water onto the walls.

She dressed in a lightweight suit and tapped toward the office the Sheikh had had organized for her, where she sat, dignified, in the desk chair. She swung one leg over the other and set her fingers to keys, typing out a brief, how-we’re-doing email for Charlie Campbell. She could hardly remember how it felt to be in L.A., all the way across the world. She imagined her desk, there in the corner, glinting and empty. Perhaps the interns were taking turns sitting there, twirling in her chair.

Suddenly, Amity snapped her fingers, remembering. She took her phone from her pocket and lifted it to her ear, dialing the now familiar number. Across the street, Flora’s hotel room phone rang and rang—surely echoing through the hallway, down elevator shafts. But still, the girl did not pick up.

Amity shook her head, grimacing. Flora still wasn’t back from her rendezvous with Aziz’s friend, that much was clear. That girl was
so
fired… once Amity discovered where she was, of course. She imagined a mother-daughter altercation: “Where have you been, young lady?”

She knew Flora’s only response would be teenage giggles. She knew the intern had no real interest in public relations. Then again, deep down, did Amity really care about PR at the moment, either? It seemed as if her stay in Al-Mabbar had ripped any logic from her brain. She was a shell filled with revving emotion. She felt out of control, and she did not like it one bit.

“Come on, Amity,” she said, shaking her head. Her now-dry brown locks swirled around her. “Think.”

Beyond anything, she was a professional—and she had a single job: to assist Aziz in creating a better, brighter public image. She drew out a piece of paper and scribbled on it, glossing through a tremendous list of schemes that she had previously utilized with her other clients. She remembered pitching so many of these ideas to those pop-culture fiends back in Los Angeles—how they’d hardly given her the time of day, telling her that she “was the expert” and that they “really didn’t care” so long as she did her job. Some of them had literally been filing their nails during these conversations—so blasé, so bored. Of course, back then, she’d taken pleasure in mopping up their messes, but not a single one of them had been good or decent.

But Aziz was a good person. And it was clear that he cared about others—and about her. Even after their awkward encounter, he’d greeted her warmly—viewing her as a human being, rather than a faceless suit, hired to clean up his messes. But how could she go on working with him now? How could she go back to being a professional, after everything they’d shared?

Amity closed her computer abruptly, her muscles twitching. She brought her fingers to her still-pounding temple. She couldn’t believe she’d allowed her feelings for him to take over.

She roughed her fingers through her hair, panicked thoughts driving her. Perhaps she could go for a run to clear her mind and assess her real feelings for the Sheikh? But outside, she heard the swell of the traffic, of the horns. She was far away, in a foreign city—and she didn’t know which way was up.

She felt herself rise from her chair. Her feet directed her up the steps as if she were walking through a long tunnel with only a single exit. There was no turning back. Her fingers grasped the wardrobe doorknob and sprang it open, revealing her large collection of professional clothing, her shoes all laid out for her long stay. She lifted her suitcase from the back, where the smell of cedar was dense in her nose. And she began pulling her things from their hangers and laying them easily, steadily into the bottom of her suitcase, knowing, deep down, that she was doing the right thing.

Her bosses would scorn her, maybe. She definitely wouldn’t get the office she so desired in New York City. Probably not for another five years, or when she’d saved enough money to open the place on her own. And by then—what would be the point? She wouldn’t have love. She wouldn’t have friends. And what did that mean for her life?

She tossed more things into the suitcase, feeling light tears roll down her cheeks. She wasn’t crying, was she? God. She hadn’t cried in months. She shook her head and yanked at the zipper, feeling the satisfactory seal of her suitcase. She would ensure that Flora had a way back to America, when she wanted it, on company funds. How else would the girl get home?

Amity lifted her cellphone to her ear, dialing a cab. She would be gone by the time the Sheikh arrived home, and she’d send him an email, explaining to him that she would find him a replacement. She didn’t have to say anything more than that. It would be professional, succinct.

“Yes, I’d like to arrange a taxi, please. To the airport,” she sniffed into the phone. She felt her heartbeat in her ears as she gave the address details. She felt as if she were falling down, down, down a cliff, waiting to hit the bottom.