Engaged To The Sheikh. Sue Swift
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the couch, Jerry knelt by her side. “If you don’t get over it, they win.”
She nodded, rubbing her temples where a headache had started banging at her brain. “I know, but I—”
“Try.” Her grandfather took her hand. “Try. I won’t be around forever—”
“Why, where are you going?” Selina raised her head, her insides turning wintry. “Pawtucket, maybe, or Poughkeepsie?”
He wiggled her chin. “Laugh all you want, sweetheart, but I’m an old guy, and getting older every minute. You need to be with a man your own age, not some old fart with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”
Selina scoffed. “You’ll outlive all of us.”
“No, I won’t. Promise me, Sellie, that you’ll make an effort.”
Sobered by her grandfather’s seriousness, Selina said, “Okay, I promise. Sometime. I’m still young, okay?”
He fixed her with a stern look, though his eyes twinkled. “Be nice to the sheik.”
“The snotty sheik?”
He laughed. “People magazine calls him the sexy sheik.”
“He does have a certain George Clooney appeal, if you like the type.”
“Do you?”
She squirmed. Grandpop was hitting a little too close to home. She didn’t want to talk to him about the kind of men she liked. Too weird. “Maybe.”
“Well, why don’t you let that maybe turn into a yes? At least give that little maybe a chance.”
She chuckled. “Maybe I will.”
He hesitated, then asked, “Sellie, are you truly happy?”
“Sure I am. I have a great job, a great home and you.” She hugged him around the shoulders. “Why should I want more?”
“There’s more to life, and you know it. But for now, be nice to Prince Kamar.” He winked. “Especially since I want to take quite a large wad of cash out of his wallet.”
She sighed. “For you, anything…even Prince Kamar.”
Chapter Three
The sharp-eyed brunette approached the concierge desk and said to the woman seated there, “Uh, can I ask for some help?”
Lilith Peterson, aka Lissa Bessart Piers, scrutinized her. That depends upon the kind of help you want, she thought. She didn’t like the brunette’s briefcase, her gray pinstriped pantsuit or her overly lacquered hair. Most people who came to La Torchere were on holiday and looked it, but this woman was all business.
Instead of challenging her, Lissa schooled her features into a hospitable smile, in keeping with her role. “Of course,” she said. “How can I help you?” She smoothed the lapel of her jacket.
“I’m trying to find a guest,” the brunette said.
“We maintain the security of all our guests. Are you a guest here, Ms….?” Lissa raised politely inquiring eyebrows.
“Yes, of course,” the brunette said, a little too quickly. She offered a hand. “Marta Hunter.”
Lissa touched the woman’s fingers and let go. She didn’t want extended contact with Marta Hunter. A strong grasp could trigger any of Lissa’s array of magical abilities. She didn’t want to inadvertently cast a curse or start a fire.
More than being the ordinary concierge Lilith Peterson, Lissa Bessart Piers was a member of the royal family of the enchanted realm of Silestia. Because she’d cursed her spoiled, disobedient niece seven years before, Lissa felt a responsibility to remain in Meredith’s life, making sure Merry remained safe while she worked to lift the curse.
But Lissa’s disguise as a concierge carried obligations, such as caring for the needs of La Torchere’s guests. She said, “Good morning, Ms. Hunter. We haven’t met before, have we?”
“I arrived early this morning on the first ferry of the day.”
“Welcome to La Torchere. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for the sheik, Prince Kamar ibn-Asad,” Hunter said.
“Oh, I recall making a breakfast reservation for Mr. Asad’s party,” Lissa said. “If you move along, you should catch them in The Greenhouse.”
Upon seeing it for the first time, Selina thought that The Greenhouse deserved the appellation edifice. A massive glass structure with fanciful Victorian-style domes and turrets, it not only housed a casually elegant café but a glorious collection of tropical greenery.
It was crowded with plants, which in her apartment remained measly little sprouts. She had a nice pothos vine at home, but here a pothos wound heart-shaped leaves the size of dinner plates high around the bole of a graceful palm, fully twenty feet into the moist, scented air. Ferns that struggled to survive in D.C. grew to prehistoric heights here.
Masses of orchids, sporting exotic colors, shapes and fragrances, were set in banks around mossy stones. A natural-looking spring flowed through The Greenhouse from a waterfall at one end to a pool at the other, surrounding a slate-floored “island” where a group of linen-draped tables were clustered.
Holding her grandfather’s arm, Selina, cautious in new sandals, negotiated a rickety bridge to the island. When she’d purchased the red dress, she’d bought other clothing to last her for the week, including the denim shorts and T-shirt she now wore with the slippery-soled sandals.
Safely on the rough gray slate, she looked for and found Kam Asad seated at a large table. Like her grandfather, he evidently liked to read, for several newspapers were spread over the white cloth. His cell phone sat next to a silver pot. As she watched, he refilled his cup before turning a page of the paper.
A polo shirt stretched across Kam’s truly admirable torso, showing muscled forearms. The emerald-green shirt set off his amber skin and thin gold watch. The only other item of jewelry he wore was his diamond stud, a rakish touch.
She couldn’t check out his legs because they were under the table. But when she and her grandfather approached Kam’s table, he stood until Jerry had seated her. His legs matched his arms in terms of their fitness, and she had to admit that Kam was a total stud muffin. If he weren’t such a jerk, she might even be attracted to him.
“Good morning, Selina, Jerry,” he said. He handed her a menu before pouring her a cup of tea.
His old-fashioned chivalry disarmed her, and she said, “Good morning, Kam,” as courteously as she could, even though she didn’t drink tea. She assumed that he had developed his tea habit while at Cambridge.
Opening the menu, she scanned the breakfast selections. “Too bad I don’t like breakfast. There’s a lot to choose from here. Even potatoes.” She winked at Kam.
“You will never forget that incident with the vodka, will you?” He leaned back in his chair with an uneasy smile.
Jerry kicked her under the table, and she said, “Um, consider yourself unforgettable. It’s not a bad thing.”
He visibly relaxed. “Why do you not like breakfast?”
She shrugged. “It’s just such a strange meal. Except for fruit, almost everything is carbohydrates or fried. It’s as though you’re not allowed to eat anything healthy in the morning.”
“Cereals are healthy. Are there not some of your corny crunchies on the menu?” He waved at a passing server.
“I doubt it. At this point we’re just designing the ad campaign. The cereal won’t be on the market for some months.”
“When I traveled to Japan, I ate soup with tea in the morning. It seemed quite healthful.”