Valentine Vegas Gigolo Sheikh (9 page)

"Get off me," she somehow managed. "Please."

"Even now," he continued, as if she had said nothing. "You are having a panic attack because I control this situation, not you."

She had to do something. Between his words and this position, she had never felt more vulnerable. She had to get the situation back on track. If she didn't, everything would fall apart and no one would be able to put it back together. She gathered all her strength and shoved him to one side.

He rolled off.

She took a deep gulp of air, gasping the coolness into overheated lungs. Relief flooded through her veins. She was free again. The universe righted itself. She pulled up to a seated position, with her back toward him, and hugged her knees to herself.

"Do you see what I am trying to tell you?" he asked, in his best-education-money-can-buy slash Arabic-royalty accent. "Stacia, we could explore what we have together, if you can accept that I will never be under your control."

What he had been saying sank into her. He had scraped her raw, exposing her fears and her flaws. He was too dominant, too threatening. Had she regretted she wouldn't see him again? She didn't regret it anymore. Now she didn't even want to see his face right now. And as for his exploring 'what they had together,' well, that was never happening.

"Stacia?"

She forced her voice to obey her. "The money," it cracked.

"The money?" He sounded bewildered. She knew that if she turned around, she would see those quotation marks on the bridge of his nose.

"My money," she said, louder. Now that he wasn't on top of her, squeezing the air out of her, saying things that smashed her defences, her voice strengthened. "The five hundred you screwed me out of."

"Stacia," he said, "you must see reason. This is not about the money. This is about your discomfort with the possibility of having a relationship with me. The money is only one more way you protect your—"

"Shut up," she ordered him.

She didn't stop to enjoy the insulted majesty on his face. She practically leaped from the bed where she'd allowed him to dominate her, like she was some kind of love-str... No, like a
royalty
-struck idiot who was just happy to have someone hot and famous notice her.

God, what a moron she was. She began the search for her clothes. All she wanted in the world was to cover up, to not be exposed to him anymore.

"If you feel the need to assert your control over the situation by requiring me to pay you, very well." His tone was the epitome of exasperated logic. "This time. It is not something that I will permit in the future."

Her heart rate began to calm. Assert her control? He was so wrong. As for a future, they didn't have one. "I'm about to lose my job, remember? I need that money. It's not about me asserting anything. Just having the cash to live."

"Nonsense." He shut the drawer of the nightstand a little too hard, but not hard enough to be a slam. No, actually slamming the drawer would be betraying too much emotion for the jerk, she thought, with a snort.

She flicked on the light, illuminating the upscale hotel room with so much more space, and more luxury, than hers. Fresh flowers on the table when hers was bare. A thank you note embossed in gold letters, no doubt from the hotel manager.

Most of all, the light showed her him, in all his naked glory. Muscled and tanned, even in February. Tall, perfect hair. Confident and assured. Requiring nothing and nobody. In total control of himself and able to manipulate everyone else.

As she pulled her dress into place, he walked toward her with assured strides, the envelope in his hand.

"You don't need this money," he told her, as if he was the only one who knew the truth about her. "You may lose your job, but you will handle it with your usual competence. You will have a new position as soon as you truly desire it. You no more need this money than I do."

Rage lit up behind her eyes and she pulled the envelope from his big hand. "Must be nice to live in a world where everything is handed to you."

Then she noticed something about the envelope. Creamy white hotel stationary. Not the envelope she'd prepared for the gigolo. She opened the flap and saw five flawless, unfolded, new hundred dollar bills. Not her twenties and fifties. "What is this?"

"I assure you it is all there, though perhaps you wish to count it."

His casual words stung. But seeing that cash stung more, a thousand wasps attacking her.

"This isn't my money. What happened to my money?"

"I do not understand. This is five hundred dollars, what you paid for me, last night. This was what we agreed."

"No." A dark calm fell on her. "We agreed that you would give me back my money. The money I paid you. This is just some money you pulled out of your wallet to make me shut up. I want
my
money. Where is it?"

His black eyebrows shot together, so they almost met. "I fail to understand the importa—" He stopped himself mid-word and his brows returned to their usual places. "Please excuse me. I
do
understand the importance of the money. Due to your issues with control, it was acceptable for you to purchase my services, but it is not for me to do the same to you. For you, the transaction must be the return of your money."

"This is stupid," she told him, while part of her whispered that it wasn't. Oh, so he had her all figured out, did he?

Well, that went both ways. As she pulled on her bridesmaid's gear, she threw words back at him. "You say no one surprises you, huh. Do you know why that is? Maybe it's because you look at them with your imperial scowl and force them to play roles for your benefit. Maybe the high and mighty sheikh doesn't want to see the people around him with their realness and their flaws. Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you slotting them into safe and convenient categories so you know how to deal with them."

"You," he said, "are neither safe, nor convenient."

"Oh, I'm about to become a lot more convenient," she said, now that the dress was zipped. With that, she dropped the filthy money on the floor and walked out of the room, her dyed-to-match-the-dress heels dangling from her hand.

Chapter nine

In his New York office, the world lay at Zaqwan's feet. Far below, streets criss-crossed in a grid. People as small as dust motes followed orderly paths. Cars proceeded in a regular fashion.

Forty-three stories up, nothing could touch him. It was the way he liked things.

Up until now, he thought, as he stared out the glass.

Now one of those tiny little dots held all the power in his life. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about Stacia Keating. Or, he hated to admit, feeling for her.

Even though she was far away—or perhaps because of it—he had been unable to concentrate on business. She distracted him, presenting a puzzle he wished to solve, and yet, wanted to contemplate all his life. The contradiction of her continued to intrigue him, and it had begun to affect his work.

More than anything, he wished to know where she was and what she was doing. Who was bringing her to completion now.

Surely after what they'd shared, she wouldn't go to another man. He still felt her hot mouth sucking him with unfeigned enthusiasm—no, that was a lie. He didn't feel it, but he remembered. Oh yes, he remembered. And he remembered that wicked little smile on her face when she thought she'd mastered him.

She nearly had.

His mind had wandered off during a conference call on Monday. He had been required to make a potential Japanese distributor for Ittari fragrances repeat herself, to his regret. On Wednesday, he had forgotten a meeting completely. Yesterday, he had actually poured himself his now-standard five o'clock rum and Coke before realizing he had actually already done so.

That had been when he knew he could no longer continue this way, and had called this meeting.

At precisely 3:30, Kayson French, the head of his security team, knocked on his office door.

The outfit French wore now was very different from the bartender's uniform he'd worn in Vegas. With no major assignments today, he'd chosen his preferred style of clothing: low-cut Levis, cowboy boots polished to a high shine, and, underneath a six-hundred dollar sports jacket, a faded AC/DC tee-shirt three sizes too large for him. The shirt had once fit him perfectly, Zaqwan remembered. French had been a doughy young man when they'd met. In their initial interview, when Zaqwan had asked French why he should hire him, the man had stated that no one would ever suspect he was Zaqwan's security.

Zaqwan had seen from the moment French walked into his office that the man's problem had been that no one had ever taken him seriously. He couldn't blame the world for it, based on French's appearance, but he knew that if he were able to get French to live up to his potential, he would earn a useful unswerving loyalty.

He had decided to give French a chance, and to set an intense standard for him to live up to. Zaqwan had never regretted it. The baby-faced young man had a talent for melding with a crowd. Over the last few years, French had left behind his insecurities and become a confident man.

His loyalty was unquestioned. Which was why Zaqwan could only bring this job to him.

French took one of the leather chairs opposite his desk, a hand-crafted piece that combined a clean, modern design with intricate traditional engraving. It had been created in a workshop in Ittar that provided employment for the blind. Zaqwan kept several business cards with the workshop's website address on them. Visitors often asked about it.

He may be a prince, but he was also a dedicated salesman, a thought that amused him. But there was no time for amusement now.

Now was time for business. He took his own chair and began the conversation. "Could you organize a quiet kidnapping? It's a personal matter, not business. I know I can trust you with this."

French did not even blink. Instead he made himself more comfortable, placing his Samsung Galaxy tablet on Zaqwan's desk and stretching out his legs. "Of course you could trust me with anything," he stated, in his unassuming voice. "But you won't."

"I beg your pardon?" His voice betrayed more irritation that he meant it to. French had never refused a task before.

"I said, 'You won't,'" French clarified, with certainty in his voice. "Sir, you always impress me with your intelligence. And you know exactly how bad an idea this is."

It seemed his emotions brewed much closer to the surface than they had when he'd first met Stacia Keating. He set his jaw, trying to hold back his impatience. Of course he didn't have to explain the situation to French. His efficient security chief likely had an extensive file on Stacia Keating, including her background, her habits, her daily schedule, and any potential threats she represented.

In fact, French had probably come into the meeting with her file prepped on his tablet. The one sitting on his desk.

All that personal information. In arm's reach. Stacia's life, her secrets, right there. He would not have to spy on her; it had been done for him. She would never know. With that information, he could create a scenario where she came to him. Done properly, she would even think it had been her idea.

And yet, something inside his chest rebelled at the thought. Using this information to maneuver Stacia into his arms would be easy. Before the fateful night when she opened her secrets to him, he would not have hesitated to use it.

Now? Doing so would leave him unsatisfied, and he could not identify why.

But she must return to him. So he had to take a more direct route. Which was why his security chief sat in his office.

"It," he said, referring to the potential abduction, "seems the only way to make her come to me."

"And you haven't done it already because you know it's the wrong thing." French shrugged. The casual gesture, along with the unrequested criticism, galled him. "Hey, I'd abduct anyone for you. You know that. But is that really what you want to do to her?"

No, something inside him answered.

"She will resist me at first," he admitted. She would. Loudly. And justly so. It would be worth enduring her sharp tongue to hear her voice again. He didn't want her because she was a soft woman, but for her strength and her heart. Once he had her by his side again, he would use all the powers of his persuasion to convince her of what she already knew, but was fighting. "She will come to understand that she and I should be together."

"That you love her," supplied French.

His throat threatened to close, though he kept his outward composure. "That I love her," he acknowledged.

"She loves you, too. Or, she will, really soon."

He scrutinized his security chief. How far did the man's surveillance go? "You know this?"

Again, French shrugged. Zaqwan had never been so close to punching anyone. Except possibly a gigolo he'd mistaken for a drug dealer.

"I saw you guys dancing together. It wasn't too hard to figure out."

"She appears to have difficulty accepting this," he said.

For an instant, French showed an inch of his former lack of confidence, scrubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Yeah. Well, give her time."

Though he attempted to keep his excitement concealed, his anticipation bled into his tone of voice, and into the way he barely let French finish his statement before speaking. "Ah. If I give her time, she will come to me. It is a matter of patience."

"Maybe." As he said it, French's BlackBerry intoned an electronic version of Back in Black, but French knew better than to answer during a meeting with him. It was an oversight on French's part not to have muted the device. "Maybe not."

"But what can I do to make it happen?"

French shook his head. "Nothing. It will either happen or it won't."

"There must be something."

"Anything you try might just piss her off. I think the best idea is for you to give her space," French said. "Which I think you actually know, or you wouldn't have asked me about this instead of just ordering me to do it."