Sue Swift - Engaged To The Sheikh

Kamar frowned. “I do not know if I want to eat my breakfast in a greenhouse.”

“Why not?” Selina asked. “I’m sure they don’t grow potatoes in there.”

She caught the bartender’s eye, and both girls laughed. Azhib, he thought. Wonderful. Within a few hours of his arrival, he’d convinced two women he was a fool. And he was stuck here until a deal for the property could be struck.

“Do you know what’s going on here? Because I’m at sea.” Jerome looked from his granddaughter’s face to the bartender, and then to Kamar. “What’s this about potatoes?”

“Nothing,” Kamar said sourly. “The Greenhouse will be fine—9:00 a.m.?”

“I’ll make a reservation,” Jerome said, eyeing Kamar with an uneasy expression.

“Oh, no problem, sir.” Janis removed Kamar’s empty martini glass. “I’ll leave a note for the concierge before I go off shift. What would the name be?”

“The Asad party.” And without another word, Kamar stalked off.

“What bug’s up his rear?” Jerome asked.

“Maybe a potato bug,” Selina replied, and both women exploded with gales of laughter.

Selina admired stability and safety, needed it, really. She worked hard to keep her life and everything in it well-organized. Her pumps, always leather and always polished to a dull glow, were neatly matched and hung two-by-two on her shoe tree in perfect order. She always bought bras with matching panties—two pairs, so one was always clean and at the ready—and folded them carefully in her lingerie drawer with their mates. Likewise, tap pants and camisoles. She bought outfits, not separates, and never ordered à la carte.

Grandpa Jerome, the only father she had and the most important person in her twenty-three-year-old life, was the opposite. Unless a maid picked up after him, his closet was total chaos. His secretary often remarked that she had a lifetime job because “Jerry doesn’t know where I keep the checkbook.” Indeed, his desk would remain a mountain of garbage if she didn’t arrange it.

Selina didn’t like the unexpected. Grandpa Jerry thrived on it.

Selina hated surprises. Grandpa Jerry liked to throw surprise parties and sweep her away on unplanned excursions. Like this one, to an exclusive resort on Florida’s Gulf Coast. Less than twelve hours ago, Grandpa Jerry had shot into her cubicle at VIP Publicity, grabbed her jacket, held it open for her and said, “Come on, little Sellie. Grandpa’s got a fun surprise for you.”

Since Selina had sought refuge in his home at age fifteen, Grandpa Jerry had said those words many times, and she’d come to trust that his surprises would be fun. Trips to the zoo, to museums, to shops. Sometimes the museums would be in Rome or the shops in Paris.

And now, her magic pixie of a grandfather, claiming she worked too hard, had swept Selina to Florida. On the plane, he’d admitted that he was brokering a real estate deal and that Selina’s presence would enliven an otherwise dull jaunt.

Selina wasn’t so sure. Now, getting ready for bed in the penthouse suite atop La Torchere, she brushed her teeth with the toiletries supplied by the resort before donning their thick terry cloth robe. She left her bathroom to meet Jerry in the living room of the suite. “I don’t know quite what I’m doing here,” she told her grandfather.

“You’re here to keep me company.” Jerry lounged on the sofa in a similar robe worn over a pair of checked pajama pants. He’d already left his mark on the suite. Recent copies of the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post littered the coffee table in front of him, and sheaves of computer printouts detailing various D.C. properties were scattered on the couch’s cushions.

“Your client doesn’t want me here. What’s so top secret, anyway?”

Jerry hesitated. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he’s a sheik.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. With that accent? And don’t sheiks live in desert tents with camels?”

“Not this one,” Jerry said. “Kamar and his brothers were all educated in England—Cambridge, no less. His country has one of the world’s most productive diamond mines. They recently opened diplomatic relations with the United States and purchased an embassy building in D.C. Now Kamar’s looking for the ambassador’s residence.”

“I’m impressed,” Selina said. “This is quite a lucrative set of deals for you.”

“And it does have to be top secret.” Jerome shuffled papers together into a messy stack. “If the location of the residence becomes public knowledge, the safety of the ambassador could be compromised.”

“Oh, so that’s why the snotty sheik was so upset with me.” Selina sat on a side chair.

“You were pretty hard on him.”

She huffed.

“You were mean, Sellie. I’ve never known you to be mean.”

“You should have seen him with the bartender.”

“What was the bit about the potatoes?”

“He was razzing the bartender about the vodka,” she said. “Only wheat vodka, nothing made from potatoes. He was quite specific. Who does he think he is, James Bond?”

“A man has the right to choose his poison. I thought Kam was trying to be nice to you.”

“He was trying to redeem himself. Unsuccessfully, I might add. He’s affected and arrogant. The man can’t love himself enough.”

Jerome was silent for a second, then said, “Sometimes people who can’t love themselves enough suffer from a lack of love from others. Like you.”

She swallowed against her dry mouth. “I’m loved. You love me, right?”

“I adore you, but we both know that’s not enough. When was the last time you were involved with a man?”

“Hey, I date all the time. You know that. You call on Saturday night to check on me. I don’t call back until Sunday morning because—”

“Because on Saturday night you’re out breaking hearts.”

Selina grinned.

“Yes, you date,” Jerry continued. “But do you ever become involved?”

She compressed her lips. “So I’m picky.”

“Sellie, baby, you’re beyond picky. Don’t you think it’s time you got over Donald?”

She dropped her face into her hands and mumbled, “Grandpa Jerry, I was in therapy for seven years. My head’s been shrunk so much I’m surprised you can still see it. I’ve meditated. I’ve rolfed. I’ve yoga’ed. I’ve sought enlightenment and personal growth everywhere I could. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get over Donald. Or what Mom did.” She hadn’t seen her mother or her stepfather for years.

Leaving 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.”