Kasey Michaels - The Sheikh's Secret Son

Today her firm was to represent a triad of American companies hoping to do business in the small oil-and-gas-rich Middle East kingdom of Kharmistan. Which, she supposed, explained all the heightened security and the big-shouldered, dour-faced men standing on either side of the elevator. They had reason to be a nervous bunch, Middle East tensions being what they were.

Eden had a bad moment at the elevator—fearing she was about to be frisked for the first time in her life—before the two big-shouldered “goons” finally let her pass, muttering to each other in their own language.

She kept her smile bright until the elevator doors closed in front of her, then grumbled something that sounded very much like “male chauvinist pigs,” certain that the two had difficulty believing a woman could possibly have anything constructive to do with business. Now there was a prejudice that had no trouble crossing international borders!

She forgot the guards and watched the numbers light up one after the other as the elevator swiftly and silently whisked her to the twenty-sixth floor. One last check of her watch told her she had cut it fine, but would arrive on the dot of nine.

She gripped the handle of her attaché case tightly in both hands, holding it in front of her in an unconsciously defensive posture, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly as the doors opened. Several men standing in the lobby of the penthouse office suite turned to look at her, then turned away again to resume their conversation.

Eden continued to stand in the elevator. She couldn’t move. Her feet had rooted to the floor, her brain had gone on stun, robbing her of the ability to walk.

The elevator doors whispered closed again and she collapsed against the back wall, her hand pressed to her mouth as she told herself not to scream. Not to scream, not to faint, not to run…run…run. Run out of the building. Run to her car. Run to her house, where she would grab up her son and then run some more.

Run as far and as fast as she could.

Thankfully, sanity returned before anyone summoned the elevator back to the lobby, and she swallowed down hard and pushed the Door Open button so that she could leave the elevator and join the men who had probably already forgotten her.

He doesn’t know, she told herself, repeating the words over and over like a mantra. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. And what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me.

Drawing on every resource at her command—her upbringing, her independent nature, her long years of taking care of herself—Eden willed her heart to slow. Willed her lips to smile. Willed herself to remember who she was, where she was, and why she was here.

She was here to explain international oil and gas law to her bosses, to her firm’s clients, and to a Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir of Kharmistan or his representative.

Which one was the tall guy wearing the headpiece Henry had talked about? The representative? Or the sheikh himself?

Did it matter?

Because she knew this man, if not his true name or position. She’d never forget him.

He was the self-assured gentleman standing smack in the middle of the reception area, holding court over those from her office and the clients her office represented.

He was the devastatingly handsome man she’d known almost six years ago in Paris.

He was the fickle, duplicitous man she’d known as Ben Ramsey…and she’d borne him a child. A boy child, with his same aristocratic features, his same dark eyes and hair, his same elegant posture, his same almost princely air of confidence.

Eden didn’t feel much like humming a chorus of “It’s a Small World After All.”

Jim Morris broke away from the group before the elevator doors had closed, and for once Eden was happy to see the ambitious young lawyer. Jim looked worried, which made her even happier, as that meant he was probably going to grab her by the elbow and quickly drag her into another room so that he could tell her why the universe was about to explode here on the twenty-sixth floor.

“Trouble?” she asked almost eagerly as she kept her head down, carefully avoiding the eyes of the dozen or so men who probably wouldn’t have given her a second look if her hair caught on fire.

“That depends, Eden,” Jim said, hurriedly taking her arm—she’d almost offered it, she was that anxious to be rescued. “Come in here, okay? And tell me, please, please tell me that you know why in hell the sheikh felt the need to be here today?”

Eden tugged her elbow free of Jim’s tight grip and sat herself down in the nearest chair. It was more elegant than falling down.

Her stomach clenched into a tight ball, and she swayed slightly as a wave of panicked nausea hit her. Had she heard Jim right? Ben Ramsey was a sheikh? For crying out loud, Sawyer was the son of the Sheikh of Kharmistan? No. How could that be? Ludicrous. That was simply ludicrous.

Oh, God. Jim meant it. Now she knew. Ben was the sheikh. Sawyer was his son, the son Ben didn’t know existed, thanks to his defection all those years ago in Paris.

How much danger was Sawyer in, now that she knew? If she was to tell Ben…

She cleared her throat, tried to focus on Jim Morris. “So he is the sheikh, then? Mr. Klinger said he might show up, but I thought—but then I hoped…well, never mind. What you’re saying is that the guy in the headcloth—what do they call those things, anyway—is the sheikh himself, and not just his representative? What’s the representative’s name? Wait, I have it in my notes.”

She set her attaché case on the desk in front of her and quickly unzipped it, then pulled out a thick manila folder and began paging through it. She always kept a “cast of characters” in her private notes, just so she could cram for the final exam that was the actual meeting with her firm’s clients. Mostly, however, she was stalling for time, time during which she hoped to put her shattered brain back together.

“Ah, here it is. Nadim. Yusuf Nadim. How could I have forgotten? He’s the one we’ve all been dealing with the most, right? Man,” she said, pressing a hand against her belly, “I’ve got to stop this, calm down.” She put down her notes, looked up at Morris, knowing she must resemble a doe caught in headlights.

She began to pace, trying to burn off energy as an oil well burned off excess natural gas.

“Is he here, too, Jim? This Nadim guy? I only saw one of those headpieces—Lord, what do they call them? I feel like such an ugly American, calling them ‘headpieces.’ I know what a kimono is, Jim, I know what a kilt is—I even know the proper name for those shorts some Europeans wear on special occasions, although the name escapes me at the moment. So why don’t I know what those headdresses are called? Laziness, that’s what it is. Sheer laziness on my part. I should be ashamed of myself.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I don’t think that’s important right now, Eden. What’s important is that this Nadim fellow is back at the hotel, sick from the flight or something, and that the sheikh is here on his own, and making one hell of a mess out of six months of our hard work. Why couldn’t this Nadim guy just have postponed the meeting? Why do we have to have this big shot, know-nothing Sheikh of Ara-bee here to screw up the works?”

Pulling herself back from the inanity of trying to calm her badly jangled nerves by thinking about headpieces, Eden did her best to slip into her professional role. Jim wasn’t exactly known for his social skills, and he had just crossed the line.

“One, Jim,” she began firmly, “you’re out of line. Two, you’re still out of line. Unless you want to be that redneck ‘y’all’ lawyer from Texas, and I don’t think you like insults any more than anyone else does. Third—how so? How is everything going wrong? Today’s meeting should have been nothing more than a formality. All the bugs were worked out months ago.”