ZAHIR - Her Ruthless Sheikh: 50 Loving States New Jersey (Ruthless Tycoons Book 2) Read online

  Something dark and furious flashes across his expression, but before he can say another word, the door suddenly opens. I jump and turn to get out of its way—only to run smack dab into Asir.

  “Whoa! Sorry, Prin!” he says, his warm face lighting up when he sees me. He cups both my shoulders with an apologetic wince. “I spotted you earlier and called your name, but the music was too loud for you to hear me. Then I saw you come down this way and I tried to follow you, but I couldn’t figure out which door was yours. I tried them all and…here you are!”

  “No worries,” I reply easily. And my heart melts because Asir has somehow managed to sound both unbelievably elegant with his smooth brandy-poured-over-honey accent, and just like one of us with his self-deprecating way of talking about himself. His long, elegant hands rest lightly on my shoulders, warm and engaging. I can’t believe it! Asir Zaman is touching me!

  “I’m just glad I finally found you. Did you come here to get away from the music?” he asks. “Can’t say as I blame you. Plus, it’ll be easier for us to talk and get to know each other better in here.”

  Asir Zaman wants to talk to me! And get to know me better!! By now, my heart is squealing louder than a tween at a Jonas Brothers concert.

  But then like a dark cloud edging towards a sunny day, I recall my real reason for being in this room and confess, “I came in here because I thought he was you.”

  “He…?” Asir repeats with a super adorable scrunching of his beautiful eyes.

  Then he follows my gaze to where his brother is standing, hard-faced and dark eyes flashing as if what he’s just witnessed has infuriated him beyond belief.

  And that’s when I discover Asir is nowhere near as unflappable as I previously thought.

  Instead of laughing at my case of mistaken identity, he jerks his hands back from my shoulders and stutters, “Oh, h-hi, Zahir. I did not expect to find you here. I-I…”

  His brother, Zahir, says nothing. He merely watches Asir stew in his own stutters. Eyes cold and assessing like a scientist studying a rat he’s decided to experiment on.

  But something must be communicated between the two of them because Asir takes a big step back from me and says, “Um, know what? I think I saw your friend—the scholarship student with the Jamaican accent?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You mean, Sylvie?”

  “Yes, Sylvie!” he agrees, clasping his hands tightly in front of him in thanks as if I’ve thrown him a lifeline of some sort. “I saw her go into Holt Calson’s room at the end of the hall. I think she was looking for you. You should probably find her…”

  I tilt my head. “I should probably find her?” I repeat, my usual “da fuck?” Jersey accent rising to the surface though I promised myself it wasn’t going to come out tonight with Asir. “You invited me to this whack party,” I remind him. “Now you want me to go and find my friend because your brother is here?”

  “I don’t…I mean, well…yes, I suppose that’s correct. I would like for you to go and find your friend now.” Asir crooks his arm to rub the back of his head like I’m making the situation more awkward instead of the other way around. “It’s just…I have some things I need to discuss with my brother who I didn’t know would be here. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—I mean, sorry, just sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  With that final apology, Asir averts his eyes and opens the door a little wider so I can leave.

  “Yeah, you are,” I agree, wanting to ask him a thousand questions like is he ashamed to be seen with me? Is that why he invited me to this party where we could disappear into the crowd instead of taking one of the million opportunities he’d had to talk and “get to know me better” during the four years we were at Beaumont together?

  But you know, dignity. Instead of losing my mind on his bitch-ass, I jut out my chin and say, “Okay. Bye, Asir.”

  Then with my head held high and without looking back at him or his asshole brother, I walk out the door Asir holds open for me.

  The night only gets weirder when a few seconds later, I find my best friend, Sylvie, in another of the bedrooms about to kiss Holt-freaking-Calson! And when I tell her we need to leave, Holt—who is special edition white boy wasted, by the way, is all like, “Don’t leave. Stay with me! I’ll send you home in a car.”

  Hold up. Asir doesn’t want to be seen with me, but Holt Calson, the richest kid in, like, all of America is trying to keep my friend here in his penthouse castle like she’s some kind of Jamaican Cinderella?

  I ignore him and pull Sylvie out of there, wondering if the world turned upside down when we stepped through the doors of this high rise.

  I drive her back to Hartford, ranting the entire time about Asir—and even more about his asshole brother.

  I spent four years at Beaumont, bettering myself and trying to prove I was way classier than anyone watching my dad and his girlfriend on their reality show, His Majesty, could imagine.

  But by the time I’ve dropped Sylvie off, a new resolution has settled over me. I plug a phone jack into my special edition Dwayne Wade Sidekick 3 and speed dial a certain number before getting back on the 218 E, this time heading toward Beaumont, just north of Hartford.

  “Prin?” my dad answers after a few rings. He sounds confused. I can hear music playing in the background, harder and a less recognizable than the stuff playing at Holt’s.

  Fresh cuts, I guess. Hot off the track deck of Majesty Records’ in-house studios.

  “Hold on!” he yells, And I can imagine him slipping out of what he calls our mansion’s “par-tay foh-yay” and into his nearby study, because it’s much quieter when he says, “What’s up, baby?”

  “Hey, Dad,” I answer. “I’ve been giving it some thought, and…yeah, I think I’m ready to be on the show.”

  “You serious?!?!” he demands. “You finally wanna be on His Majesty?”

  Then before I can say anything else, I hear a door open and the loud fresh cut sounds again as my dad hollers, “My daughter’s gonna be on the show!!!!!”

  Unlike Asir, my dad has never had a problem being heard over loud music. The party-goers not only hear him but give a roar of approval in response.

  After a few more declarations of how happy he is, and how hype this is going to be, and then a three-way call with one of the show’s producers, everything is only a few signed contracts and a press release away from being official. Beginning this summer, I will be playing a member of my own family on His Majesty, a spin-off of Rap Star Wives: East Coast, which itself is a spin-off of the original L.A.-based Rap Star Wives.

  Ironically, just as I’ve finished with the verbal handshake, I’m back at the dorms where I decided to stay for the entire grace week after graduation, just so I wouldn’t have to return to a life of avoiding cameras at my father’s Jersey mansion. But fuck trying to be someone I’m not, I decide as I get out of the custom gold-and-chrome Mini my dad got me for my 16th birthday. I walk toward the dorms with a new swing in my hips.

  Asir and his brother might be sheikhs or something, but I’m hip-hop royalty. So Asir can forget me, and Zahir can go fuck himself. I won’t ever have to deal with either of them again.

  Except that couldn’t be further from the truth.

  The very next day, Asir shows up at my dad’s Jersey mansion with the purse I left behind at Holt Calson’s party, and an apology so beautiful and eloquent that I immediately forgive him.

  Eleven years later, I am on a plane bound for Jahwar, where my best friend, Sylvie, in the surprise of the century, will soon wed Cal-Mart scion, Holt Calson. And I have only one goal in mind: to get a private audience with Zahir Zaman al-Jahwari, the newly ascended King of Jahwar, despite what happened between me and his brother.

  HIS TO DENY

  Chapter One

  “Do you even want this job, Ms. Jones?” the woman on the other side of the phone asks. Her voice is so reedy with anger, you’d think I just told her I couldn’t come into the office to defuse a bomb instead of attend an all-ha
nds-on-deck filing.

  I try not to sigh audibly as I glance out the taxi’s window at Jahwar’s ultra-modern skyline. According to the internet, Jahwar is the largest and most populous city state in the United Arab Kingdoms. But I’m only getting brief glimpses of it as I talk to the associates manager from Liederman-Frankel, the intellectual property law firm I’ve been working at as a first-year associate since I finished law school last December. I’ve only been there for two months, not even long enough for my benefits to kick in, and from the sound of the associates manager’s deeply annoyed tone, I may not make it to that special three-month mark.

  Do I want this job? Real talk…not really. Anyone who tries to tell you intellectual property law isn’t boring AF is probably spending most of their paycheck on drugs.

  But do I need this job? Yes. Yes, I do. The money Asir and I made during the heyday of our His Majesty appearances was either embezzled by my father or got swallowed up in the estate case after his death. The grace period for the student loans I took out to finish school will end in less than four months. And let’s not even talk about the property taxes on the Alpine mansion in Northern Jersey, which is the only thing from my father’s hip-hop “empire” I’ve managed to hang on to.

  With those details in mind, I answer pretty damn truthfully, “Yes, I want this job. And I am sorry I can’t come in this weekend. Believe me, I would if I could. But I’m in Jahwar for my best friend’s wedding—which I mentioned I would be going to in my interview…”

  “Yes, you did mention it,” the associates manager concedes, “But I don’t see a formal request for time off in our system…”

  I bite down hard to keep from pointing out that since my benefits still haven’t kicked in, I’m technically not eligible for time off or else I certainly would have asked for it. As it was, I’d been forced to leave work on Friday night for Jahwar and would have to leave shortly after the Saturday wedding to make it back in time for work on Monday. Now, if I’d had the choice, I would have preferred to make this expensive 12-hour trip without a one-day turn around and a quick change into my bridesmaid’s dress at the Jahwar airport.

  But hey, I have two eighteen-year-old wards, student loans, and astronomical property taxes, so I needed this job more than I needed to yell at the associates manager for getting pissy with me for not coming in on what’s supposed to be my day off.

  Also, the taxi has come to a stop in front of the largest set of wrought iron gates I have ever seen in real life. They have to be at least twenty feet tall with what look like solid gold versions of the UAK’s coat of arms attached to each gate.

  “This is as far as I can take you,” the taxi driver, who’s dressed in a white button-up shirt and black tie, tells me. And as two guards in black jumpsuits and black berets approach the car, I tell the manager, “I’m sorry. I’ll be 100% there on Monday. And I won’t ever let you down again…”

  Little do I know, that turns out to be a promise I can’t possibly keep.

  Technically, I arrive at the Jahwar palace right on time for the wedding. But no less than five security check points and one pat down by a female guard in a dark black jump suit later, I’m running through the palace front doors nearly forty minutes late…

  Only to stop short when I’m greeted by two escalators with an elevator in-between.

  Who the hell needs two escalators and an elevator for their crib? I wonder. I’m about to ask the guards flanking the inside of the front doors where the wedding is, when two voices call out, “Prin! Prin!”

  I spot Sasha and Kasha, my biracial twin sisters, waving frantically at the top of the left-side escalator. They’re wearing full makeup making them look a good ten years older than their recently-turned-eighteen years. But instead of the bodycon dresses they usually wear for their performances, the twins are rocking silky long-sleeved blouses with African print pencil skirts that reach past their knees. And the silky curls they usually wear down, have been pulled back into stylish buns.

  “I like this look on you!” I squee when the escalator deposits me in front of them. Then I gather them up into a double hug because it’s been nearly ten days since I let them skip out on school and put them on a plane to complete all the pre-wedding work I should have been doing as Sylvie’s maid of honor.

  “I missed you!” I say, squeezing them extra tight.

  “We missed you, too,” Kasha answers, squeezing me back just as tightly.

  Sasha also gives me a squeeze, but it’s super brief and she soon pulls away with an abrupt, “You’re late. Everybody’s waiting for you.”

  This is why, despite having different mothers, and me leaving for Beaumont when they were only four, it’s always been so easy for me to tell my identical twin sisters apart. While Kasha keeps it bubblier than a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Sasha always seems to be focused on an internal clock only she can see. Proving why my father named their act Perfect Sync, Sasha leads us down several hallways right to where Sylvie and the rest of the wedding party are waiting for us outside a huge set of double doors…only to pull back to the rear as we approach the group.

  “She’s here!” Kasha sings in a dramatic falsetto, as if my late arrival had been the plan all along.

  Almost everyone standing at the double doors laughs at Kasha’s theatrics, including the two guards hovering discreetly in the background. They’re not dressed in jumpsuits like the other palace guards, but in fully-tailored business suits. So I’m assuming they must be part of a special security detail specifically assigned to Zahir…the only person in the wedding party who didn’t laugh at my heralded late arrival.

  But unfortunately for me, Zahir is the one person whose opinion I have to care about the most today.

  How is it possible he’s become even more intimidating? I wonder as the twins pass between us, so they can take their seats with the rest of the waiting guests on the other side of the double doors. Zahir stands a good foot above my sisters and the other women in the party, so despite my height in heels, I have to tilt my head back to take him in. He’s rocking a full beard now. And he’sdressed in a western tuxedo, same as Luca, the groom’s other tall best friend—who also happens to be a major Jersey mafia don and the ex of my former boss, Amber. However, unlike his mafia friend who could be easily mistaken for a male model, Zahir still manages to exude a “yeah, I’m the king of all this shit” vibe, despite the matching tuxedo.

  “Sorry, I’m so late,” I say to Sylvie, tearing my eyes away from Zahir.

  “No worries,” Sylvie answers, her Jamaican accent ringing melodic as she pulls me in for a big hug. She gives me a full kiss on the cheek without seeming to worry about her makeup. “I am just so very glad you made it here, my friend. And thank you for sending the twins out early. They have been so very helpful.”

  “You look head to toe fine as hell, girl,” I tell her, even though I can feel Zahir’s cool judging gaze on me as I give my friend the big ups she deserves.

  But Sylvie, proving she hasn’t changed much despite being on deck to marry a billionaire, deflects my compliment. “You look even better than me, my beautiful friend, I swear it!” she insists.

  “Forgive the interruption, Sylvie,” Zahir says, his tone coldly polite. “I understand your friend would like to catch up with you, but she is also over forty minutes late. We should start the wedding without further delay.”

  Okay, why is he acting like I decided, out the blue, to hold up my best friend’s wedding?

  You need him…I remind myself before I can give into the temptation to tell him something about his crib’s five checkpoint situation. A lot more than he needs you.

  Plus, Sylvie’s already been to hell and back with Holt to make it to this special day. She doesn’t need any more drama—especially from her best friend.

  So instead of pointing out that I would have been on time if not for the five security checkpoints outside his palace, I lower my head and my eyes, just like I learned in the multiple “Doing Business in Jahwar” art
icles I read on the flight over. “Thank you for hosting this wedding in your beautiful palace,” I say in my best facsimile of a super polite guest. “And please forgive my tardiness.”

  He just stares at me as if he’s trying to figure out a way to turn my apology into an insult.

  “Should we give the orchestra the cue then?” Sylvie asks into the awkward silence.

  Another beat of annoyance, then Zahir nods at a guard, who translates the simple move of his king’s head as, “Tell the band to start playing.” He says something under his breath into a Bluetooth ear-set and in the next moment, a melodic swell of stringed instruments fills the hallway.

  “You and Luca go first,” Mika, the other bridesmaid, tells me with a kind look as she hands me a small bouquet of dark purple roses that she must have been holding onto for me. “Then Zahir and I go, and then Sylvie.”

  Mika’s technically Sylvie’s nanny, but I can tell she’s excited to be here for reasons that have nothing to do with overtime pay. And I see why Sylvie hand-picked the young woman to take over the position of her soon-to-be stepson’s nanny after she quit the job. Mika positively emanates compassion and affable kindness, like a walking good vibe—which puts her at the complete opposite end of the spectrum of the stone-faced sheikh she’ll be walking down the aisle with.

  “Okay, great,” I say, thankful for the excuse to turn my back on Zahir as I get into the first position beside Luca outside the double doors.

  But when I start to take Luca’s arm, he steps away with a chuckle and says, “Sorry, beautiful, no touching allowed since we’re not married.”

  “Oh…” I say, letting my arm fall awkwardly to my side.

  “You would have known this if you bothered to come to the rehearsal yesterday as everyone else did,” a dark voice comments behind me.