LUCA_Her Ruthless Don Read online

  The twins told me earlier that they’d been instructed to tell all the couples and family members to join Holt and Sylvie on the floor at the end of this song, and then they would transition into a set of way more upbeat tunes.

  Kasha had been adorably annoyed for me because, “There are so many single hotties here, but you’re not allowed to dance with any of them. How messed up is that?”

  But I smiled at the intel, seeing it as an opportunity to approach Zahir while the man he’d been talking to for nearly twenty minutes was otherwise engaged.

  So I wait, pretending to watch Holt and Sylvie from the sidelines, while really, I’m preparing to pounce…

  “What’s what, Jersey?”

  Luca, the only other person from New Jersey who’s not me or the twins appears in front of me, blocking my view of Zahir. The young don’s got two glasses of champagne in his hands and offers me one.

  I take it, grateful for the Dutch courage, but… “I thought this was supposed to be a dry wedding. Where did you get champagne?”

  “Helps when your best bro runs the whole kingdom. He made sure my room was fully stocked upon arrival. The hook up’s too generous, really. I could never finish it all by myself. Wanna come back to my room and help me out?”

  Oh, I realize belatedly, he’s hitting on me. Again.

  “No, thanks,” I answer, just like I did when he invited me back to his hotel room at Holt and Sylvie’s engagement party—the one Zahir hadn’t attended because he’d still been in the mourning period after his father’s death. Then I down the champagne in one gulp, just in case Luca decides to use my latest rejection as an excuse to take it back.

  “You look like you could use something to take the edge off…” he says, raising two perfect dark brows over his mesmerizing light-colored eyes. “You sure you don’t want to reconsider my offer?”

  “You sure you’re not just offering because I’m Amber’s former assistant?”

  His answer is classic bad boy, neither a confirmation or a denial. “I’m sure we could have a lot of fun together… plus free booze.”

  Yeah, I’m sure we could, too. It’s been a while, and one area of my body feels like it has way too much in common with the desert outside the palace walls. But tonight, I’m on a mission way more important that ending my overlong sex drought.

  And besides… “Dude, sleeping with me won’t make Amber jealous. I mean, I didn’t even know she was your ex-wife until she decided to represent Sylvie in her custody dispute with Holt. I suggest you go find some other girl to have fun with, because she’s not even trying to pay you any attention.”

  Classic read, and I can tell I hit a target. A cloud falls over Luca’s flirtatious smile. So dark, I have to wonder what the hell went down between my blind legal eagle former boss and the head of one of Jersey’s most dangerous mafia families. Or how they even got together in the first place.

  But instead of cussing me out like a lot of guys from Jersey would, Luca says, “So, you seen her lately?”

  I crook my head, surprised by the question. “Who? Amber?”

  “Yeah.”

  In fact, we had lunch a couple weeks ago, but I don’t say anything…unsure how to process this question from her ex-husband.

  “I just wanna hear she’s alright. That she’s doing okay,” he says quietly. Then he shifts from foot to foot, looking as close to uncomfortable as a totally made guy from Jersey could.

  What’s crazy is I’m tempted to tell him Amber’s fine. Better than fine—thriving even, after Sylvie’s case brought in so much new business.

  But then the moment’s broken when Sasha calls out, “Okay, everyone, if you’re part of a married couple or have a friend or child to dance with, get out on the dance floor!”

  That’s my cue. Shoving my empty glass back into Luca’s hand, I push past him, too intent on my target to say goodbye.

  Just as I suspected, the bored trophy wife is pulling her husband onto the dance floor, which leaves Zahir alone at the table. I make a beeline for him, determined to have a private conversation.

  But halfway there, a little hand grabs mine and says, “Wait, Princess, wait! Dance with me!”

  I look down to find a little girl with raven hair down to her waist. She’s shockingly cute with delicate features that hint at a future great beauty. But I’ve never met her in my life. “Hey,” I say, reflexively squeezing her hand. “Do I know you?”

  “No,” she answers with a shrug, like that’s neither here nor there. “I loved your show though. My old English nanny, Roslyn, used to let me watch it with her sometimes when my amo Asir was on it, but when Mama found out, she made Roslyn leave.”

  I chuckle at the unexpected story. “Yeah, His Majesty was definitely a show for grown-ups,” I tell her. “But you know Princess is my full name, right? I’m not a real princess.”

  “Oh, I know. My mommy is a real princess, but I like your voice. You sound like Clawdeen from Monster High.”

  I rankle, not because of the fake princess comment, but because… “Clawdeen has a Bronx accent. I’m from New Jersey.”

  “Is there a difference?” she asks, blinking innocently.

  I suck my teeth, prepared to give her a big Jersey answer to that awful, awful question. But then I spot Zahir rising from the table.

  “Alright, nice meeting ya, kid, but I’ve got to go,” I say, trying to move past her.

  “No, no, not yet!” she cries out, grabbing my arm again. Then she hits me with the puppy dog eyes and says, “Dance with me, please! You’re my favorite from that show.”

  “Maybe later,” I say, eyes still on Zahir.

  “Later when?” she demands, grabbing onto my wrist, like the fate of the world depends on my answer to her question.

  “Aisha, what are you doing?” a new voice demands before I can answer her question.

  A woman, wearing a hijab and a formal sari appears behind the girl. Her mother. I can tell, even though the woman is much paler, while her daughter is on the browner side of olive-toned, like Zahir. They have the same regal beauty and wide eyes.

  The girl called Aisha lets go of my arm as the woman scolds her in rapid Arabic. Then she turns to me with a dutiful, “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “You weren’t any bother at all,” I tell her truthfully. “Thanks for the laugh.”

  Aisha’s mother just gives me a polite smile and nod before pulling her daughter away. But Aisha waves at me over her shoulder, an impish smile on her face as her mother hauls her off.

  I watch them go with a bemused smile, and for a moment I wonder what that would be like. To be a mother of a child from the start, not the guardian of two heartbroken sisters whose mother died along with my father in a private plane crash.

  The thought of babies makes me glance toward the dance floor again. Looking for Sylvie and Holt who’ve only told a few select people that they’re expecting and will be welcoming a baby girl in six months. A new beginning for a new beginning, Sylvie told me when she called with the news.

  But then I stop cold, because instead of finding Sylvie and Holt on the dance floor, I see Sylvie with her prodigy son, Ender on one side and her blond stepson, Wes on the other. Kasha and Sasha have switched to a Jamaican song I don’t even remotely recognize, and the trio are leading the rest of the wedding guests in a line dance.

  But Holt is nowhere to be seen…and neither is Zahir.

  I drop all my f-bombs because I obviously spent too much time talking with the little Arabian princess and now I’ve missed my chance—

  But no, hold up…I spot Holt and Zahir on the other side of the ballroom, exiting through the now open set of double doors. They’re walking in a heads-down manner I recognize as executive mode after two months of working in a law firm that specializes in big business court cases.

  Awesome, I think as I cut across the ballroom and follow them out. Maybe they’re going to Zahir’s office. In which case, I can wait ou
tside and then slip in for a private conversation when Holt leaves.

  But I stop short in the hallway, heels skidding, before I reach the end of the corridor. I can hear them talking, not in Zahir’s office, but right around the corner.

  “I gave him my best pitch, but he is refusing to even consider this deal. He would not even do me the courtesy of agreeing to meet with me when I’m in the states.”

  “I’m sorry the introduction didn’t work out, man. But you know, steel is an old tycoon business, and a lot of the execs in charge have more in common with my father than me.”

  “You are saying he will not discuss this matter with me any further because I am an Arab? Even though my family has gone out of its way to turn Jahwar into a modern hub of technology and business? Even though I know he’s worked with quite a few hotels and other projects in Dubai? Why not here?”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, man. If I had a steel company, I’d jump into this project, no questions asked, based on your business reputation. But your father, as advanced as he was, wasn’t the Sheikh of Dubai. He built a business empire but didn’t do much to make connections outside the region. You can make those connections now, and that’s what will make you a great king.”

  “Yes, I plan to be a better king than my father, but that’s a difficult role to fulfill with this ongoing disaster of a mall project and no one I can trust to rebuild our aging oil pipeline—”

  “Princess! Princess! What are you doing here?”

  I cringe at the sound of the voice behind me, followed by a tug on the long skirt of my bridesmaid’s gown. It’s Aisha. But before I can put a finger to my mouth to shush her, she says, “My mother’s in the toilet. Can we dance now?”

  She leans on the word “now” like she’s been waiting hours not minutes for this opportunity.

  She reminds me of Kasha, and I’d almost find this situation amusing… if I couldn’t hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming to a stop behind me.

  I turn around, hoping maybe, just maybe Zahir didn’t hear a thing.

  But no dice. He and Holt are standing there with two black suited guards on either side. And I can tell from the thunderous look on Zahir’s face and the quizzical one on Holt’s that they heard every word Aisha said.

  Chapter 27

  “Amo Zahir! Amo Zahir!” Aisha yells, throwing her arms around Zahir’s waist.

  “Were you talking about something interesting? I was looking for Princess and I found her out here spying on you!”

  Wow, I think, blinking at the little girl. This kid really does not subscribe to the “snitches get stitches” school of thought.

  Zahir’s eyes narrow on me as he returns Aisha’s hug. Like a hawk. Then he bends all the way down to talk to her in soft Arabic.

  Up to now, Aisha hasn’t seemed like one who follows orders easily, but Zahir must have said something convincing in all that pretty Arabic because suddenly she’s like, “Bye, Princess,” and cuts out back in the direction of the ballroom.

  “Most people just call me Prin!” I call after her. “In fact, I like Prin a whole lot better!”

  But the little girl is deserting me so fast, I can’t be sure if she’s even heard me. She’s gone in seconds, leaving me alone with Zahir and Holt, and two guards I’m pretty sure are packing heat under those well-cut black suit jackets.

  “This is a big misunderstanding,” I say, turning to face Zahir before carefully lowering my eyes and head. “I was hoping to catch you in your office for a private conversation, so I followed you when I saw you leave with Holt. But you were out here, and I wasn’t sure what to do, so I…”

  “…decided to eavesdrop?” Holt supplies, super unhelpfully.

  “… hung back,” I edit, shooting my best friend’s husband a quick annoyed look before returning my eyes to Zahir’s wing-tip shoes. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, I swear,” I tell him. “I was just…waiting because I really need to talk to you.”

  “You need to talk to me,” he repeats, his tone flat with disbelief.

  “Yes, I need to talk to you,” I answer, keeping my eyes lowered no matter how tempted I am to look up.

  “About what?”

  “About a private matter,” I repeat.

  “Why am I just now hearing about this private matter?” I hear Holt ask beside Zahir.

  “Because it’s private, Holt,” I answer between clenched teeth, remembering again why I didn’t like him at first. Has this guy ever met a conversation he didn’t feel entitled to take over?

  “You want to talk to me in private?” Zahir asks again, his tone unreadable. “That is what you want?”

  I swallow, suddenly nervous for reasons that have nothing to do with the twins’ future. But I answer with a firm, “Yes, that’s what I want.”

  Seconds that feel more like years tick by before he finally says, “I will grant this request, but not here.”

  “Not here” turns out to be the huge balcony right off the ballroom floor.

  Not exactly private, I think, looking around. Not only can everybody at the reception look at us through the row of arched glass doors separating the balcony from the luxurious ballroom, this balcony is on the city-facing side of the palace. I can see people milling about below on what looks like a closed off market street just beyond the palace walls, and there are even a few tourists out and about on their hotel room balconies, taking pictures of Zahir’s over-the-top abode with their camera phones.

  Dude, we’re so out in the open, the guards immediately go to the rail, scanning the distance like human radars because they’re probably afraid someone will decide to take a shot at their new king.

  What the hell??? That’s what I want to say. But twin goals…I catch myself again and force myself to keep my head and eyes lowered as I ask in what I hope sounds like a super deferential tone, “Are you sure your office wouldn’t be more comfortable? I don’t mind walking if it’s on another floor.”

  I don’t see, but clearly feel, the up and down look he gives me in response to that question. And it makes me feel exposed and naked, even though the bridesmaid’s gown covers nearly all of me from my neck down, even my wrists.

  “It wouldn’t do for me to be seen holding a private meeting with an unmarried woman in my office,” he answers.

  “Oh,” I say, realizing despite its reputation as the most progressive and forward thinking of the UAK kingdoms, Jahwar still has some antiquated social mores.

  And I have to ask, “But what do you do when you need to meet with business women? Do you just say no or make them bring along a male escort?”

  “Talk or leave, Prin Jones,” he answers with an annoyed grate in his voice.

  Okay, well, I guess it’s not for me to judge this dude’s business practices, though updating them might get him more traction when he’s trying to do business in the U.S. But whatever, I’m here for the twins, so I say, “As you undoubtedly know, your family now holds the majority stake in my dad’s old record label, which means you pretty much own it. Apparently, Asir borrowed the money from your father to buy my dad’s shares and then when your dad died, those shares passed down to you.”

  I wait for a response, but he merely stands there like a statue in a tux, giving me nothing.

  I reach into my purse and pull out a CD, a USB power stick, and a cassette tape. “I was hoping you could listen to this demo my sisters put together. They’re talented. Like, exceptionally so, especially for their age. But the thing is, my father signed them to a 12-album contract right before he died and it’s beyond horrible. It says they can only record with Majesty Records until they deliver those albums, which is something they’ve been more than willing to do for years now. But three years later, with the girls about to graduate from high school this spring, Majesty’s A&R department has yet to return any of my calls or emails about recording their first album.”

  I allow myself a moment of irritation before saying, “It’s obvious they
don’t want to work with the girls, but the way the contract’s written, Majesty Records would either have to cancel their contract, or we’d have to make the albums on our own, which we don’t have the funds to do. And even if we did, I wouldn’t want the twins to put that kind of effort into twelve albums—especially since their contracted royalty rate is so low that the record company would reap the majority of the profits on whatever they make. Since Majesty Records is refusing to play ball, I’m asking you to let the twins out of their egregious contract, so they can sign with another label or go indie if they prefer.”

  I hold the three versions of the demo out to him, careful to keep both my eyes and head lowered as I do so. “And if you listen to this demo of covers they put together, you’ll see what a crime it is to let a contract they never should have been allowed to sign at the age of 15 silence their voices.”

  I expel a breath. It feels like I’ve been talking forever. And when I risk a small glance up, I see that Zahir’s expression still hasn’t changed which leaves me to wonder if he’s even been listening while I explained the truly horrible position my father put my sisters in before up and dying. But then Zahir gestures to one of the guards and points to me.

  Apparently, this translates to, “Take the CD, USB stick, and old-school cassette from her,” because that’s what the guard steps forward to do.

  However, before I can thank him for agreeing to give the twins’ demo a listen, he asks, “Why do you think Majesty Records isn’t returning your calls?”

  I still, because I don’t “think” the reason. I know the reason.

  And so does Zahir, apparently. “I believe it is because your father embezzled so much money from his own company, the label would have gone under after his death if not for my brother’s ill-considered buy out of his shares.”

  Funny, I remember every word of our previous conversation in Holt’s penthouse eleven years ago, but I’d forgotten how precise his English is. Like direct hits wrapped in a posh accent and disguised as conversation.

  I falter under his hard assessment, but eventually I come back with, “Yes, my father embezzled money from Majesty Records. Not the twins. They’re victims of his crime same as all the other artists he hurt, and they shouldn’t be punished for what my father did.”