Stealing From The Sheikh - A Sheikh Romance Novel (Irresistible Sheikhs Book 3) (14 page)

My heart sank. “You have?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like to buy all of them, please. And I’ll pay double your asking price.” He slid his platinum card back across the counter toward me.

My jaw dropped. “What? You can’t be serious!”

“Why not? Are some of them already sold?” he asked with a frown.

“No, no, it’s not that…” I shook my head and closed my eyes for a second, my brain unable to comprehend what was happening. “Did you say you want all the paintings….all of them, and at double the price?”

“That’s correct,” he said. He pointed to the card again and smiled. “I will have to send a truck for them, unless that’s inconvenient.”

My mom hadn’t raised a fool, and it wasn’t like I’d just blown into the big city from Nowhereville, USA.

Picking up the platinum card, I said, “I would love nothing more than to see all these paintings in a good collection, but…I just don’t believe you would drop that kind of money without expecting something more than paintings in return. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that, Rafiq.”

A slow, lazy smile spread across Rafiq’s handsome face. “Beauty, talent, and a sharp mind.”

He sighed and, from his other inner jacket pocket, produced a mahogany-colored flask. He unscrewed the cap with harsh fingers and took a swig, apparently unconcerned by me seeing him do it.

“Miss Pryce…”

“You can call me Evangeline,” I said.

“Evangeline,” he said softly. “I think it’s about time I found myself a girlfriend.”

His words were an utter surprise, so much so that we both began to laugh in absurdity and discomfort.

“I’m sorry, did I miss a step here?” I asked. “Weren’t we just talking about you buying my inventory outright?”

“And what I would require in exchange for such a gift, yes. I’m sure that kind of money would not be unwanted in your life, would it?”

I paused, but that in itself was the answer. “No, it wouldn’t,” I said, eyes cast down.

Rafiq sighed again and took another drink. He looked around to make sure we were alone, that no one had sneaked in the gallery unnoticed.

“Do you know who I am?” It wasn’t a haughty threat, but a sincere question.

I shook my head honestly, staring into his big brown eyes.

“Rich. Powerful. But not as rich and powerful as my father,” he said. “And at present you could say he is somewhat…displeased with me.”

“Displeased?”

Rafiq stood up straight and shrugged. “It’s a bit of a long story. Suffice it to say, the lifestyle you witnessed last night is more or less a common one for me, and it’s generated some unfortunate damage to my family’s reputation.”

“Really? I can’t imagine,” I replied dryly, unable to help myself.

Rafiq narrowed his eyes at me, but it was playful. “Indeed. And my father is coming halfway around the world just to scold me for it.”

Nothing about his family experience was relatable to me—not the wealth, not the power, and certainly not trouble with my parents. Though they wanted to see me stable and safe, they never shamed me for my lifestyle choices. I couldn’t imagine being halfway around the world from them, and then dreading a visit.

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.

Rafiq rubbed his fingers against his full lips. “I would like for you to pretend to be my girlfriend while my father is in town; to make me look more respectable, more, what’s the word, traditional than I currently am. And, truly, there is no one my father will respect more than you, Evangeline. You are a perfect fit for the role.”

Heat flushed across my skin, and butterflies erupted in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my mouth from dropping open. Was he seriously offering to pay me to be with him?

“You are a gorgeous, successful American artist. Witty, strong and talented. I’ve no doubt he will see you as a perfect mate for his heir,” said Rafiq. He returned his flask to his jacket, and leaned his big hands on the counter, bending just slightly my direction. I could smell his musk, and his expensive cologne, mixed with the sharp scent of rum.

For a split second, his proposition had almost felt flattering. On the surface, Rafiq was everything a woman like me could hope for: charming, handsome, intelligent, and rich. He was clearly interested in the arts, even if he was just a casual collector. Being by his side, even temporarily, would probably end up being fancier and more exciting than any vacation I would ever be able to take. Rafiq lived the fantasy life an artist like me would never be able to touch.

But critical thinking forced its way back into my mind and suddenly everything about the situation felt uncomfortable and wrong. I felt dirty.

I shook my head and pushed his platinum card back across the counter. “Look, I… I appreciate that you enjoy my work, and thank you for taking
Oceanic
home. But art is the only thing for sale in this gallery, Rafiq—the artist certainly isn’t.”

Rafiq pursed his lips, but said nothing, and only nodded. He shoved one hand in the pocket of his slacks, and came out with a business card, which he tossed next to the platinum credit card that was still on the counter. “Think about it, Evangeline. I really do love your work, and I’d love to be able to bring all of it home with me.”

Before I could respond, he turned and left the gallery.

FOUR

“Life is very, very weird,” I said to Joel, carefully depositing two cups of tea on the table.

“
Ay
, I agree, but this is isn’t just weird. This is Hollywood weird,” laughed Joel. He was typing away on the laptop and I turned off the stove and cleaned up the counter before joining him at the small plain table in my studio kitchen. “But then, you’ve always been a magnet for weirdness.”

“I have not!” I said in mock offense.

“Have too!” said Joel, sticking his tongue out. “You always seem to find your way into the trickiest labyrinths…”

“Okay, guy, enough with the editorializing. What am I going to
do
about it?”

When Rafiq had gone, I had been left barely able to wrap my head around what he had proposed. My first instinct had been to call my mother back home, but I was terrified she would find the proposition so offensive that she would be upset I was even considering it. Joel was the only person I trusted enough to help me with a conundrum this complex, and he came over after work happily when I told him about what had happened.

“This is like
Pretty Woman
, but if she was a painter instead of a prostitute,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, gee, thanks!” I said, slapping his shoulder.

“Hey, that’s a compliment. She got her happy ending, didn’t she?”

“You know I love you, Joel, but this isn’t a movie. The kind of money he’s ready to spend… I have to take this seriously. That is basically a
year
of prepaid bills, plus I could go home and see my parents, upgrade a few things around here…”

“And take your handsome and very single friend Joel to somewhere warm and tropical, where he can sit on a beach drinking fruity things and watching the hot boys walk by?” Joel batted his eyelashes at me and we made kissy faces at each other.

“Exactly,” I laughed. “But none of that is going to happen if I say no.”

“So what’s the problem,
mami
? Say yes.”

“I just can’t shake the feeling that saying yes would actually turn me into a prostitute.”

Joel shook his head and momentarily turned back to the laptop. He was doing a search on Rafiq, so we could learn more about him and his reputation before I made any decisions.

“Did he say he expected you to sleep with him?”

“Well, no…”

“Then at the most, you are selling your time, which is actually your rarest asset. I say it’s about damn time someone paid to have you around. You’ve certainly given your precious self up to plenty of dirtbags for free in the past, haven’t you? Your idiot exes who kept you away from your art and got jealous of your success? You should have been charging them!”

I laughed. “Actually is it too late to do that? They would owe me some serious cash.”

“Let this new rich one pay for them,” said Joel. “He obviously wants to. Money is nothing to them,
mami
, they buy their way out of everything. You’re the solution to his problem, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

I sighed. “I’m still worried, though. In this small community of artists you don’t have to do much before you end up hopelessly chewed up by the rumor mill.”

“Well let’s see what we can find out about this handsome, drunk boy, and help you make your decision.”

Joel waved his hand twice until I scooted my dining chair to sit next to him, so we could both lean over the screen of the laptop as he scrolled through the images his internet search returned.

“Well, at least we know every inch of him is as hot as his face,
ay!
” said Joel, scrolling through page after page of paparazzi photos of Rafiq in exotic locations all over the world.

Photos of him in swim trunks, hanging out on sun-drenched beaches, surrounded by impossibly gorgeous women; photos of him with a crew of men as handsome and well-dressed as he was, crowding around poker tables in Monte Carlo and Vegas; photos of him in elegant tuxedos with goddesses on his arm, attending red carpet events in countries I knew nothing about.

“Geez,” I said. “He lives like he’s James Bond.”

“And dresses like it, too,” said Joel.

“How did he even find out about my art?” I said, shaking my head. “This guy is clearly rubbing elbows with people much more powerful and talented than I am. I can’t believe he made his way to my shop.”

“Duh,” said Joel. “I’ve told you forever, Evie, you’re special. Your work is special.”

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and squeezed him tight as he scrolled through the photos.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to an older man in a photo with Rafiq. They were standing in a mahogany-covered office, their expressions solemn—quite a tone change from all the photos of Rafiq’s decadent partying.

“Uhhh,” said Joel, searching for the caption. “
Sheikh Mehmet Al-Zayn, owner and CEO of Fatima Oil Consortium, and his son, Rafiq, inspect the company’s newest office complex in Dubai.”

My jaw dropped. “His father is an oil baron?”

“
Dios mío
, you’ve hit the jackpot,” said Joel without a hint of sarcasm. “There’s rich, and then there’s
rich
.”

“I don’t care about that,” I said.

“You should,” said Joel. “Oh, hey, look at this—
Spoiled Oil Heir Crashes Engagement Party with Club Full of Strippers.”

“What?!” I said, leaning over to read what Joel had found.

Joel laughed as he read the story. “Some society engagement party wouldn’t let him bring a plus-one, so he showed up with the entire staff of a strip club! I like his style, that’s so bitchy.”

“And childish,” I said with a wrinkled nose.

Page after page of tabloid hits came up—parties ruined, fights started, millions of dollars in damage to clubs, hotel rooms and private planes. Rafiq was with a new woman—or two—every week, and didn’t seem to care what foul names they called him in the tabloids after he kicked them to the curb. He never spoke to any of the reporters in the articles, not to clear his name or enhance his reputation. It was like he couldn’t care less what they said.

Rafiq was clearly a spoiled rich kid. “I bet he didn’t care about my art at all,” I said, shaking my head. “He doesn’t care about blowing money, he just used it to try and get me to save his ass from a reputation he clearly deserves. He probably doesn’t know a damn thing about art. I bet he saw my picture somewhere and decided I’d be an easy target.”

“Come now, that’s so dark and cynical,” said Joel. “I don’t know why, but he came to you for a reason. It sure doesn’t look like he has trouble finding women to spend time with him.”

“So why doesn’t he hire one of them to be his girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,
mami
. But he wants you. There must be something you have that they all don’t.”

I bit my lip, but didn’t reply.

“At least we know he’s being honest about how badly he’s damaged his family’s reputation,” said Joel with a scoff. “Not a single one of these stories is flattering, except where they mention his looks, of course.”

“He seems to be a real jackass,” I said, crossing my arms. “Just like he was the other night.”

“True,” said Joel. “But he
did
come back and apologize.”

“Only because he wanted something.”

“So?” said Joel. “He didn’t try and pretend it was something else, and he didn’t try and bully you into it. And he’s trying to make it worth your while. At the very least, I think you can trust him to be upfront with you about what he wants. That’s not a bad quality in a bad man. Hell, it’s rare.”

“I guess you would know.”

Joel gave me a playful look. “Better than you, Virgin Mary.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. The dig wasn’t literal, but Joel always did love teasing me about how much more time I spent with my art than trying to have a love life. One of those lives was fulfilling, and it certainly wasn’t my love life, nor had it been for a very long time.

Just as Joel was laughing at me, suddenly the apartment dropped into darkness, and we were left with nothing but the glowing screen of the laptop to light the place.

“Ugh, shit,” I said with a heavy, broken sigh. “The electricity bill—Rafiq’s payment for
Oceanic
won’t have reached my account yet.”

In the blue glow, Joel’s face fell. “Come stay with me tonight?”

I looked at him and could feel the unspoken words between us as we sat in the dark. Part of me felt like I was sitting in a pile of my own failure, staring at a ladder being offered, and refusing it out of pride. What was I thinking? I needed the money. I could still set the rules with Rafiq, since I was the one doing him the favor in the end. I didn’t have to do anything with him I didn’t want to. What was a couple weeks of playing pretend in exchange for financial security? Was that really so different from someone pretending they enjoyed sitting in a cubicle for forty hours a week?

“Alright,” I said, defeated. I held out my hand. “Hand me my phone, please.”

Joel dropped my smartphone in my limp hand. I had already saved Rafiq’s number in my phone, secretly terrified I would lose his business card and with it, my opportunity. Joel watched, biting his nails, as I scrolled through the contacts and called him.

The phone rang for long enough that I thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then, the sound of blaring house music and thumping bass erupted in my ear.

Rafiq’s deep voice came loud slurred. “Yes, what?” he said impatiently.

“Rafiq?” I said, unsure if it was actually him. “This is Evangeline, from the gallery.”

“Evangeline,” he said. “Hold on, one moment.” There was some muffled rustling, and when he returned, the music in the background was softer. “Apologies about that. What can I do for you?”

“I, uh….” My eyes met Joel’s, and he gave me a supportive smile. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided I’ll do it. I’ll accept your proposition.”

The other end fell silent. Had it not been for the far-away club music, I would have thought he had hung up on me.

Finally he said, “Excellent. I’m truly relieved to hear that. Ring up the paintings and charge them to the card I left with you. I’ll have a team drop by tomorrow to wrap and transport them. You can return my card to me in person.”

“Okay…” In the dark, I patted around on the table for paper and pen. “Where?”

“We’ll speak about that tomorrow. Until then, Evangeline.”