The Sheikh's Illicit Affair (4 page)

Megan’s cheeks grew warm. “Well, yes, and thank you, but this is much more than an excellent tip.”

“And you are much more than an excellent teacher,” Zaakir said, and the grin he gave her was startling in the way it made her stomach quiver. He put the money in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Please. Accept this as a symbol of my deepest gratitude.”

Megan blinked at him in shock, then went in a daze back to her office, placing the envelope and the new stack of cash—the same amount he’d given her the previous night—into the safe. She realized as she closed the safe that she certainly wouldn’t have to worry about covering her bills for a while—at the very least she could give him a longer lesson.

Back in the studio, Megan straightened her shoulders and addressed the Sheikh. “Are you ready to learn some serious tango?”

“Absolutely.”

They danced together for another half hour. Megan taught him some of the most advanced moves she knew, and all of them he picked up easily. In the entire evening, he made at most two missteps, both of which he quickly corrected. His skill was beyond impressive. They spun to a close as the final song ended, and she beamed at him.

“You are a fabulous student, Zaakir,” Megan said with a grin. Breathing heavily, she downed a cup of water and refilled it.

The Sheikh did the same, but he wore no smile.

As her heart rate began to settle, Megan noticed that her student seemed sad; his mouth drooped and he didn’t seem to want to look at her.

“Have I worn you out?” she chuckled.

“No.” He shook his head and downed another glass of water.

“Did you want to go over any of the moves one more time?”

He shook his head again.

“Well I think you’re more than ready for the big day. Your bride will be thoroughly impressed by your tango skills; I can guarantee that much.”

“Thank you.” He set down his empty cup and picked up his jacket.

“Is everything okay? Have I said something wrong?” She couldn’t place his sudden shift in mood. All evening, he’d been talkative and smiled easily, and right up to their last dance, he’d appeared alive and energetic. It was as if someone had flicked a switch.

“Megan.” He turned to her, staring deep into her eyes. “Will you join me for a drink?”

FOUR

Megan felt the shock of his question like a kick to the gut. She wanted more than anything to get to know him better and spend the rest of her evening gazing into the those alluring eyes. But he had a bride waiting for him. It would be highly inappropriate for her to go anywhere with him—it was maybe even inappropriate for them to be alone in her studio, dancing a dance meant for lovers, so late into the night.

“N-No,” she stuttered. “I can’t, it’s… It wouldn’t be right. You’re getting married. I’m sure your fiancée wouldn’t be happy about it.”

“Megan, you are the most wonderful dancer I’ve ever met. You move like water and music and when you teach, it’s like you’re telling my feet how to move and they obey. I have been the luckiest man to spend these nights with you, and in exchange I’ve kept you late, and you’ve missed dinner. Please, let me make up for being so inconsiderate. I assure you, we would be going just as friends.”

Megan considered this. Maybe if she saw Zaakir as just a friend, she would feel better about it. Nothing would happen between them—it couldn’t, what with his impending marriage. And since that was the case, then his intention now must be only honorable.

“As friends,” he said again. “I insist.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked down at her leotard, chiffon skirt, and tights. “I’ll just need to change first, and I’m afraid what I have with me to go home in isn’t exactly an outfit I’d wear to go out in.”

***

Megan went into the small bathroom and looked in the duffle bag in her closet. She’d come to the studio wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. There was no way could she go to a bar in that. There were a few costume pieces in the closet in the back of the studio, however. Maybe something in there would work.

She thought quickly, trying to recall what was there. None of the dresses would work; they were all made for dancing and included sheer skirts. The top of her leotard under her jeans would be slightly better than her T-shirt, but the shoes? She had an idea, and hurried back into the studio.

“Just a minute,” she said as she rushed past Zaakir and went to the closet in the waiting room. At the bottom she found what she was looking for: a pair of black jazz shoes. Those would be much better than sneakers. She dug through the hangers, seeing what else was there, and stumbled upon a red dress. This had been an outfit for a lyrical number, and the skirt was the same stretchy fabric as the bodice. She’d forgotten all about it. It had a low, asymmetrical cut that hung at her knees. The back was wide open and scooped low—too low—except that her black satin crop jacket from a hip hop number was there as well.

Megan took the items back to the bathroom and changed. It still wasn’t anything like the simple black dress hanging in her closet at home that she would have worn had she known she was going out, but it was better than jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt. She touched up her makeup using the compact from her purse and shook out her long, wavy hair, running her fingers through it to get out any tangles.

She walked down the hall to the waiting room. Zaakir stood as she approached, his eyes widening as he saw what she was wearing.

“This is what you travel to work in?” he asked, bemused.

“No. This is what I had in the costume closet.”

“You look fabulous.”

The heat in his gaze brought warmth to her cheeks and chest. She managed a “Thank you,” then walked through the door as he held it open for her.

The black car was there, waiting for them at the curb. Zaakir opened the door and waited as Megan locked up, then took her hand to help her in when she reached him.

They’d been traveling for a few minutes by the time Megan asked, “Where are we going?” A clear panel separated them from the driver, but she could see the streets and buildings flying by. They were still in Manhattan and there were plenty of upscale bars in the area, but they didn’t seem to be slowing down.

“Just a little place I like to take friends sometimes,” he said.

A few minutes later, the limo came to a stop in front of a building with no name over it. Zaakir opened the car door, took Megan’s hand again to help her out, and led to her a plain silver door. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have even noticed it, or known it was any sort of establishment. Zaakir held the door open for her and Megan walked into a small, unremarkable room where a portly, middle-aged man was standing in front of another door.

“Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini,” the man said, nodding his head slightly. He opened the second door and Zaakir motioned for Megan to walk through first.

The space Megan then found herself in was unlike any bar she had ever been in before. There was a long, lighted bar where an attractive blonde stood, mixing drinks, and immaculately-dressed waiters and waitresses were carrying plates of food out to the tables. The space glittered in silver, gold and white. It looked pristine, and prestigious—like it must be frequented only by the rich and famous, and those in the know. In that moment, Megan felt very, very glad she hadn’t just worn jeans and sneakers.

A woman with silvery blonde hair approached. “Good evening, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. Would you like your usual table?”

“Yes, please, if it’s available.”

Megan raised an eyebrow at him. The woman walked away before Megan could say anything and Zaakir held out his arm, indicating she should follow.

The hostess led them to a small table near the edge of the building. It sat under a glittering chandelier and at the center of the table was a thin vase that held a single rose.

Zaakir held out her chair and Megan slid into it. He took the seat across from her and leaned in. “So, how do you like it?”

“You must come here a lot,” she said. “They all know you.”

He shrugged. “The staff are paid to remember the names of those who spend the most money. Or who hold any sort of title they deem important.”

“And you’re both?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, it’s a very nice place. I’m glad I had something to wear besides sneakers and a T-shirt.”

“I would have never put you in a position to feel uncomfortable.”

Did that mean they would have gone somewhere else if she had no choice but to wear her street clothes?

Another woman came to the table, this one tall and pale, with dark hair that hung to her shoulders. “It’s good to see you again, Sheikh Al-Hosseini. What can I get for you tonight?”

Zaakir looked to Megan. “Order anything you’d like.”

“Oh, just a glass of wine. Red, please.”

“Bring us something from my private collection,” Zaakir said to the waitress. “We’ll take the bottle.”

The woman nodded and walked away.

“Your private collection?”

He shrugged again. “It sounds so much fancier than it really is. I have my own wines shipped in and they keep them in the cellar for me. It’s simpler that way; I don’t have to look at a wine list and wonder about authenticity, or if a certain vintage will work with the food. I have my personal collection available at a few places in the city. It just makes things easier.”

The waitress brought the bottle of wine and uncorked it at the table, then poured two glasses. Megan looked at the dark bottle. It wasn’t a label she recognized, but usually she drank bottom-shelf wine and didn’t give it much thought. She watched Zaakir swirl his wine in his glass and take a long sniff, then a small sip. He nodded at the waitress and she walked away.

Megan sniffed at her glass, but it just smelled like wine to her. She took a sip. It was good – really good - but it didn’t taste obviously expensive. Her mother surely would appreciate it, but Megan had never had much interest in attending the wine tastings her mother frequented. There was always another dance class to take.

“Do you like the wine?” the Sheikh asked.

“Sure. But I’m not much of a connoisseur. Just don’t tell my mother.”

“Never,” he said with a grin.

She looked around at the people seated at nearby tables, all expensively dressed in designer labels. “This seems like the type of place my parents would frequent if they lived in the city.”

“Oh yeah? Where do they live?”

“In New Hampshire. That’s where I grew up. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“Why is that?”

“Not enough going on, too much of the high-society life. My family is from old money, so it’s all dinner parties, and teas and luncheons; who is marrying who and who is going to what school. You can bet I’ve been the topic of much gossip over dinner, I’m sure.” She held up her hand and said in a mocking voice, “Oh, those poor Van Liedens, did you hear? Their daughter went to dance school. Can you believe it? And she’s moved to the city to open a dance studio, of all things. I give her a year, tops, before she comes crawling home, begging to be set up with one of the men her parents picked out for her.” Megan let her hand drop and rolled her eyes.

Zaakir chuckled. “An accurate impression, I’m sure. I’ve seen and heard much of the same. Though the arranged marriage part wasn’t something I escaped. And I did follow in my father’s footsteps. I’m sure for my parents’ friends it was all, ‘that Zaakir is really going to make something of himself. Marrying a fine young Al-Sharrabian woman and doing everything his parents ask.’” He sighed. “But alas, I’m not like you, Megan. Happy. Free. I should have done what you did. But I had no dreams of my own. My parents told me what to dream and I listened.”

Megan reached across the table and touched his hand, then pulled it back when she realized how intimate it felt. “But you have your family. You haven’t disgraced them! Look at how well you’re doing; you have a private wine collection all throughout the city! That’s not nothing.”

“But none of that is important. Money, titles—who cares? Maybe I’ve been in the States too long. My mother did warn me about American romanticism. I think I’ve fallen in love with the idea of love. I want more for my life than to just marry the woman they chose. I want to live for more than money.”

Megan traced her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “I know exactly how you feel. I gave up a life of money to do what I loved. In the end, I suppose it wouldn’t have mattered. My parents are nearly broke now, anyway, though you’d never know it. And just because your parents chose your bride doesn’t mean you won’t end up loving her.”

“These things rarely turn out so well.” He paused, and looked concerned for a moment. “What do you mean about your parents being broke?”

“They used to have money; they were both born with it. But they made some bad investments together, and lost almost everything. Now they’re living off their savings and the credit they can get based on their name, which they can do so long as everyone still thinks there’s plenty of money there. They keep borrowing more and losing it. And they run around spending it like they never lost a dime.”

Zaakir refilled their glasses. “Money is easy to lose, harder to respect. It’s nice to live a life of flashy cars and palaces, but what do you have left when it’s gone? Do your parents still have love, at least?”

Megan shrugged. “I guess so. It’s hard to tell.”

“My parents don’t.”

She met his eyes for a moment and saw that they were full of sadness.

“I am destined to be alone, like this rose. Even in marriage, if there is no love, I will always feel alone.” He touched the red petals lightly, letting his fingers move slowly down the thin silver vase.

“But look how beautiful it is.” Megan moved the rose to the center of the table, between them.

He stared at it for a long time. “You’re right. It is beautiful. It’s long and slender and full of vibrancy. Yet it stands on its own, tall and perfect. Now that I think of it, this rose is much more like you. You need no one. You have made it on your own.”

Megan let her eyes fall to the table and felt the warmth spread through her, trying to convince herself that it was mostly from the wine. He said the most incredible things. And now she was starting to understand why. He wasn’t marrying for love, and perhaps he had feelings for her as well—but he was still getting married and nothing was going to change that fact. Megan stood on her own, yes, but she wanted someone to stand with her. She didn’t want to be the single rose forever. She wanted a partner, and a family.

“Why do you say your parents don’t love each other?” she asked suddenly.

“They care only about money. I doubt they even loved me or my siblings.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Where I’m from, it’s not like how things are here. In Al-Sharrabi, children are created for a purpose and marriages are chosen for strategy. You find the person who will most benefit your family and you marry off your son or daughter, then they have children to become heirs. There are no great love stories. No joy of children and the pitter patter of little feet as you say here. The children are looked after by tutors and servants. As I said, we often didn’t even see each other, let alone our parents. We have nothing like American love.”

Megan chuckled. “What’s so great about the American version of love? It just leads to heartache and pain.”

“No. In America, you feel. Yes, pain is unavoidable, but that’s because you love so deeply. There is no pain in Al-Sharrabi, not like heartache, but it’s because there is no love. No passion. Our pain is in loneliness. In America, people die for love, they make sacrifices and do incredible things for the person they love. They hug their children and take them to dance classes. It’s all for love.”