Valentine Vegas Gigolo Sheikh (12 page)

Her face hardened, with her resolve. “I mean it. I won’t be a burden on you. I won’t be one of the people who always wants things from you, who expects you to do things for them.”

“I don’t believe I have received such an offer before,” he told her.

She had nothing but determination in her eyes. “Well, you should have. You deserve people who stand behind you and support you. Not just people who want you for what you can do for them.”

Her statement moved him more than he permitted to show. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I believe I will take you up on that offer.”

She swept the envelope from his desk. “And are you going to take me up on this?”

He whispered in her ear, dropping his voice and letting his lips graze her lobe. “What kind of an escort would I be if I refused?”

He was rewarded with Stacia’s full-body shiver.

“Now?” she asked, hope in her voice.

“Now,” he confirmed.

On the way out of his office, he informed his executive assistant to postpone the three o’clock staff meeting.

“If anyone asks,” she inquired, “where shall I say you are?”

He looked into Stacia’s eyes, which sparkled with love and mischief.

They both answered in unison. “Fishing.”

Epilogue

The bride’s hair was damp with rain as she walked down the aisle of the largest cathedral on Ittar, towards her royal groom.

The
qaws,
hot dry winds from Bahrain, had been extreme that summer, draining the life out of cool forests, making even the tallest date palm droop from heat. After a too long, too hot, and too dry season of
el
seyf
that had sent tourists, and their life-giving money, scuttling for the air-conditioned comfort of their hotels, and had endangered even the hearty orchids of Ittar, the people gave thanks for the storm.

Many had not accepted their prince’s foreign bride when she had been introduced. They had wished for a princess of their own kind, a woman like them. But they had watched as the American girl had struggled to learn their ways and their language, and they had seen her devotion to her beloved in her eyes, despite her foreign words. Their love for her had grown as they saw her overcome each obstacle with persistence and hard work.

Any remaining doubts were cast aside on the day of the wedding, as people filled the streets of the capitol to see the
zaffa
, the traditional procession of music and dancing that preceded the ceremony.
Baladi
dancers in floor-length dresses and male dancers with flaming swords had filled the streets.

When the bride stepped from her limo, the October rains had returned, showing heaven’s blessing on the union. The instant she set her foot on the ground, the clouds had broken open and delivered their store of rain to the thirsty earth. The shower was an omen that she brought happiness with her, along with the coming of the cooler wet winter months of
el sheta
. She had not begun life as one of them, but she had become Ittar’s princess by her choice and by her effort. The couple would no doubt produce many fine children.

The bride herself, on the other hand, was just trying not to screw up her vows.

I give you this ring as a symbol of my love. I give you this ring as a symbol of my love,
she repeated to herself in Ittari Arabic, with the proper verb tenses for a woman speaking to a man
. Why did the language have to be so complicated?
With different feminine and masculine verb endings, it sometimes felt like two different languages. Okay, they weren’t that different, but really, it made things much harder.

There were some people watching, her senses registered, as she held on to her bouquet for dear life. A lot of people, actually. The church was huge. Some women in matching dresses and some guys in expensive tuxes were in front of her. She just didn’t have headspace to take in any of that stuff while concentrating on not flubbing her vows.

If she got the words out, everything would be right again. Then she could deal with the rest of it, one thing at a time. She just needed to get this part over.

She stepped up to the altar, repeating the words in her head, a frozen smile on her lips. Behind her, someone dealt with the train of her dress. Zaqwan stood beside her, the priest in front.

This would be over soon.

The ceremony was in English, with her response in Arabic, so that she knew what she was agreeing to, and everyone else knew she was agreeing to it.

Focus. She had to ignore the music and the talking. Keep to the goal, she told herself. Get it done. This was no different than anything else she’d done in her life or her career.

Zaqwan reached for her hand and pressed something into it. A familiar shape, a light weight.

She didn’t have to look at it to picture every inch. She knew it by heart.

The envelope. Their envelope, now sealed, with five no-longer-crisp five hundred dollar bills inside that would never come out again. She quickly folded it around the stems of the bouquet of Ittari orchids she carried, hiding it from everyone but her and her fiancé.

In the last twenty months, the envelope had passed between them more times than she could count. That envelope had been the start of their relationship, and it had saved them both that day in New York, when it had made her realize how good they were together and how much she needed him. Since then, it had become their shared joke, their way to reconnect when distractions got in the way, and the symbol of everything they were together.

When she got too focused on marking things off her checklist or when her frustration built over a situation she couldn’t control—and there had been many of those since they’d realized they belonged together—he pulled out the envelope.

When he got too demanding, treated her like a problem to solve, or cut her off from helping him with his own problems, she brought out the envelope.

The corners were soft from wear now. Indigo ink from a leaky pen stained the top right corner in a blotch the shape of the island of Manhattan. Two faded beige circles marked where they’d set their coffee mugs on it that weekend in Bermuda. They’d planned on seeing the stalactites and rock formations of the Crystal Caves. Instead, they hadn’t left the hotel.

The envelope had changed her life once. It changed her perspective now.

This was her wedding day. It
was
different than everything else she’d done in her life and her career. She was marrying Zaq the escort and Zaqwan the prince. Her love. Her forever guy.

She took a breath and focused on the man who would be her husband in moments. In his Prada tuxedo, he was hotter than he’d ever been. Except maybe for that first night in Vegas, when he’d taken his shirt off. Or the second night in Vegas. Or last night when he’d been sleeping in her bed. Okay, maybe he was always this handsome to her.

The rest of the scene came into sharp view. The full orchestra with gleaming instruments ready to play out their recessional song. The five bridesmaids, including both Zaq’s half-sister and Prita, all holding massive bouquets of Ittar’s iconic sunset-colored orchids, which gave off a unique sugary floral perfume. An audience of diplomats, high society types, business associates, friends, and family. The rain on the magnificent gold-crusted vault above their heads sounded far away.

Content, she closed her eyes and listened to the priest. Instead of repeating the words she would soon say in her mind, rehearsing until she was flawless, she just breathed and savored the moment. Marrying her prince wasn’t a tick in her check box, and it wasn’t something to get over as fast as possible. This wasn’t a situation she could control. Just the opposite. When she said those words, she would be agreeing to spend the rest of her life in situations she had no control over.

But it also meant agreeing to spend her life with Zaqwan. And that made every comfort zone irrelevant. They were in this together.

Then she realized the room had gone silent. Her eyelids flipped open to find Zaqwan and the priest and even Prita looking at her. As if they were waiting for someone to say something.

Her, probably.

The priest held out a book to her. On it was a plain gold ring, sized to fit Zaqwan’s finger. She lifted her chin to show confidence she didn’t feel and took it.

Unfortunately, every word of Arabic had evaporated from her head.

Two years ago, before one special Valentine’s Day, she would have panicked inside and scrambled for some kind of control. Now, as she placed the ring on Zaqwan’s finger, she knew she didn’t have to.

She simply mouthed the hardest word in the English language so only Zaqwan could see. The word that meant that she couldn’t handle things on her own.

Help
.

He spoke in a low tone, so only she could hear. Without moving his lips, so no one else would ever know. “If you wish to be married to the man who loves you, say—“ And he repeated the words. He said the words in Arabic but in any language, they meant the same.
With this ring, I pledge my life to you.

She repeated, in the loud, clear voice she’d practiced, knowing she would never forget the phrase again. Then, spontaneously, she said, “I promise to always have your back.
Ana bahibbak
.”
I love you.

For an instant, his eyebrows contracted at the unexpected promise, showing her the quotation mark lines that revealed his confusion. His lip twitched in amusement. She’d promised him the one thing he most needed, most wanted, but never felt he had. Not only that, but she’d surprised him. The man who always knew what everyone else was going to do had been caught off guard again.

When his turn came, he placed a new gold band on her finger and repeated his own vows in Arabic. “
Ana bahibbik
,” he said. “And I promise to always be your equal.”

Her prince wasn’t a checkbox to tick off. He wasn’t someone who needed her to take care of him. He wasn’t dependent on her. He was difficult, irritating, and pushy. He made her heart pound and her body sing and made her think about growing old in busy contentment, surrounded by eight or twelve difficult, irritating, and pushy children.

And he was all hers.

Thank you for your purchase. I hope you enjoyed Zaqwan and Stacia's story.

Do you have a friend who would like getting Handcuffed To The Sheikh? At
www.teresamorganauthor.com
, you can send her a
free digital copy
, as well as find out more about Teresa Morgan's upcoming books.

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