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Fumbling with gloves and water, Adilan swung out of the ring. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm and eyed his brother. “You know that Malid and I are both trying to get Al-Hilah back.”
Nassir pulled a face. Like his brothers, he had dark hair and olive skin, a strong nose and lean features. But his eyes were a tawny brown, and the lines around his mouth came from an easy smile. He gave that smile to Adilan now. “Yes, yes—the competition. Why do you pay Father’s games? You could have stayed out of this.”
“And let Malid destroy it with his fancy luxury resort for the rich? He doesn’t care about anything but how much profit he can make.”
Nassir slipped out of the ring. “And you do not want to let him win.” He shook his head. “No wonder Malid has been in foul mood today—and no wonder you are thinking of other things.”
Adilan smiled. “In truth, what I’ve been thinking of is Michelle Reynolds.”
Nassir groaned and slapped Adilan’s shoulder. “Do not let Father hear you say such a thing, or you will have more problems than this silly contest over the land. Now, for once, take my advice—go home, forget Malid, forget this land, and forget this woman.”
“And if I cannot—or do not want to.”
Nassir shook his head. “Then, brother, be very certain that if you take on a fight, you are willing to do anything you must to win it.”
***
The next morning, Adilan was running late, something he hated. He’d been dreaming about Michelle and had not wanted the dreams to end. He rose and showered quickly, wishing it was Michelle rubbing her hands over his body.
Dressing quickly in linen trousers and a tan shirt, he headed down the wide staircase, grimacing. He stopped off at his office in the palace to gather the papers he might need if Michelle agreed to the exchange of land.
Grabbing his cell phone, he called Michelle’s hotel and was connected to her room. “Sabah el kheer! Good morning, Michelle. How was your night—and have you made a decision about the land?”
“Fine—and no. But I am glad you called. There are some details I want to work out with you—if I go for either the buyout or the land swap. And there’s a problem you might be able to help me with,” she told him.
Adilan smiled. “What if we have lunch today? I will send a car to bring you to the palace—and I promise you a full tour. And perhaps we can visit the Zia oasis again this afternoon?”
He heard her hesitate, and wondered why she was doing so. Did she not want to be in his arms again? His pulse quickened and his stomach tightened. But then her voice came over the line, soft and sounding happy. “That sounds lovely.”
He made arrangements for her to be ready by noon, then hung up and called down to the garage to ensure all would be ready for her. He turned to leave his office and saw Malid in the doorway.
Malid looked too like their father, Adilan had always thought. Always so serious, his eye so dark as to be black, his black hair slicked back. He kept his face clean shaven, but he always looked as if his beard was about to grow back—it shadowed his jaw and cheeks. He wore a suit and tie—Armani and silk. Adilan looked him over. His perfect older brother—always so stiff in his Italian loafers, always so proper and always caring only for money. He had nothing of their mother’s laughter—she had brought joy to the house when she’d been alive. But Malid was like their father—stern and not at all fun.
Eying his brother, Adilan asked, “What brings you here so early? And to my small corner of the palace?” He spread his arms wide.
&
nbsp; Malid walked into the room and threw a stack of photographs on Adilan’s desk. The images showed Michelle at the Zia oasis yesterday, stripping down and slipping into the water.
Fists clenched, Adilan stared at Malid. “I will not ask where you got these. You had someone spying on Michelle—and it was not Jenkins.”
Malid smiled. “No. I thought you might have Jenkins doing other tasks for you. But the question you should ask is what will happen to Michelle Reynolds if these photos are sent to the authorities? Twenty years ago, a woman could have been stoned to death for baring herself in public such as this—even a foreign woman. The law is still harsh. Should these reach the right hands, this woman will never be allowed to build so much as a bird house in Al-Sarid. She will most likely be imprisoned and deported for lacking…I think the term is moral fiber?”
Adilan stared at the photos. Even under these circumstances, Michelle looked beautiful—her body all soft curves, the sunlight gleaming from her pale skin and her lovely long legs. He swallowed and stared hard at his brother. “You’ve gone too far, Malid. I challenge you.”
“What? To a fight? You’ve never come close to beating me.”
“If I win, you will hand over all of the photos, including the digital files.”
Malid’s smile faded. “And when I win, will you help me get her deported?”
Adilan swallowed hard. If he helped Malid, Michelle would never forgive him. But he could not allow these images to go public—he would not see her shamed. And he would not lose. He nodded.
Malid gave a nod back. “After this, I hope you will learn to curb your angry responses. You’re thirty and need to acknowledge you have limitations.”
“And you need to learn to know the boundaries, too. I will see you at the gym.”
On the drive there, Adilan gripped the steering wheel with one hand and called Nassir to let him know what was going on. Malid was being so arrogant that Adilan had no trouble with wanting to punch his face. Nassir would be the sane one there.
