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o your own country, where the price is fixed and that is that. But so much of the world runs on well-greased palms.”
“It’s not about approval, it’s—”
The doors were flung open. Michelle broke off her words, and Adilan glanced over, frowning when he saw his father in the doorway.
“It seems you forget to announce we had company.” Nimr Adjalane came into the center of the room. He was still in a suit, meaning he must have come from the office. Adilan wondered who had called him to inform him of a visitor—Hassan perhaps?
Adilan put down his tea, stood, gave a small shrug of apology to Michelle Reynolds, and made the introductions. Then he braced himself for one of his father’s moods.
Chapter 5
Chin lifted, Michelle gave back Sheikh Nimr Adjalane’s assessing stare. Nimr shared his son’s perfect features, although age had roughed Nimr’s features slightly. His jaw line was not as sharp, his nose seemed even stronger on his face. He also shared his son’s dark hair and olive skin, but unlike Adilan, Nimr’s eyes were a deep, dark brown that almost seemed black.
He wore Armani as if he’d been born in a suit—a dark, charcoal gray with a pale pink shirt. The shirt was open at the neck and a pink handkerchief peaked from his left breast pocket. She had to give it to him—not many men could or would wear pink and pull off the look.
Standing, she held out her hand to shake his. “Sir.”
His mouth curved in a smile and Michelle could see where Adilan got his charm—that smile was lethal. She remembered her mother’s warnings about Nimr.
‘He’s a smooth talker and an even smoother operator.’
Instead of shaking her hand, Nimr bowed over it, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand, then held her hand between both of his. “You look like your mother.”
Michelle blinked. No one had ever said that before. Deborah Reynolds was a stunning beauty—even after the crash that had left her in a wheelchair, she had the cheekbones and skin of a woman half her age, and worked hard to keep her figure trim. She also had a sensual grace Michelle had never been able to copy.
She managed to slip her hand from Sheikh Nimr’s grip and offered up a smile. She also intended to make clear just what she was doing here. “This is a charming house you have. I’ve been thinking a courtyard and fountains are just what I need in the spot I’m developing not far from the city.”
Nimr’s mouth twitched down. His eyes darkened even more and he shot a hard look at Adilan, who returned it with an insolent one. Ah, so not all was well within the family, Michelle thought.
Heading to the tea service, Nimr poured himself a cup. He took it black and turned to Michelle. “My other son, Malid, tells me you have made such a long trip for nothing. Adilan have you been remiss with the news?”
Adilan stiffened. Michelle glanced from father to son—the tension in the room thickened like the air before a storm. Adilan lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Malid doesn’t like to keep me informed of any of his plans.”
Sheikh Nimr’s mouth tightened. However, he relaxed into a smile again and turned back to Michelle Reynolds. “According to Malid, the property taxes have not been paid for the past twenty years. By the first of next month, according to our laws, the property will revert back to the original owner.” He sipped his tea. “That is to our family. Or, rather, to Malid specifically, since I understand he plans to pay the back taxes due.”
Knees weak, Michelle sat down again. “That’s impossible. The taxes have been paid.”
“Oh, you know this?” Walking over to the French doors, Nimr glanced out. He had the same height as his son—an intimidating one—the same muscular build, although age had softened not just Nimr’s features but his mass as well. In the harsh light of the sun, Michelle could see the fine lines around his eyes, and a touch of silver just starting to streak his hair.
Shifting on her chair, Michelle wondered if he could be right—but Mother had assured her everything was in order.
Nimr turned back to her and asked, his voice kind and regretful, “You have receipts of taxes paid?”
Michelle bit down on any kind of answer. How would Mother react to this? But she knew. Mother wouldn’t need to react—she’d be in utter control of every emotion and the entire situation. Too bad I’m not her.
She forced a smile. “Just how much back taxes are believed to be owed?”
Waving a hand, Nimr said, “Eighty thousand dollars. That is in U.S. currency.”
A hard lump formed in Michelle stomach. She could raise the money, but it would take a serious chunk out of her budget. And getting that much money transferred would take a few days. “But it’s such a small piece of property. Not even five acres.”
She glanced from Nimr to Adilan, who sat sipping his tea, his eyes narrowed. He suddenly wasn’t saying very much. Was he in on this with his father? But she could swear the two were not exactly on good terms—as soon as Nimr had walked in, Adilan went from relaxed to stiff and edgy. Why was he just sitting there, watching and waiting?
Sheikh Nimr was saying something about property values and water. “…a precious commodity. Especially fresh water such as bubbles up from the spring that feeds the oasis. Of course, that includes upkeep fees as well.”
She stood, smoothed the front of her suit and faced him. “What upkeep? The place is an untouched spot.”
Coming back into the room, Nimr put down his cup and saucer on the tea service. “By what Malid tells me, without an owner present, the government was forced to make annual inspections, to oversee all environmental problems. That is what happens when owners live outside our country.”
