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Smiling, Carly tugged down on the hem of her own fitted jacket and strode confidently toward the conference room. She’d show the sexy Middle Easterner a thing or two about second class citizens, she thought, if it was the last thing she did!
Two
Rahmad “Rahm” Farzik II sat in the back of the conference room, shoulders straight and spine stiff, just as his etiquette teacher had taught him in the sumptuous classroom of his father’s palace. The tiny peninsula of Hahmsuit, in the Persian Gulf, where his family had reigned for centuries, seemed far removed from this modern Miami conference room, despite the similar climates.
Rahm was destined to become Sheik Rahmad Farzik II upon his father’s death but, until then, had convinced his father that to diversify in western companies was the future as their diminishing oil reserves began to lose luster. Not that they’d lost any value, of course. The Farzik’s fortunes were nearly unsurpassed in the Ferzah region, where their oil reserves stretched for hundreds of miles in either direction and had made them billionaires many times over.
Still, one tired of riding in dusty Range Rovers week in and week out, staring at the same endless sea of Arabian desert year after year. Rahm craved change, adventure and, above all, the company of comely western women, shapely and curvy and eager to please a visiting dignitary, even if they didn’t know how to spell the word. College had been his ticket to the states, affording Rahm both the opportunity and proclivity for putting his family’s money – and his overactive libido – to good use.
After securing his MBA with honors from Cornell University, Rahm had begun investing his monthly stipend – which rivaled the coffers of most Fortune 500 companies to begin with – in small tech startups. To be honest, most were former classmates from his Cornell days, those who knew of his interest in modern technology and all things American and sought to impress him with their newfangled gadgets and digital prowess.
All the same, he’d managed to acquire a steady stream of small but potentially lucrative companies, one that more than tripled his investments in turn and made his father, the real sheikh, more than content to let Rahm live and work in the industrialized west – as long as his assets far outweighed his liabilities.
Along the way “Rahm” had adopted his western nickname, wore his traditional garb only in his weekly video conference calls back home, and made the most of his time in America. For a man like Rahm, whose business pursuits were not near as legendary as his romantic conquests, that meant finding, seducing and ultimately taming sexy, beautiful, independent and vulnerable western women like the one who’d just chatted him up in the break room before the morning’s presentations started.
He watched her take the floor now: long, lean, radiant and lustrous in a maroon jacket and matching pencil skirt that complimented her sleek grey blouse and coltish legs, to say nothing of her long red hair and shimmering green eyes.
Of all his conquests, in nearly all 50 American states, Rahm realized he’d never bedded a redhead before, something he decided he would do immediately upon securing the account for PrimeTime, the latest digital photo sharing company he was poised to acquire once the formalities of the other investors’ presentations were over.
“Good afternoon,” said the pale, luminous stranger with the long, endless legs and stiff, pert breasts. “My name is Carly Stanton and I represent Razor.” She paused, hands outstretched in an inviting, if practiced, manner. Making eye contact with each man in the room, save for Rahm, that is, young Ms. Stanton continued, “Why Razor? Because we are a company on the ‘cutting edge’ of modern technology designed specifically to meet the needs of today’s dynamic, sophisticated and reckless youth. We believe PrimeTime is the next SnapChat, and are excited to offer our significant growth and investment expertise to help achieve that loft goal in record time…”
Though he was intrigued by the soft, velvet tones of her voice, particularly the husky hue that made his loins quiver with desire and anticipation of their union to come, Rahm felt his mind drifting to her other various “assets” as Carly spoke.
Instead he admired her milky white skin, imagining what it might feel like beneath his own dusky fingers. How their bodies might look, intertwined on the soft, silken sheets of his rented penthouse at the southernmost tip of south Beach. How her liquor might taste, dancing along his tongue as he teased the wisps of her fine, ginger thatch with his eager lips. How her voice might grow even huskier as she called out his name, scratching his back with those long, maroon fingernails as he made her writhe and pulse beneath him—
“Rahm?”
He jerked back to consciousness, aware that the sexy redhead had returned to her seat at the front of the conference room and was now peering back at him. Was she already calling his name? he wondered, remaining stone faced as he realized they were all looking at him – everyone in the room. And no, it wasn’t Carly calling out his name, but Vernon Farkle, the nerdy inventor of PrimeTime, sitting behind his big clear desk to one side and peering at him curiously. “Rahm, would you… care to make your presentation now?”
Rahm nodded, standing abruptly and ignoring Carly’s curious, smiling green eyes to brush past her to the front of the room. Turning, he ignored the other investors and addressed the barely legal Vernon Farkle instead, ignoring his chubby cheeks and the spray of dirty blond stubble on his double chins to peer into his warm blue eyes.
“I don’t know what PrimeTime does,” he explained, eliciting murmurs and not a few gasps from those assembled as he continued, undaunted. “But I do know that you need money to do it. If you’re interested in getting 10% more funds than the highest bidder here promised you, then please see me after they’ve all left.”
He smiled, confidently, and began to take a step back toward his seat when Vernon said, “But… aren’t you interested in what you’re investing in?”
Rahm met the young tech CEO’s curious gaze with a steely one of his own. “Of course I am,” he said, smiling insincerely. “I am here today because your company piqued my interest. Otherwise, I’d be on my private jet flying to Silicon Valley to invest in your nearest competitor.”
There were grumbles among the other investors before a familiar voice said, “Uh, nice try Rahm, but SmileSize, their nearest competitor, is out of Seattle. Washington? You of all people should know that.”
He turned to Carly, admiring the flush in her cheeks and fire in her intense, emerald eyes. “And why is that?” he asked, supremely confident in the fact that she wouldn’t know the answer.
She clucked a tongue and peered back at him incredulously. But it was Vernon Farkle who answered. “Because, Mr. Farzik,” he said dismissively. “Your investment firm, Platinum Dunes, already owns them.”
Three
“Congratulations, Carly.”
The voice emerged from the darkness, surprising but not alarming her. She stood still all the same, peering as her eyes adjusted to the cavernous parking garage’s dim lighting and seeing a striking figure inch from the shadows with a predator’s grace.
Rahm.
He looked even more magnificent in the dramatic lighting, the weakly glowing bulb above his head casting his lean, chiseled features in sexy shadows that made her swoon even as she stood, rigidly, keys to her Lexus sedan clutched tightly in her grip.
“For what?” she asked, inching closer to show she wasn’t afraid.
The visitor’s level of the PrimeTime parking garage was empty by now, the other investors having left long ago. She’d assumed, after his dismal performance back in the boardroom, Rahm would have beaten them all to a hasty retreat. And yet here he was, long and lean and lurking in the shadows.
Still waiting, she realized, but… for what?
