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“Yeah,” Avery said, falling for it hook, line and sinker. “I mean, the sexiest guy in the club walked you home, lingered at your gate, went home with the bluest of balls and… now what?” When Carly looked back at her, still unable to answer, Avery pursued the line of questioning with new vigor. “I mean, did you exchange digits? Cell phone numbers? Please tell me you at least got his business card.”
Carly shook her head, realizing she might have been a little too hasty in her negotiating tactics the night before. Avery was right: she’d screwed it up, all of it, every last inch of it. She’d played it so cool, there was nowhere left for Rahm to go but, well… away.
If he did call now, it would be a miracle and, what’s worse – for him, anyway – a losing battle. If Carly had neglected to get Rahm’s “digits,” as her young personal assistant had so hiply put it, then so had he. If she was in the dark about how to get in touch with him, than Rahm was as well, and to do so now would be to reveal that he had put some extra effort into making the first move.
Now all Carly had to do was sit and wonder if she was worth it…
Eight
Rahm sat in his office, three computer monitors flickering incessantly as his fingers flew across an equal number of keyboards. The first monitor was a streaming ticker of stock prices for the last two dozen tech companies Carly had acquired. The second pulled random profiles from each of those twenty-four companies and ran them through a filter of various keywords designed to elicit some kind of profile of which companies piqued Carly’s interest and why, all so Rahm could begin to predict which company might be in her line of fire next – and how he might get there and acquire said company first. The third was more personal, revealing Carly’s website and, after some snooping around, her work cell phone number.
His own smart phone sat on the desk between the second and third keyboards, the number already punched in and a profile pre-monitored, all so he could text her at a moment’s notice.
So why hadn’t he? Rahm wondered, grabbing a can of iced coffee from the office dorm fridge and standing as he opened it, the faint whiff of espresso and cream filling his nostrils with a savory scent indeed.
He took a long, eager sip before stretching and realizing how dark it had gotten in his lonely, isolated office. Located in the west wing and furthermost corner of the rented penthouse suite, it provided him with both privacy and isolation, both great for business but frustrating when it came to pleasure.
He felt restless, cooped up and pushed through the French door windows, late evening sprinkled with neon and salt spray from 24-stories below. His feet were bare, having long since kicked off his Italian loafers hours earlier. Padding silently onto the wraparound balcony, he smelled the faint scent of smoke and turned, just in time to find Ahmed, his head bodyguard, tamping out a clandestine cigarette on the bottom of his thick soled boot.
“Ahmed!” Rahm scolded playfully, accent thicker and more native around those from his homeland. “What have I told you about smoking on the job?”
Ahmed smirked, smile lighting up his granite hard face to match his chiseled and toned body. Trained in a dozen lethal fighting techniques and mercilessly loyal to the sheikh and his family, Ahmed’s soft, bashful smile belied the brutal force that lay beneath his fitted suit. “Always save one out for you,” Ahmed chuckled, accent almost as thick as Rahm’s father’s.
“That’s right,” Rahm said, reaching out for the pack of cheap cigarettes Ahmed offered. He grabbed one, slid it to his lips and waited for Ahmed to light it before inhaling the crisp, acrid smoke into his lungs. Tobacco was forbidden in the palace back home, but a rare and appreciated indulgence whenever abroad.
Like Rahm himself, Ahmed and the other dozen bodyguards assigned to him had assimilated quickly – and nearly totally – into western life, drinking, smoking and carousing nearly as much as their boss whenever time permitted.
They were no less effective in keeping him safe – not that he was in any danger to begin with – but Rahm feared for the day when they returned to the sheltered homeland and were forced to contend with his father’s strict and unyielding ways. He was no less afraid for himself, but at least Rahm could control their return date by continuing to be successful in his business. His poor bodyguards were ever at the sheikh’s mercy, and never more than a phone call from being whisked back home.
Rahm sucked on the borrowed cigarette, watching Ahmed do the same as they shared a rare and brief private moment overlooking the glittering jewel of South Beach down below.
“Burning the midnight oil, boss?” Ahmed asked with a knowing tone. Rahm realized that, more than perhaps anyone else, Ahmed knew his comings and goings. It was part of his job, of course, but it was more than that, Rahm realized now, the two men peering down at the city streets below.
“Always, Ahmed,” Rahm said by rote.
“Not ‘always,’ eh boss?” Ahmed teased back, nudging his boss’ shoulder and making Rahm smile sheepishly. “Many a night you’re working some angle at the hottest new nightclub, and not facts and figures in your home office.”
Rahm sighed in agreement, the nicotine tasting acrid on his tongue as he let the cigarette smolder between his fingers as they gripped the balcony railing restlessly. “Believe it or not, that’s what I’ve been doing all day.”
Ahmed rolled his eyes. “Come on, boss,” he groaned good-naturedly. “Internet porn is fine for nobodies like me, but for a future sheikh? Who could have any one of a thousand, of a hundred thousand, beautiful women in Miami? Why waste time on a computer when you can have the real thing?”
Rahm chuckled conspiratorially, realizing this was more than he and Ahmed had said to each other in weeks, even months. “Not that kind of work,” he explained. “Father wants me to research a new competitor and, well, she just happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”
Suddenly, Ahmed perked up. “You mean the leggy redhead from last night?”
Rahm nodded, almost bashfully – even protectively. “You mean, the one who shut you down?”
Ahmed laughed riotously, tamping out his second cigarette the same way he had the first and field stripping it so the tobacco that remained flew away on the soft, sultry breeze high atop the penthouse balcony.
He shrugged, stiffening slightly and, unlike Ahmed, flipping his extinguished cigarette out into the air. “If you knew the first thing about business, my friend,” Rahm explained, only half-joking, “you’d realize that this is the first stage of the negotiations.”
Ahmed arched on thick, midnight black eyebrow. “Negotiations?”
“All sex is a negotiation, Ahmed,” Rahm explained patiently, enjoying the rare moment of male bonding that was so rare in his life. The men he usually spoke to were either a.) business rivals or b.) employees, leaving little time for one-on-one discussions about anything other than his finances or his schedule.
Ahmed snorted, leaning against the balcony railing at his side and crossing his large, tattooed arms skeptically. “Please, boss, edify me.”
Rahm leaned against his own railing, facing his bodyguard, buying himself a little time. He’d meant the statement as a throwaway comment, but now thought a little harder about what he’d meant. “Well,” he began, eyes returning Ahmed’s curious gaze. “Think about it: you meet a woman, and there is either instant attraction or not-so-instant. Instant attraction makes the negotiations a little easier, but not always foolproof.”
