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Every night, it seemed, she went to sleep chastely dressed in her pink cotton panties and baggy men’s V-neck T-shirt, only to find herself writhing and wet and naked in the middle of the night. Now the moonlight danced along her gently trembling fingers, the tips wet and greedy as they crept closer to the dampness between her legs.
She closed her eyes, trying to find Rahm once more, his full, damp lips, soft brown eyes and matching skin, so hard and soft at the same time, yet it was no use. She saw only her naked desperation and, eyes wide once more, watched her fingers dance in the dark until she moaned and cried out and climaxed in a frenzy of twisted sheets and squeaking mattress.
But once was not enough, once was never enough, to still her mind in the dark, sultry quiet of her master bedroom. Curtains fluttering, moonlight swimming, eyes blurry and stinging from sweat, Carly greedily mined another throbbing, shuddering orgasm – then another, and another, and several more – from her insatiable bud before finally collapsing in a quivering, sweaty, embarrassed heap atop her wrinkled sheets.
Curling into a ball, heart pounding, breath ragged and deep, Carly gently willed herself back to sleep, another busy day stretching out before her in another few hours, filled only with the promise of dull, dismal figures and the hope that maybe today, unlike the day before, Rahm might cave first and reach out to her after all.
Ten
Rahm was restless, but not in his usual random, skirt-chasing way. He’d scratched that itch the night before, and the night before that, and yet he still felt the irresistible pull toward Carly. If only he could bring himself to lose face and calling out to her first. He already had her information; she was a quick phone call to her office or cell phone or, barring that, an instant text message away. And yet he hesitated, not wanting to “lose” to her once more.
He’d already lost one account, and incurred the wrath of his father as a result. He couldn’t risk looking “weak” or “soft” yet again, even if it was only to Carly herself. He needed a way to bump into her again, and wondered how when, like himself, she was an admitted workaholic.
He also wanted a night off from Ahmed and the other three bodyguards scheduled with him that night. He knew his father frowned on Rahm going out alone, but he was a grown man, after all, and whenever Ahmed and the other bodyguards were around, they always wound up at some strip club or bordello, which is the last place a woman like Carly Stanton might be.
He paced his master bedroom suite, dressing casually for the evening and regarding his reflection in the mirror like a teenager getting ready to go to his first prom. Were his jeans too faded? Should he wear the black pair instead? Was his sweater too grey? Should he wear the maroon one with the thin black stripes? Black sneakers or the Italian leather loafers?
He sighed and reached for his wallet and keys before sliding out his sleek cell phone and texting Ahmed’s private number with a simple four-digit code. It was a simple message that meant “take the night off,” and both knew that it meant Rahm was on his own for the evening.
Of course, Ahmed would stalk him alone, lurking in the shadows and never letting him out of his sight, but at least no one else would see him – least of all Rahm. It was enough to know his father’s wishes of 24-hour a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year protection were going heeded even as he slipped out for a quiet, but hopefully not solitary, night on the town.
He slipped from his master bedroom suite, the bodyguards in their own apartment – slightly smaller but no less opulent – across the hall. Used to them springing from the front door the minute his opened, Rahm smirked at the illusion of privacy even as he entered the private elevator for their floor.
He felt vaguely “naughty” slipping out without the boys, but knowing Ahmed would be there in the dark, shadowing his every footstep, made him feel secure in ways he couldn’t quite understand. Was he so dependent on his father, the “real” sheikh, that he couldn’t go out alone without seeing boogeymen in every doorway? Or had he just been so pampered in his upbringing that bodyguards were a part of his daily routine?
What he wouldn’t give to simply wake up in the morning, get dressed and go to work, unencumbered by the routine security checks and passwords, the double checks and roundabouts that filled his current days. Though he reveled in his luxurious life and enjoying the trappings of true royalty, Rahm yearned for a simplicity that eluded him. The ability to roam around undetected or grab a quick nightcap without coordinating the movements a team of six highly trained operatives and mapping it out in advance.
Now, pushing out of the ornate lobby of his lavish condominium complex, he nodded to the doorman and felt the warm, sultry night embrace him. He was glad he’d gone with the black sneakers, the pavement soft and smooth beneath his feet as they hurried toward some uncertain destination. He had no idea where he wanted to go, only that he needed to go – to go out, away from his father, the sheikh, away from his business, Platinum Dunes, away from his high-tech home office and his bodyguards, his duties and responsibilities, his royal lineage and all that entailed.
He knew that, eventually, his father would demand his return to the small but wealthy peninsula of Hahmsuit to assume his responsibilities as the sheikh in waiting. That he’d pull the plug on Rahm’s “little American adventure,” as he called it, and that all of this – the nightlife, the city streets, the western culture, the freedom – would all end.
Despite how successful Platinum Dunes had become, despite all the hard work Rahm had put into succeeding on his own, despite the investments he’d made and what they meant to the royal fortune, already increasing by the day, it would never rival the billions produced by Hahmsuit’s rich and fertile oil fields, and thus always be mere “child’s play” to his father.
Thus Rahm would hang up his black jeans and V-neck T-shirts, his leather jackets and expensive running shoes, his nightclubs and his women and settle into the life of a Persian royal. His life would become routine and mundane and, eventually, he would be expected to marry the one of the daughters of a local clansman, one whose land would inevitably double, even triple, the kingdom of Hahmsuit and thus bring “real” value to the kingdom, whatever that meant. He would be expected to bear a child – a son, in particular – or keep trying until he did.
His life would become a series of meetings, of duties, of deadlines and commitments, each one steeped in the tradition of Arabic culture and rich in history, politics and religion. At that point, the identity he’d created in America – “Rahm” – would cease to exist. Only Sheikh Rahmad Farzik II would exist, the shell of what Rahm once was and a mirror image of his father. He would grow old, content, rich and fat; a good problem to have but a problem just the same. At least for Rahm, who had enjoyed his taste of American culture and wanted nothing more than to indulge in it as long as possible.
For now, that meant freedom – and freedom was in the air as Rahm strolled the bustling streets of South Beach. Neon lit the windows and rooftops of most of the hotels and nightclubs, cafes and bistros along Ocean Beach Boulevard, the main drag through town. But as he nodded to familiar doormen and hostesses, concierges and managers, none of his usual haunts appealed to him. Nor did the seedier places farther north, in Miami Beach, or just off the beaten path.
Instead he turned a different direction, away from the promise of the glittering seaside strip and toward the heart of town, where the locals worked and lived and played in this tropical paradise. Each step he took away from the ritzy neon strip along the southernmost tip of A1A made him feel more at home, a strange feeling at best since he’d originally meant to make his stay in South Beach a temporary stop along his whirlwind tour of the country’s most cosmopolitan cities.
Instead he found himself in no hurry to leave – at least, not until he beat Carly Stanton at her own game. Maybe that’s why he found himself drawn to El Tropicale, the cavernous downtown nightclub where they’d had their first encounter. Sure, it had been calculated – at least on Rahm’s part – but tonight felt more authentic and real, even natural.
Rahm felt somehow drawn to the neon warehouse nightclub, as if somehow connected to Carly because of it. As he nodded to the doorman and paid his cover charge, the vibrant room – not nearly as crowded as the Friday night they’d met and mingled – felt warm and familiar. Though less than half full, it throbbed with a vibrant energy, fueled in part by the six-piece band rocking out as if they were playing to a standing room only crowd.
He eased his way to the bar, covertly scoping out the crowd to see if, perhaps, Carly might already be there. She wasn’t, of course, making Rahm feel foolish for thinking they shared some magical, ESP connection. All the same, sitting in the same seat and drinking the same drink made him feel somehow at home, reminding him of how fun it had been to exchange quick, if good-natured, barbs that night. If only he’d imagined, in a million years, that she might not want to bed him at first sight, he might have been less cocky and more determined to do just that.
Instead he breezed along, expecting Carly to fall under his spell like the rest of the American women he’d loved, left and quickly forgotten. Was that her game? he wondered, sipping his savory, sweet mojito as he listened to the band slow down a notch to belt out a salsa-infused version of “Careless Whisper”. Had she suspected all along his bravado would be his undoing, and let him seal his own fate? Or was she, as he’d first expected, merely playing hard to get?
If only she was here, Rahm thought absently to himself, crunching a piece of shaved ice from his drink. I could ask her in person…
Eleven
Carly knew she’d go out that night the minute she got home from work. It was the claustrophobic feeling of her apartment, spacious and roomy as it was, that made her reach for the bottle of wine in the back of the fridge instead of her usual glass of milk or orange juice. Restless and anxious for no good reason, she opened it with somewhat trembling hands and reached for a glass too eagerly.
The expensive Chardonnay felt cool and crisp and just a little tart on the back of her tongue as she padded around her hardwood floors – well, pacing would be more like it – the day’s heels left in the foyer beneath the long wicker table where she kept her keys and stored her valise every night.
The apartment featured floor to ceiling windows along most of its living and dining room walls, which she paced in front of restlessly, the big wine glass held aloft in both hands – no longer trembling, though she was still just as restless.
