ROMANCE: THE SHEIKH'S GAMES: A Sheikh Romance (118 page)

The smile he gave her was one of admiration, and he raised his glass. She did the same, and the
tink
they made as they brought them together seemed as good a way as any to open the story.

“So as you know, I’ve made a fortune on oil, but I also know that it’s a doomed endeavor, so I’m trying to get out of it as fast as I can, to set up the country with solar—not purely out of the goodness of my heart, mind. There’s a lot of money to be made in solar, as I’m sure you know—”

“So you want a monopoly,” she said.

“Or as close to one as I can get,” he said, smoothly. He didn’t even pretend to be the least bit contrite about it. “Anyway, a lot of the big oil interests, whom I’ll admit I learned from and used in my time, refuse to come around to my belief that solar is the future, and if anything are doubling down on their belief that fossil fuels will always be around. For reasons that can best be described as ‘political’, though, it remains in my best interests to be seen as a supporter of their cause—”

“Even while you’re working to screw them over,” she finished, shaking her head. “That’s devious.”

The first amuses arrived, tiny poached quail eggs served in a vinaigrette, with chives that had been minced into a slurry sitting in a perfect little bead on one side of the spoon. She could only stair at it, mesmerized by how beautiful it was, the sheer white of the egg holding the gelatinous yolk within. “Go ahead, you’re allowed to eat it,” Malcolm chided her, and she closed her eyes and tilted it into her mouth, feeling the egg split as her tongue crushed it against the roof of her mouth, the innards of the egg running creamy down her throat.

He was looking at her funny when she opened her eyes again. “I take you enjoyed the amuse?” he asked.

She took a sip of the wine—now she understood how people made livings pairing wine and food. “I can’t believe that was just the amuse,” she said, weakly.

“Brandon is no doubt scrambling to put together something even more exquisite,” he said.

“How much is all this?” she asked.

“Inconsequential for someone of my means,” he said, “so just relax and enjoy yourself, please. I don’t expect anything in return—well, besides your interesting and sparkling witty conversation throughout the dinner—”

“I hardly think I’m that interesting.”

“That’s for me to judge, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is your life really that dull that you’d find someone working in the Research department more interesting than the rich and powerful women that must be throwing themselves at your feet?”

“First of all, rich and powerful women don’t throw themselves at my feet,” he said, as the waiter brought out the first course—a jellied version of vichysoisse, apparently, on a bed of toasted bread crumbs, surrounded by artful drops of mustard sauce. “Secondly, rich and powerful women don’t get that way without knowing exactly what they want, and meeting expectations gets terribly tedious after a while.”

“I know what I want,” she said, bristling at the assumption that she’d gone her life without knowing what she wanted to get out of a relationship.

“And don’t I exceed expectations?” he asked, as he cut into the gelatinous cylinder with a knife.

She couldn’t deny that. She took a bite, curious about the taste—it was nothing short of divine. There was an unexpected sweetness to the jelly that offset the saltiness, and the buttery crunch of the crust was a perfect compliment to the silky smoothness of the gel. “This is delicious,” she murmured.

He reached out and took her hand. “Third, well, there are things about me that most rich and powerful women don’t like.”

“And what makes you think I would like them?” she asked.

“I don’t. But neither I think, do you.”

***

The rest of the dinner went as smoothly as silk. She’d never had venison before—never mind cooked so rare it was practically bloody as she cut into it—and the dessert was a surprising confection of basil-and-lemon sorbet that both made her lips pucker and brought a smile to her eyes. And everything had its own wine; between the courses there were amuses like paper-thin cucumber slices wrapped around a tartar of shrimp, or a nearly-translucent sheet of cheese embedded upright in an impossibly tiny tomato, shining with olive oil and crusted with salt.

“You do know how to show a lady a wonderful time,” she said, as he helped her into her jacket.

“I’m glad,” he said, as they stepped outside. “Do you want to have drinks at my place?” he asked. “My apartment is just off J-Street.”

“You have an apartment in Washington?” she asked, her brain boggling at the expense it must entail.

“It’s just a one-bedroom,” he said, enjoying her surprise. “When you’re in DC as often as I am it just makes sense to have a space here.”

“I am just tipsy enough from the wine to make drinks seem like a wonderful idea,” she said, as he hailed a cab.

“My place it is,” he said, holding open the door and letting her in. He gave the cabby an address and presently—now that there was minimal traffic on the streets—they were outside a pale beige building with a doorman in front of it.

“Mr. Raines,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the door for them.

“Frankie,” Malcolm returned, and he took her arm and they went inside.

The apartment building, as well as his apartment, was simply furnished but the quality of the furnishings were unmistakable. The carpeting was thick, and the walls were works of art, in the style of Mondrian. His apartment was spartan—there was a single cabinet with his electronics, and a single lounge chair with a matching footstool, a single flat-screen, modestly-sized, between a mirror and a rack of magazines and folders. Everything was covered with a thin sheen of dust. “It’s been a while,” Malcolm said, surveying the space. “I really must get better about telling the maids when I’m going to be in town.”

“It’s cleaner than my place,” she said. Her apartment in LA was neat enough, but there was no hiding the fact that her furniture came from IKEA and yard sales. It was a mishmashed collection, one that passed muster for a single adult, but it was clear that there was no singular aesthetic behind it.

“Maybe,” he said, going to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle. “Do you like Glenfidditch?” he asked, pulling down two glasses.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure,” she said. “Johnny Walker is about as classy as whiskey gets for me.”

“Johnny Walker isn’t bad, actually,” he said, peering into the cabinet. “But I haven’t kept that for ages. It tends to be the one that gets filched.”

He poured out two glasses and handed one to her. “It’s nice,” she said, smelling it. The peaty scent burned her senses in just the right way as she took a sip. “You can almost taste Scotland.”

“Do you like Scotland? Say the word and we’ll go.”

“I’ve never been,” she said, feeling her buzz in her head intensify ever-so-slightly.

“Would you like to go?” he asked.

His sincerity caught her by surprise. In her (admittedly limited) dating experience, most men, even those who could afford it, would ask her these questions in a rhetorical way. And she’d usually say something like, “I guess, but that’ll have to wait,” but she knew that if she were to ask him that he’d merely ask, “Why?” as if it would never occur to him to wait. And true to form, he continued, “I can call my pilot right now; he can have a flight plan filed by tomorrow morning and we’d be ready to go by that afternoon.”

She blinked, wondering why he was so generous with her, wondering what he was expecting in return. “I’d—I’d have to get my things,” she began.

“How long could that possibly take?”

“Don’t you have to work or something?” she asked.

He shrugged. “That’s my business,” he said.

“Well, I have some more members of Congress to talk to—”

“That’s been taken care of. I’ve been buttering up House and Senate reps all day today. The Matrix will never pass.”

Her excuses were gone, and as she looked into his eyes she realized that she had no more reasons to refuse the doors he could open, the life he could give her, however temporary it might be. And for some reason, he liked her, and she had to admit she did find him rakishly charming and adventurous—but was it enough to surrender to him?

He reached out and tilted her chin up towards him with one finger, and then he leaned into her and kissed her on the lips. It wasn’t entirely unexpected—she could see it coming from a mile away—but all the same the intensity behind it surprised her, leaving her breathless when he pulled away.

“Wow,” she breathed. She could feel her cheeks flush, and a warm sensation growing inside her.

“I’m usually not this forward,” he murmured, as he took her in his arms. Around them, artfully hidden speakers came to life with classical music, and they swayed together in time to the music, “but you have a way of awakening my senses in ways that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I can only hope that you feel the same way about me,” he said, moving her hands to his tie, guiding her finger around to loosen the knot.

“I have to admit, I’ve never met a man who knows more about what he wants,” she said softly, as she finished loosening his tie. He held her gaze as she slipped the end out of the last loop, a quiet desperation in his eyes.

“Does it—does it arouse you?” he asked, as she pulled the tie off around his neck.

“I don’t know about ‘aroused’,” she said, reaching for the first button of his shirt. He lowered his gaze, to watch her fingers at their work. “‘Curious’, certainly.” The first button slipped out of the hole. “‘Interested’, even. But aroused? It takes a lot to excite me in that way,” she continued, softly. “I’ve been told that I’m almost impossible—”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

Out came buttons two and three.

“I—I don’t think you’d really like to find out,” she said, astonished that she was actually doing this to him. How much further would they go?

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

He’d been guiding her towards the bedroom, one step at a time, and as she slid his shirt off of his body he took her hand and kissed them. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Say you’ll stay and everything of mine will be yours—”

She looked around, her heart pounding in her throat, the warmth that he’d ignited spreading into a liquid heat that coursed through her veins. His body was well-muscled, like a ballet dancer’s, and as he turned towards the dresser and opened one of the drawers she found her mouth watering at the way he moved, smoothly and graceful, reminding her of flowing water, clear and cold and purposeful.

He turned back to her, holding something in his hands. It was a moment before she realized it was a blindfold.

She felt her eyes grow wide. “I—I’ve never—” she began, but he crossed the room and placed it in her hands, kneeling at her feet and
shh-
ing her as he took her hands.

“If it pleases you,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

Suddenly she understood—he didn’t want
her
blindfolded.
He
wanted her to blindfold him. The shock of the realization gave way to a surge of excitement running up her spine: one of the world’s richest men, asking her to blindfold him and have her way with him. “Is there anything I can’t do?” she asked. There had been a kinky ex-boyfriend in her past, so she knew enough about the theory but they’d broken up before they’d ever gotten around to actually doing anything that wild and crazy.

“Just this, for now,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it again.

It felt good—proper, even, to tie the black silk band around his eyes. Blindfolding him meant that she was now in complete control, inasmuch as she could be in control of him—his surrendering to her meant that she now had to responsibility to use him well.
Well, let’s see about that
, she thought, taking his chin and lifting him to his feet.

“Time to get you properly undressed,” she whispered, undoing his trousers and pulling them down.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, as she worked his boxer briefs down. He stepped out of the puddle of clothes at his feet, as she pushed him backwards, slowly. His hand reached for her body, but she held it away. “Not yet,” she whispered.

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

All the while she was guiding him towards the bed, her hands wandering up and down the rippling walls of muscle. She wondered, briefly, what his gym routine was, whether he wore a shirt—what it would be like to watch him do pull-ups and swing a kettlebell.
Tasty
.

He fell back on the bed, obedient to her wishes. “What do you think I’m doing?” she asked, stepping away from him, slipping out of her dress, one shoulder at a time. She could see him angling his chin, trying to find a gap in the blindfold, trying to find some way he could see. Part of her wondered what it would be like to just leave him here. She didn’t have to sleep with him, after all.

But the spark had been lit: curiosity and a boldness that she didn’t know was inside her, took her and wouldn’t let go. Ideas began to flit in her head, inflaming the desire that was building up inside her as she stared at his body, naked before her, as she realized that there were things she could make him feel that she’d been dying to share with someone. It wasn’t just an opportunity to do, but a chance to connect, at a level deeper and far more intimate than anything she’d ever done.

Can you trust him?

He trusts me
.

“I wouldn’t dare to presume,” he was saying, now, his body tense with anticipation. She’d tied the blindfold on tightly—he could see nothing, she’d made sure of that. All he could do was lie there and wonder at what what she was doing.

“What would you like me to do do?”

“Whatever pleases you.”

“Even if it—” She leaned over and pinched his nipple. He winced and gasped, his back arching as he twisted the sheets in his hands. “—hurts you?” she asked.

“Especially,” he panted.

It was strange, how easily she fell into the role he’d assigned her. She straddled him and put his hands on her hips. He smiled and let out a nervous laugh, and asked, “What would you like me to do?”

“Everything,” she said, not really sure what that meant, but it felt like the right thing to say—he’d given her all of his trust, the least she could do was return the favor.