Sheikh's Marriage of Convenience Read online

  Table of Contents

  Sheikh’s Marriage of Convenience

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  ANOTHER STORY YOU MIGHT LIKE

  Sheikh’s Untouched Mistress

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Sheikh’s Marriage of Convenience

  By Ella Brooke & Jessica Brooke

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2017 Jessica Brooke.

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  Chapter One

  Olivia Joiner hissed as the needle pierced her finger. Red drops welled up on her forefinger, and she closed her eyes and tried to focus her attention. Hopping up, she left the model back at the seamstress stand and searched her desk for a bandage. She’d been hitting her finger more and more as the week in New York had worn on. Monsieur Labelle was a hard task master, and his show for the catwalks during Fashion Week was in less than twelve hours. As his chief assistant and body servant, she hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks. It was beginning to get to her. This was the fourth time she’d accidentally stuck herself while taking up hems in the last week. But she had to get herself together. It didn’t matter how tired she was; this was her dream job.

  Okay, so it wasn’t her dream job, but Monsieur Labelle was one of the hottest designers in fashion today. Even if she was the one who got him lattes and did alterations past four a.m., eventually he’d have to give her a shot to add her designs to some of his lesser shows. The last two assistants he’d had eventually spun off successful fashion lines of their own. All she had to do was live through the abuse and make it out the other side. Of course, after almost two years and with perennial black circles under her eyes, Olivia wasn’t sure she could keep the gig up. No matter how hard she tried, exhaustion was threatening to overwhelm her, and Monsieur Labelle was only intensifying his demands. She was down to maybe three hours a night of sleep, and it was playing with her mind.

  She was dabbing her finger clean with the bandage when a familiar---and grating---voice sound behind her.

  “Olivia, why aren’t you done with the fitting? Marguerite has to be on the runway practicing, and you know that.” Monsieur Labelle’s voice always had a hint of a whine to it, and she forced a smile on her face even as her nerves tensed up. “Seriously, only half the hem is done.”

  Olivia blushed and double-checked her finger. The bandage was keeping any more drips from coming out; it would be safe to touch the delicate, sea foam green silk. “I had an accident with the needle. I didn’t mean to.”

  “Sometimes, I think your own incompetence is always bursting forth.” He shook his head and grabbed his own supplies and knelt at Marguerite’s feet. “Let me finish the work, just hand me things and don’t mess up. We’re behind schedule.”

  If you hired more people besides me and a couple others, then maybe we wouldn’t be overworked like sweatshop girls.

  Olivia didn’t voice her thoughts and bit her tongue. She just had to make it through working for Monsieur Labelle, had to keep making him happy. She’d already racked up two years with him. She couldn’t afford to waste that kind of investment of her life with a dumb crack now. Even if it would feel good and even if he was a cheapskate who needed far more help than he deigned to hire.

  Sighing, she handed him scissors. “Is there anything else I can help with, Monsieur?”

  “Try not to suffocate me with your incompetence, Olivia. I don’t know why I hired you.”

  Because I was top of my class at The Fashion Institute, and sometimes your designs look a bit like the portfolio samples I had to give to you.

  “I know, and I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, just be helpful.” He set a few pins in his mouth and concentrated on hemming the dress further.

  She looked at the floor and tried to ignore the heat flaring through her cheeks. Monsieur Labelle was only a good designer. His real virtuoso talent was in humiliating others. She should know. Her high school reunion was coming up, and here she was, the butt monkey of a world-famous designer but no closer to her own runway debut than she was when she set out to Paris six years ago.

  How did I get here?

  Swaying on her feet, she blinked and tried to chase the bone-numbing exhaustion away. She hadn’t slept in almost two days, and even the coffee and Red Bull she’d been downing had started to wear off. Her eyelids felt as heavy as stones, and she shut them for just a moment. That was all. Then she swayed too far forward and crashed right into Marguerite. The model fell from her perch on the seamstress stand and a loud tear rung out through the room.

  As Olivia stumbled to her feet, her heart froze. The scene before her was a mess: Marguerite was tangled in the flowing fabric of her dress, the pins in Monsieur Labelle’s mouth were spread all over the floor, and, worst of all, there was a tattered strip of sea foam green fabric in his hand as the designer turned an unflattering shade of eggplant.

  She rushed forward, hoping there was a way she could fix the situation. It had only been a few seconds, and she’d only wanted a bit of rest. There was no way she could have caused such a disaster. Yet she had, and her stomach churned from the force of the wreckage she’d made.

  “Monsieur Labelle---”

  “Get out!”

  “I…let me help.”

  He surged to his feet and pointed at the still-struggling Marguerite. “You’ve helped quite enough. Now get out, Olivia. You’re fired.”

  ***

  The knock on her door was crisp and efficient, and Olivia knew who it would be even before she ambled to the door.

  “Go away.”

  “Olivia, honey, you need to have a good shoulder to cry on.” Through the wood, Celeste’s voice was clear and strong. That defined the model completely. She was one of the rare catwalk girls who was actually nice, and they’d bonded over a year ago at an exceedingly dull Versace show. “Please. You know I’m not going anywhere, and I brought chocolate.”

  Olivia eyed her kitchen counter. There were two empty boxes that had once been filled with double stuffed Oreos, crumbs everywhere, and an empty bottle of white wine. In the last six hours, she’d already dug deep into her pity party, but she was out of supplies so maybe she could at least invite Celeste in. Olivia hadn’t wanted anyone, even her best friend, to see her this wrecked, but the other woman was cheating by promising her delicious treats. Reluctantly, Olivia let out a small groan and pulled open the door.

  Celeste stood there, looking like the Greek goddess she practically was with her long, wavy dark hair and statuesque figure. It seemed so funny to Olivia that one of the most in-demand models on Earth would have anything to do with her. She was as short as Celeste was tall, and while she did work out and watched her figure, Olivia was still a bit
curvier than she’d like. Her mother used to say that it was just being “festively plump,” but Olivia was always trying to work herself down from a fourteen. It was the windmill she always tilted at.

  Sympathetic blue eyes winked back at her. “Sweetie, I lied.”

  “Huh?”

  “I brought champagne and some chocolate cheesecake. Frankly, we need to celebrate.” She surged into the kitchen with all the gravitas she’d wield on a catwalk. “I think we need to celebrate your independence day.”

  Olivia laughed, a short, bitter noise, and then sidled up to the stool at her counter. “Chocolate cheesecake, stat. I need all the cocoa-inspired goodness that I can get!”

  Celeste pulled the simple white box, tied with white string, from her bag. Olivia licked her lips. That was probably something Celeste had picked up at one of the local delis and was handmade with love. And sugar. That would save her day. In a few minutes, there was a slice of cake and a flute of Dom laid out before her.

  “You really deserve the full treatment.” Celeste said, looking forlornly at the food Olivia was about to dig into as she poured herself a glass of water. “Jacques Labelle is a hack and a slave driver, and you’ve always been better than him.” Her British accent became more pronounced the more she took joy at cursing the designer’s name. “He was lucky to have you to poach from all this time, and he’ll eventually flop when he can’t find more assistants to take advantage of.”

  Olivia sighed and downed the full flute of champagne. It burned down her throat and the bubbles tickled her nose. Already, a heady feeling was spreading through her skull, and warmth spread through her belly. Maybe Celeste wasn’t wrong about the champagne. She was feeling less depressed already, even if she’d be nursing a massive hangover tomorrow.

  “He wasn’t taking advantage of me that much.”

  “Please, his little black dress for 2015 was clearly inspired by your sketches. He’s been taking advantage of you far too long. I’ll start making calls after Fashion Week and my trip to Europe. I’ll find you a smaller house to start back up with. Everyone who’s anyone in this business knows that Labelle is an ass. The fact that you managed to work for him for two years says a lot about you having the patience of Job.”

  “But I was so close to getting a real lead design job, I can feel it. Now I’ll be the girl who tore one of his big dresses before New York Fashion Week.” She had a forkful of chocolate bliss and grinned. “At least this is making me feel better. I just…I’m twenty-eight years old, and all I have to show for it is a cramped loft and sleep deprivation. Now, I can add unemployment and no apartment to that list!”

  Celeste shook her head. “You can come to my flat.”

  Olivia’s eyes went wide. As one of the most successful models working today, her Manhattan residence was roughly the size of four apartments put together. Not that Celeste lorded her money over others, she was just very generous by nature.

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  “I insist, and we’ll get you out there on the job hunt soon. I’m serious, you just spent two years in a virtual employment dungeon. You deserve time to rest, enjoy yourself, and sleep.” She clapped her hands together. “Ooh, I have the most delicious idea. You should come to Europe with me. I’ve been wanting to stop off, make a side trip to Yomarani.”

  “Where?”

  “It’s near Turkey.”

  “Huh! You can’t just jet set to the Middle East as an add-on trip.”

  “It’s not that much more on my card, my dear.”

  Olivia blinked. Adding thousands of dollars in last-minute flight tickets was unfathomable to her, especially now, but it was still sweet of Celeste to offer.

  “I can’t impose like that, Celeste.”

  “I insist. Besides, I had toyed with going to the opening of the new Zaman Enterprises Casino and Resort, but now I’m sold. You, my dear, are about to have the time of your life.”

  Chapter Two

  The granite felt cool against his skin. That shouldn’t be. It was over one hundred and fifteen degrees Fahrenheit in Yomarani, and even the family crypt for the Zaman dynasty should have been warm. However, no matter how many times Sheikh Rami Zaman came to visit his lost wife and child, he perceived a chill in the air and a coldness that seeped into the very stones before him.

  Bowing his head low, he ran his fingers over the raised text of Etana’s name.

  “Hello, my dear. I’ve come to bring my greeting. I have another casino opening tonight. Sometimes I don’t know if changing the course of the family company’s fortunes away from oil and into tourism was wise. I don’t know if I’m doing my father justice as I spend most of my time working against the rebels in the north. I don’t know anything these days.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know if I’ve known any truth or peace since I lost you.”

  Standing, he eased over to an even smaller stone, the shock of its chill as biting as the Arctic air. That granite marked where his child lay, the daughter who had died along with Etana and before she’d had a name.

  His family.

  He ached for them. It had been hard enough when his father had been murdered by rebels almost a decade ago, but he’d still had his most trusted advisors and his loving, dutiful Etana by his side. Then the childbirth that even the best doctors in Yomarani hadn’t been able to help had happened, and his life had been ashes ever since. Some days, it hurt too much to breathe. Yet he carried on because he knew it was what Etana would have wanted and the best way to honor his father. The elder Sheikh Zaman had been one of the best leaders in Yomarani history and brought them into a new age of peace with the West. He had no idea how to match his father’s legacy.

  He had no idea how to do anything, and yet his subjects looked to him for wisdom and guidance, as if he understood everything. Rami feared letting his own insecurities out. Today was always the hardest day of the year, the one where those old wounds were ripped open, raw and bleeding once again. But it was also the day the leasing company wanted to have the casino announce its opening with its premiere party. Somehow, he’d have to slap on a happy face and play the perfect host to keep his company thriving.

  Perhaps a spot of liquid courage would help with that as well.

  Sighing, he stood again and nodded toward Etana. “I love you, and I miss both of you. I just wish I could…I know you don’t want me to be alone for the rest of my life, but I can’t imagine any woman who could compare to you. No one else ever kept me as honest.”

  There was a polite cough behind him and he turned. Before him stood Waheed, his most trusted assistant. His long, traditional robes flowed down to his sandaled feet and his white beard was neatly trimmed.

  “The party is starting soon. We need to get downtown in order to have you check into the penthouse.”

  “Am I staying the night?”

  “It will look better for business, my sheikh, if you stay late to welcome your guests. The presidential suite has been swept by the security team. We should keep to the itinerary.”

  He offered his most trusted advisor a small, tight smile. “I wish there was any other day but today we could have opened.”

  “The American half of the investment team were insistent on their time frames. Perhaps if you’d explained about Etana…”

  He gripped the granite of her headstone as if it were a steadying cane. “She’s private, and I don’t need for anyone to know more about the pains of my heart.” He stood straighter and nodded to Waheed. “Let us get on with it. The sooner this night is over, the better.”

  “Surely, my sheikh. That’s the spirit,” he said dryly.

  ***

  The throbbing bass of the music at Aladdin’s Den, the nightclub within his casino, felt like a metal spike being driven into the base of his skull. Sitting in the VIP section, he plastered a false smile on his face. The train of business associates trailed in and out of the curtained-off area, and he’d paid appropriate lip service to the co-investors. Currently, a few b
eautiful women were hovering by the edge of the velvet ropes and preening their hair. One woman with flowing blonde extensions tried to catch his eye. He nodded toward her politely but offered nothing else. There was nothing Rami had less interest in than a woman, at least not the usual dilettante or model wannabe who filtered through clubs like his. He had one in Monaco and one in New York already, and the women who stalked him there were always looking for the title and wealth. Trying to land a sheikh as if he were no more than a big mouth bass or wild game.

  The last thing he needed was a gold digger in his life.

  Waheed breezed past the women and sat in a chair facing Rami. “You have quite the busy corner here for yourself.” Waheed sipped his bottled water slowly. Unlike Rami, the other man was tightly observant and hadn’t had so much as a coffee in his entire life. “My sheikh, have you ever heard that charming American expression ‘fake it until you make it?’”

  “I don’t need advice, Waheed.”

  The other man chuckled and stroked his beard. “I believe that is the sum total of my job description. I think you need more advice than you think, and being your father’s advisor before you were elevated means more than being charged with knowledge on political strategy.”

  “What do you mean?” He shook his head and drained a tumbler of scotch. “I don’t need a love connection. This is a business arrangement, and I’ve kept the investors happy. I’m showing the flag for Zaman Enterprises. The last thing I need is to entertain one of those Jezebel types. I have no interest in a fling.”

  “Maybe you just need to have fun once in a while. You don’t always have to stick to merely duty, Rami.”

  He frowned back at Waheed. His loyal advisor was courteous to a fault and rarely addressed him informally. Since Waheed was doing it now, Rami knew he was being serious. “I have rebels to address, threats that have been made on my life more than once in the last month, and a brand new casino that hopefully will become as revered and as profitable as the ones in Dubai. Besides, you know what day it is. I don’t feel like ‘fun.’”

  “But you need something to keep your life from being work and only work all the time. I worry about you. I felt after the first few years you could grow past all of this---”