The Sheikh's Forbidden Tryst Read online

  The Sheikh’s Forbidden Tryst

  Lara Hunter

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  Lara Hunter & Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Forbidden Tryst

  Want More?

  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

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Contract Bride

  Introduction

  Want More?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Also by Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Forbidden Tryst

  Lara Hunter & Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2017 by Lara Hunter and Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Lucy

  Could it get any better than this?

  It was lunchtime, but I didn’t want to stop working. Sure, I’d only been in my new role for less than half a day, but already it seemed a lot more exciting than my old one had been.

  So far, I’d ordered new suits, organized and reorganized meetings, searched for suitable downtown L.A. dining spots, and called a handful of business contacts and potential clients. All that in only two or so hours. Who would have thought being personal assistant to the CEO would be such a sweet deal?

  As he worked at his desk, I watched him through the glass wall that separated us. Sheikh Khabib bin Samara, CEO of Samara Motors.

  Even staring freely at his handsome honey-skinned face now, I could find nothing more about him than what I’d already encountered myself. I already knew he was hard-working, demanding, charming, alluring. Regardless, my crush was definitely growing from when I had worked in reception and only very occasionally dealt with him.

  When I finally did tear my gaze away and focus it on my glossy black desk, the butterflies in my chest were replaced by a hornets' nest of apprehension. Having a crush on your boss was never a good idea, and working in close proximity to said boss was an even worse idea. But what choice did I have? I needed this job.

  I thought of Mom, the way she had smiled and whooped when I had told her about my promotion. Sure, it had only happened because Khabib’s old personal assistant had mysteriously resigned, but I wasn’t celebrating for the honor, really—more for the practical consequences.

  In particular, more money. Mom knew as well as I did that ever since she had lost her job, she had been struggling, and I, due to helping her, hadn’t been doing the greatest either.

  I stretched, lifting my hands high over my head, smiling as I brought them back down. Yes, I was very lucky now. As long as I kept this job, everything was going to be all right.

  “Lucy?”

  At the sound of Khabib’s voice, I jumped.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll be leaving early today.”

  His pearly-white smile was focused on me, expecting the response I finally bleated out.

  “Oh, okay great!”

  He grinned again.

  “After you’re finished with lunch and ordering those ties, you can go home, too. You’ve done a great job today.”

  “Thank you, sir. See you tomorrow!”

  And then, he was gone, and I was alone in my office, grinning some more. My first day, my boss told me I did a great job, and I got to leave over two hours early? Score!

  No sooner had I finished my ham sandwich, however, Mahir popped his head in.

  “A word, Lucy?”

  I managed a closed-lipped smile.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be in the meeting room. Whenever you’re ready.”

  As I followed Khabib’s older brother down the hall, I tried to figure out what exactly I could have done wrong in four hours. Truthfully, the possibilities were endless, since Khabib’s less-than-helpful training had consisted of “Just do what I tell you; you’ll figure it out.” Meaning, I could have spoken to Khabib’s business associates wrong, messed up Khabib’s online scheduling software, ordered a suit the wrong shade of gray…and that was just in my first hour.

  Then again, maybe I was imagining things, making negative assumptions about Mahir, since his tense, almost robotic way of doing things always put me on edge. Maybe he just wanted to know how I was getting along in my new position, or wanting to offer some help.

  Inside the meeting room, Mahir sat down and gestured for me to do the same. As soon as I did, he smiled his usual unconvincing smile, the no-tooth one, with pressed-together lips.

  “Lucy.”

  “Yes?”

  “So far, from what I’ve seen, you’ve been doing a stellar job as my brother’s personal assistant, so thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear.”

  He gave a jerky nod.

  “What you weren’t informed of—and what my brother is not aware of—is that there are some added responsibilities that come with your new role. That of…keeping my family in the loop.”

  To my blank stare, Mahir explained, “Just some weekly updates on how my brother is doing, and what he’s doing.”

  My eyes narrowed and, before I could stop myself, my realization of what Mahir was basically getting at burst out of me.

  “You want me to spy on him?”

  Again, that unconvincing smile of his.

  “Not spy, exactly. Just keep on eye on him. Although my brother has been here in the United States for a few years now, he did not grow up here. As a result, he is not used to your country’s way of doing things—nor its dangers.”

  To my silence, he continued, “The weekly updates will be carried out through video chats on your phone. My parents will call, you will answer. It’ll be simple, really.”

  “You talk about this like it’s absolutely happening.”

  Mahir’s face didn’t register any expression.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, what about my opinion in all this? What if I don’t agree to these terms? I accepted this promotion under the impression that I would be helping my boss, not spying on him behind his back.”

  Again, Mahir’s face remained expressionless.

  “I have to remind you, Lucy, that you are under contract to my father, Ra’id bin Samara, not my brother. So, no, if you want to keep your job—any job in this com
pany, in fact—then no, you don’t really have a choice.”

  Even as I glared at him, he didn’t react, only smiled that tense clench of a smile. Finally, my shoulders slumping, my glare softening, the answer slipped out of me.

  “Fine.”

  Mahir rose, reached out to shake my hand, then let his hand fall before mine reached it.

  “My family thanks you for your discretion.”

  And then he was gone, leaving me to fume with what I’d just agreed to. Me, spy on Khabib, the smart, hyper-aware business mogul who could turn me into a puddle of gooey emotion with a smile? He’d probably see right through my lying face in the first hour. Even if not, one thing was for sure—with this new job, I had definitely bitten off more than I could chew.

  The next hour of finishing up my tasks was keyboard-banging torture. Why did this have to happen to me, the worst liar in the world, and the softie who still felt guilty about stealing a cookie in the 3rd grade? Already, I felt bad for agreeing to Mahir’s demand and deceiving Khabib—and I hadn’t even done anything yet to deceive him, yet!

  It wasn’t like Khabib was an angel either; these past few years he’d been apparently making the most of his position of CEO at Samara Motors. I’d seen him on the cover of tabloids, while some casual internet surfing over the past few months had turned up quite a bit of dirt about his partying, drinking, and womanizing ways. Khabib clearly enjoyed all L.A. had to offer to a rich, handsome, charismatic man like him, and I didn’t blame him.

  Still, even if Khabib did lead a wild lifestyle, that didn’t mean he deserved to be spied on. As I walked out of my new office, I sighed. What Khabib deserved, and what was right, didn’t matter at this point; all that mattered was that I kept my job.

  I stopped by Mom’s before I got home. When I walked through the door, her thin face broke into a grin that nearly swallowed it.

  “How was your first day, honey?”

  I leaned down to hug her, maneuvering around the wheelchair that I still forgot about from time to time. I pressed her frail body to me tight, hoping she hadn’t glimpsed my face.

  “Great, just… great.”

  “‘Great’, that’s it? You’re going to have to give me more than that, Lucy.”

  I drew away from her, and reluctantly lowered myself on the saggy armchair across from her.

  “It was fun, a lot more fun than being the receptionist. I get to do a bunch of different things, talk to a lot of different people.”

  “And Khabib, what was he like?”

  If I kept my gaze on my hands, my thin, slightly-tensed fingers, maybe she wouldn’t notice my obvious guilty face.

  “Oh, just the same as when I met him last time—kind of demanding, funny, charming.”

  “Oh, really?”

  My mom’s tone was chiding, jokey, but I wasn’t in the mood. If I stayed here much longer, I was going to tell her everything. And then she would tell me to what I had to do—the right thing, which would be the wrong thing for her. Lose the job, lose her. Mom had always been good at self-sacrifice. But not this time. No, this time I wouldn’t let her sacrifice any more for me.

  “Lucy?”

  Mom was squeezing my hand, peering into my face.

  “You okay?”

  I pulled my hand away and nodded, turning away already.

  “Yep. I… Sorry, Mom, but I’m really beat. I picked up some tomatoes for you—” I placed the package on the counter, “and I’ll stop by on Thursday, or sooner if you’d like. You need anything you—”

  “I’ll call you. Stop worrying. I’m in a wheelchair, not a hospital bed, for God’s sake.” My mom rolled her eyes.

  I frowned at her.

  “You will be, if you don’t take care of yourself. You heard the doctors, Mom, you have to eat properly and not push yourself too much. Being laid off the way you were just wasn’t right, and that fall, this wheelchair—it’s all been horrible, but you can’t just let that be the end of it. Mom, you have to…”

  “I know, Lucy, I know.”

  Now, my mom’s easy smile had sagged, and I was sorry I had said anything. With a nod, she swept her hand in a “shoo” motion.

  “I’m fine, and I will be fine. I’ll take the meds and follow the doctor’s orders to a T; you’ll see. Now, you go home and relax. Don’t you worry about me.”

  We hugged again and, as I walked back to my car, I reflected that there was little chance of me not worrying. My mom had been the kindest, most supportive person in my life, and she was everything to me—of course I worried about her. Now, on top of that—thanks to this latest demand at work—there was a fight between my conscience and my heart, and no matter which won, I was going to lose.

  At home, Oscar was waiting by the door with accusing eyes, his chubby pug body wiggling with anxious energy.

  “Yes, you’re hungry, I know.”

  He gave an affirmative bark, and before I had even put my purse down, I dutifully made my way to his bowl and doled out some more dog food for him. As he exuberantly chomped down the little pellets, I let my hand run over his chunky, happily-oblivious body. Yep, Oscar was right—eating was all you needed, really.

  That was just what I needed to deal with my stress, too. Not using the gym membership card I’d gotten as part of my promotion, not one of those meditations my mom claimed would help my chronic worrying, not even a nice, long nap. No, a dilemma of these proportions called for some good old vegging out in front of the TV with ice cream for dinner.

  As I watched some cheesy medieval movie, my trusty tub of mint-chocolate-chip cradled in my arms, my attention drifted in and out of what was happening on screen, back to today’s happenings at work, and Khabib. Only a few minutes after I’d started working, I’d caught him watching me with a slight smile. But then, there was Mahir and his unfair demands. And Mom.

  My attention shifted back to the movie. It was nice, this ancient, fake world, where stress was dealt with by fighting—by men yelling, making threats, and even dying for what they believed was right. Maybe that was how they had dealt with things back then: released the stress of the mind by lashing out with the body, striking at whatever or whoever was in range.

  Maybe, back in those violent times, things were easier, since right and wrong were as simple and separate as peasant and king.

  Chapter Two

  Khabib

  This was going to be one interesting week; that was for sure. Mahir had said our father was the one who’d promoted her to be my personal assistant, which was hilarious. If he’d taken one look at her, spoken to her for all of five seconds, dear Father would’ve seen that this was his worst idea yet.

  It was only her second day working, and already, I was hooked.

  Lucy. Five foot nothing of curves and long blond hair that snaked down her back, as full and wavy as her hourglass figure. Most delicious of all was how oblivious she seemed to be of how attractive she was, the effect she had on people. Mahir looked constipated every time he spoke to her, probably because he was trying to avoid betraying the well-behaved wife and kids he had at home. Poor guy.

  Lucky me, though. Having this cute treat with her office so close to mine had proven to be nothing short of delightfully distracting.

  Although, I still had to be careful. My messing around might have been why Sharon was fired so suddenly, and I wasn’t eager to have Dad go the opposite route—hire an ogre for my next personal assistant as punishment. After all, I’d been upsetting my family enough with my escapades, always documented in the tabloids and online. If I was going to keep living the way I wanted to, I was going to have to be more discrete.

  I shuffled some papers around on my desk, watching as Lucy got up, to go to the bathroom, presumably. God, would you look at those hips of hers!

  I dialed our new receptionist, Donna, who had called a few hours earlier.

  “You said you had some messages for me?”

  “Yes, I...”

  She sounded hesitant, scared. She should be. After all
the mistakes she’d made these past few days, I was starting to wish I could clone Lucy and have her work reception and be my personal assistant, among other things…

  Stay on task, Khabib.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, it’s just this, uh, woman, Leona…she really wanted to get in touch with you, and I didn’t know if I should disturb—”

  “You did the right thing.”

  I hung up and frowned at my phone. Leona was proving to be a first-class psycho. Not one of the lesser psychos, who obsessively messaged me on social media, but one of ones who keyed my car and moaned to the tabloids after I broke up with them. Clearly, I would have to end things sooner rather than later.

  I went to my window and looked out. Maybe I needed to slow down, chill out—take on fewer projects, fewer late nights, fewer women.

  I unclenched my jaw. My body knew the answer already; I couldn’t afford to slow down, to stop, to give myself time to think about what I was doing, who I was becoming. No, the only thing to escape this encroaching realization, the helpless tension I could feel myself filling with already, was the method that had always worked for me: more.

  This was my lifestyle—cramming days with enough tasks to fill most people’s weeks, fitting women into tidy time slots where they could fill their purpose and nothing more, stacking errands and tasks like blocks. I pushed and pulled each block whenever I saw fit, amused at the tipping structure my life had become, worried about the inevitability of the fall as I stacked and stacked, pulled and pulled.

  I shifted my gaze to Lucy. She was back in her office, smiling at what looked like a picture of a dog on her desk. There was something about that woman, something that made me think she hadn’t seen the inside of a club in years, that that porky pug was most of her wholesome little world.

  It was probably just that I hadn’t slept with her. That’s what I did with untouched ground—built up women into more than they were. But still, the longer I sat there and watched her, the more I thought: there’s something irresistible about this Lucy Morrison.