Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

  CONTENTS

  Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  More Sheikhs!

  Older Woman, Younger Sheikh

  Teresa Morgan

  Thank you for buying Older Woman, Younger Sheikh!

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  Discover other titles by Teresa Morgan

  Handcuffed to the Sheikh Too

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  This book is dedicated to my darling sister.

  I will never forget how you sat on me and told me

  I had to learn to take pressure.

  Thanks.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Rania Santoro-Al Haifa wore yellow to the sheikh’s funeral.

  Not outwardly, of course. Sheikh Ghassan wasn’t worth getting lynched over. He’d already cost her too much of her life to do that. Many people in the tiny Gulf country of Qena had bought his righteous protector act.

  Of course, she could have blown Ghassan’s fake reputation out of the water. But not now. Not this close to her freedom.

  Instead, she wore her defiance in private. Under a traditional black robe that covered her from throat to ankle, she sported a skintight sunshine-yellow yoga outfit that showed off her toned butt. If anyone could see it. Which they couldn’t.

  Hidden and anonymous among the female mourners, she glanced at the slope ahead, one leading to the ancient cemetery on the outskirts of Nalut, Qena’s capital. Just to make sure he was still there. Yep, the man who had kept her captive since she was seventeen lay in a dark, closed box being carried on the shoulders of six strong men in traditional thaub robes, just steps away from being put in the ground. For good.

  On Ghassan’s arm, and hating every minute of it, she’d been to California, Spain, Cancun… And no place had been more beautiful than right here, right now. No sun had felt better on her face than the radiant warmth shining down as she milled among the hundred or so grieving women following the group of men who followed the simple casket down the broken brick path. No breeze had cooled her skin more perfectly than the slight wind rustling in the date palms.

  All she had to do now was play the grieving mistress for another hour. Hide her hair under a headscarf, her sporty clothes under the robe, and her broad happiness under a few fake tears. Once she got the inheritance Ghassan had promised her, she could throw it all off and start a new life.

  Now that Ghassan was dead, maybe her brother would accept her back into his home. She could help raise her nieces. She and Jeddah—her grandmother—would spend every day together. She would find some worthy female entrepreneurs and invest what Ghassan had left her wisely. She'd enjoyed recommending investments to Ghassan. Once in a while, he'd even taken her advice. She should be able to generate an income for herself and prosperity for other women at the same time, so that even more good could come out of the sacrifice she and her father had been forced to make.

  "Will he restore the monarchy?" The voice of the woman talking to her friend, in Arabic, was barely audible over the low moans of the more enthusiastic mourners.

  At that moment, Rania crested the hill and looked down to see the he that her fellow mourner referred to. In the crowd of white-robed men, one dark form stood out, unmistakable.

  Amin Al Nawaz wore a dark gray Western-style suit like he’d been born to do it. The jacket emphasized his wide shoulders, tapering down to slim hips. The cut of his trousers highlighted his strong legs. Only a slight powdering of dust marred the high shine of shoes that had probably cost more than some people’s cars.

  There’s a reason Western men’s fashion hasn’t changed significantly for a century and a half, Rania thought appreciatively. They got it right the first time.

  He stood at the graveside, the chief mourner for his sort-of-uncle and legal guardian, quiet grief on his face. Or was it boredom?

  Amin had become a formidable man. He stood half a head taller than those around him. His nose was too long, his mouth too wide, his eyes too ruthless. And yet his features, taken together, melded into a harshly attractive face. As he'd grown, she'd watched the skinny, awkward child fill out into a self-confident man that people were drawn to.

  Her lady bits stood to attention.

  Even from this far away, gorgeousness emitted from him in an invisible cloud of radioactive masculinity that set her sex-Geiger counter into the red. But her brain kicked in before she lost herself in any serious admiration of his hotness. What was wrong with her? He was ten years younger.

  Mmmm. Ten years younger.

  What was wrong with her? Not a damn thing. She’d been over three decades younger than Ghassan and no one had batted an eye. Someone might bat an eye if she did went after a man that young, but after the last sixteen years, she did not have a cazzo left to give.

  What was good for the gander was good for the goose, right? Why shouldn’t she have a younger lover if she wanted one? Ghassan’s legacy should make her a well-off, if not rich, woman. She was still hot. No gray in the soft waves of her bra-strap-length hair—which, hey, she could cut to a practical length now if she wanted to. She could let the highlights Ghassan had loved grow out. Let it return to its plain old mid-brown. No wrinkles around her hazel eyes, the ones that looked so much like her Italian-American mother’s.

  Plenty of younger guys would be attracted to her. She could have a younger lover if she wanted.

  And maybe she wanted.

  But definitely not Amin. They’d practically grown up together. But maybe someone just as tall. Just as lean. Someone with his confidence, whose slightest move seemed equally casual and calculated.

  Oh, who was she kidding? There wouldn’t be a younger lover, or even a husband her own age. Everyone saw her as a tainted woman.

  But there was freedom in that, at least.

  She packed her fantasies aside and focused on the things she could have, just like she’d always done.

  "Perhaps he will restore it," speculated the first woman’s friend, and it took Rania a moment to remember what their conversation had been. Right. The monarchy. Amin’s father had abdicated after setting up a responsible elected government. Before dying with his wife in a helicopter crash and leaving their young son behind. "Certainly no man has ever looked more the prince. Even if he does wear those Western clothes."

  "No." Rania heard the word come from nowhere. When the women who had been speaking turned to her, she realized it had come from her. Ah well. She shrugged and went on, in Arabic. Her mother tongue. But not her only tongue. "He won’t. His father taught him better than that. Even if he lost his parents very young."

  "What would you know—" the first speaker, a middle-aged lady who had clearly once been beautiful, began. Then she clamped her jaw shut when she recognized who had spoken to her. Rania could almost see the words passing through the woman’s brain… Ghassan’s mistress.

  The first woman grabbed her friend’s arm and twisted her away. Without a look back, the women disappeared into the crowd of their identical sisters, pillars of black fabric swishing in the breeze.

  Wouldn’t want to catch the cootie
s of whoredom, would we?

  Rania had to stop herself from painting on the beaming smile she practiced for these exact occasions. The snubs didn’t bother her anymore. Not really. She took a slow breath to calm her racing heart, and concentrated on moving with the fluid crowd as it flowed toward the graveside.

  If only those women knew the truth. That she was a heroine for doing what she’d done. That she’d sacrificed herself in every way so others could have freedom and happiness. If only her father were here to explain to them what she’d done brought honor on her family, as he’d explained to her when she was seventeen.

  But her father had been buried ten years ago, put into the ground between his first, Italian-American wife, and his second, Qenai wife, just as Ghassan was being put into the ground now beside the wife before he’d even met Rania.

  She watched Amin throw a handful of dirt, according to Qenai tradition, into the simple grave. Then he drew a square of fabric out of his breast pocket and wiped the dust from his hands, as if he couldn’t wait to rid himself of the last remnants of Ghassan in his life. Or maybe he just didn’t want to dirty his suit.

  And it was done. A funeral over. A chapter of her life closed. She felt peals of laughter bubbling up inside her like a shaken-up bottle of Coke. Before the giggles blew her lid off and foamed out of her, she buried her face in a handkerchief she’d brought in case she had to smother herself in it. Like now.

  "Miss Al Haifa." She jumped at the voice, so close beside her.

  Jolted out of her giggles, she turned to see Mohammed Yefren, Ghassan’s lawyer. The prayers were over. The ceremony had ended. The group could be finished with the pretense of separation between men and women now and mingle freely.

  "Miss Santoro-Al Haifa," she corrected. She’d taken to using her mother’s maiden name, clung to her Italian-American heritage like a life raft in her worst times.

  Rania had always liked Yefren, despite his close association with Ghassan, and his wife, a faded beauty who had given him four sons and one daughter. She'd never cold-shouldered Rania at parties, which was more than could be said for some society wives. Under different circumstances, women she could be friends with. Not in a life where she was a sheikh's mistress.

  Yefren lifted his chin in the direction of the grave. "Ghassan is gone. I cannot believe it. Such a loss."

  "Yes," she murmured, directing her own gaze at her feet. Because of the urge to smile. Come on, Rania. You’re so close to freedom now. A few more moments of pretense, and then you`re free from having anything to do with Ghassan for the rest of time.

  "And you? What will happen to you?"

  I’ll gather what's left of me, she didn't say. Lots of doors are closed to me, but I can have the scraps of a life.

  "I haven't thought about it," she lied.

  Yefren raised a hand. "Of course, of course. You would not. Ghassan had been ill for some time. You were occupied. And now you must mourn him."

  She nodded for Yefren's benefit. Why would she mourn the man who had held her hostage for most of her life?

  "However," Yefren continued, "life must go on. We cannot mourn Ghassan forever."

  From his tone of voice, he didn't intend to mourn Ghassan at all. What was he getting at?

  "I would not approach you so soon, habibti—"

  Rania's spine shot straight at the term of affection. The one Ghassan used for her in his last, sickness-filled years.

  "You must know I have always admired you. Others have as well. If I do not speak now, you may not be aware of my… interest."

  Interest. He filled the word with a dictionary full of meaning. If the dictionary was a dictionary of sex.

  "You must understand," he continued, "that my gifts would be less liberal than you were accustomed to from Ghassan. However, I am prepared to be most generous."

  "I haven't thought of such things." With clenching effort, she kept her tone level and quiet.

  You may follow Ghassan to hell. Years of self-discipline let her control the words. Kept her from spitting on him.

  "Naturally, naturally. But you must think of them soon." Yefren dropped his voice low. “I should not say it, but you will find out soon enough. You are not provided for in Ghassan's will."

  Her throat closed, cutting off her air. Ghassan had said he would leave her enough to live on. He'd promised.

  But he hadn't. Of course he hadn't.

  The question wasn't why hadn't he done what he promised. The question was why had she believed him when he said it.

  Even from beyond the grave, Ghassan could reach out to strangle her.

  Manache. Her apartment. How long would it be before she was evicted?

  "You will need a new protector," Yefren informed her, as if she couldn't work that one out for herself. He handed her a business card. "Contact my office to set up a meeting. I am certain we can come to acceptable terms."

  "Do you speak Italian?"

  "Not yet," he offered. "But I am certain a trip to Rome can be arranged."

  "Mangia merde e morte, testa di cazzo." She gave him a sexy smile along with the intimate murmur. Eat shit and die, dickhead.

  He bowed graciously. "I must return to my wife. I look forward to hearing from you. When you are ready."

  "I see Yefren has beaten me," said a low, conspiratorial voice belonging to Abdul Hadi Awbari. A longtime bachelor, a Qenai cabinet member who had often eaten at Ghassan's table. And done Ghassan quite a few favors.

  "Beaten you? I don't—" understand. But his tone of voice matched Yefren’s. I have always admired you. Others have as well…

  "I hope nothing is yet arranged between you two. Will you allow me to enter the competition?" He pressed a business card of his own into her hand.

  She had no words. Not even in Italian.

  Standing politely behind Abdul were three more men that she knew. Two married, one widower. All powerful men in Qena. All of them had business cards in their hands.

  Was she supposed to stand here and put up with a line of guys who wanted to buy her body?

  She closed her eyes, trying to block out the nightmare, to pull herself together. Today was supposed to be her first day of freedom. When they put Ghassan in the ground, she was supposed to crawl blinking into the light. His death; her rebirth.

  But the news that he'd left her nothing turned all that around. She might as well hop into his grave with him.

  She'd become his mistress to save lives. Now she would have to prostitute herself for money. She couldn't leave Jeddah, and no one would give her a job. Not a thirty-three-year-old woman with zero education and zero experience.

  She would do what she had to.

  Even if it felt like dying.

  The air thickened, not from the heat of the sun, but from an approaching presence. Something powerful, palpable. With the kind of innate authority that Ghassan always wanted to wield, but never managed.

  Amin.

  The crowd of men waiting seemed to sense what was coming, and fractured, splitting off. Clearing a path for…

  Not Amin.

  The blue-eyed, olive-skinned bodybuilder looked straight at his target—her—without seeming to notice the human obstacles in his way. But with his sheer width, he didn't have to. The man was the size of an SUV, but the scowl on his face looked more like the intimidating grille of a muscle car. She nearly got out of his path, just on instinct.

  "Miss Rania, I have this for you," he said, in halting Arabic, with the rolling Rs of a Scottish accent. He offered her a paper envelope with her name on it in formal, correct script.

  She switched to English. "Okay."

  His face cleared, softened. She couldn't help a half-smile. What she'd taken for a scowl had been a look of intense concentration by someone struggling with the language.

  "I'm Mr. Al Nawaz's personal secretary—"

  She lifted a doubtful eyebrow at him.

  The blue eyes rolled in response. "And bodyguard."

  "Do you have a name, Mr. Personal Se
cretary and Bodyguard?"

  "You can call me MacIntyre. Right now, I'm also a delivery boy."

  MacIntyre, huh? That explained the accent. But he definitely wasn't all Scottish—the dark, waving hair and dark olive tinge to his skin indicated an interestingly mixed heritage. "What are you delivering?"

  “That." He indicated the envelope. "To you. And tomorrow, you, to Mr. Al Nawaz. Pardon me, to Sheikh Al Nawaz."

  She heard MacIntyre's words. She just couldn't assign any sense to them. Amin wanted her to come to the palace? Why didn't he just talk to her now?

  She flipped the envelope over and broke the formal seal, noticing that the mark in the wax (wax!) carried the sign of Amin's family, a hawk with an olive branch in its beak.

  The simple card inside confirmed what MacIntyre had said. She was to present herself at the former palace at seven in the evening. It didn't say what for, or who would join her.

  "I’ll bring a car around to your apartment building at six thirty."

  "And then you will deliver me to Amin," she said. "If it takes more than thirty minutes, am I free?"

  MacIntyre grinned at her, his shiny teeth making the smile a terrifying sight. "I'm looking forward to getting to know you better, Miss Rania. We're going to have fun, I expect." He added a wink before clomping away, the crowd opening a path before him, then closing behind.

  What did MacIntyre mean? Why did he talk like they would be spending time together?

  More importantly—she looked toward the grave, where Amin stood, his back to her—why did Amin want her delivered to the palace?

  A small gathering, she imagined. It would look bad to have a large party so soon after his guardian's death, even if he wanted to celebrate his return to Nalut, catch up with old friends. But why invite her? They hadn't spoken in years. Did he remember they'd been friends so long ago, even if he didn’t treasure the memory the way she did?

  She'd love to start a new friendship with him. But that scenario had about zero chance of happening. Ghassan not putting her in the will meant she needed to find out how much time she had left in her apartment before she got tossed out. Amin could do that for her, if she asked. So, if she did manage to pull him aside for some privacy, their first conversation in about eight years was going to be her requesting favors, asking about money.