Something About Aimee Read online

  “Mr. Carthmen signed the papers, and his son dropped them with a local courier service. The board of directors should receive them shortly,” his brother, Tarek Saif-Ad-Din, reported.

  “Did you inform them that if the documents are not there by the time that I arrive, the offer will be rescinded?”

  Tarek bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Of course,” he replied with an amused grin.

  “I should have just let you handle this,” Qadir mused.

  Tarek’s eyebrow raised. “You are in pursuit of a new mistress?” he sardonically asked.

  “I was, but it has been delayed—again.”

  “You should have let me handle this,” Tarek chuckled.

  “The lovely Lydia St. Michaels would wholeheartedly agree.”

  “The Lydia St. Michaels? Is she even divorced from her fourth husband yet?” Tarek politely inquired.

  Qadir frowned. “Third,” he replied.

  Tarek shook his head and held up four fingers. “Fourth. I’m not the Head of Intelligence for nothing. I read the reports that are given to me, especially those involving your… close associates.”

  Qadir’s smile was sardonic. “As long as she is not expecting me to be husband number five, I could not care less if she is still married.” He shrugged and looked at his wristwatch. “We are going to be late.”

  Tarek glanced out the window. “There are some things that even I can’t control, and that includes Friday evening traffic in New York City. Still, I believe we will arrive at the building precisely at 6 p.m., and I don’t believe the Board of Directors will be concerned if we are five minutes late.”

  They arrived at precisely six. Qadir didn’t know why he had doubted his younger brother. Tarek’s eye for detail was impeccable.

  The two bodyguards in the black SUV ahead exited their vehicle. A moment later, the door to the limousine opened and Tarek stepped out, scanning the area before he stepped aside.

  As Crown Prince and next ruler of the small but extremely wealthy Kingdom of Jawahir, Qadir normally would have let one of his three brothers handle this situation. His decision to oversee this acquisition had more to do with revenge than with necessity.

  Andrew Carthmen thought he could get away with embezzling and selling trade information to a rival company. For that, Qadir would make this man sell his company for the amount of money already taken or go to prison.

  Exiting the limousine, Qadir pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and put them on for the short walk to the revolving doors.

  Behind them, two bodyguards emerged from the SUV that had followed their limousine. They took up the rear.

  A frigid burst of November wind swept between the buildings. For just a moment, the cold air reminded him of desert temperatures at night, until irritating honking sounds and the taint of petrol in the air dissipated the memory.

  A wave of distaste filled him. He would much rather have an endless ocean of sand than these glass pillars. The wealth in his country went far beyond the rare gems and minerals required for the world’s microchips. Jawahir was beautiful and wild in a way this claustrophobic maze could never touch.

  Tarek’s knowing look made him shake his head. His brother had a higher tolerance for the bustle of the city than he did. The only thing Qadir liked about the city was the beautiful women who preferred to live here. None of his mistresses had ever been to the desert. The sand would ruin their perfectly made-up faces, hair, and was hardly suitable for the six-inch heels they loved to wear—sometimes even in bed.

  The forward guard entered the building first. Tarek and Qadir followed.

  Qadir paused inside the lobby, scanning the area out of habit. Men and women in professional attire paused and stared when they saw him. Tarek stepped up next to him and grinned.

  “You always could quiet a room with just an entrance, brother,” Tarek mused.

  “Jealous?” he teased.

  He removed his sunglasses and paused as he registered one small figure who was completely out of place in the posh lobby. At first, he thought the person a ragtag boy, but then she looked up and violet eyes outlined in thick, black lashes locked with his. A tingling sensation swept through him and awareness hit him with the force of a blow. Blood rushed downward, and he was instantly hard.

  “Qadir? Are you alright?” Tarek asked.

  Tarek’s voice was muted, only background noise. Qadir had heard of Almukhtar, the Chosen. It was said to be a myth, though his parents swore it was real. Neither he nor his three brothers had ever found Almukhtar. At thirty, he had believed that if there was such a connection to one woman, he would have already experienced it with one of the many women he had met around the world.

  He hungrily studied the woman’s petite figure. It was hard to tell much about her body. Besides the fact that the battered piece of wood she held was partially obstructing the view of her torso, she wore an oversized ragged coat, torn baggy denims, dirty running shoes—

  He frowned and stared at her shoes. Was that duct tape on the toes? His gaze retraced the path from her tattered shoes, moving at a slow and sensual pace, mentally replacing her clothes with the finest silk, until he reached her face again.

  Incredulous anger spread through him when he saw her mocking expression. She turned away from him as if he wasn’t worth her time. He blinked. Never had he encountered a woman who would dismiss him with such impudence!

  She spoke to the receptionist, flashed an easy smile, and turned to face him. Or rather, she turned toward the exit and was going to walk right past him as if he were invisible.

  He planned to stop her—but then her eyes narrowed, she dropped the wood to the floor, and kicked it like a ball. He realized then that it was a skateboard. He was turning to see what she was doing when her sharp voice echoed in the quiet lobby.

  “Take cover!”

  She caught him off balance. Her surprisingly strong arms and compact body pushed him off his feet. At the same time, the all too familiar sound of gunfire erupted. He hit the ground and she rolled over him, landing in a crouch with both hands pressed firmly against the polished floor and one leg stretched out.

  “Run when I tell you,” she ordered, her violet eyes blazing with an unusually calm fire.

  He conveyed his own experience and competence with a glance and noted that Tarek and the bodyguards had drawn their weapons and were firing. Tarek never missed.

  “Qadir, this way,” Tarek said in an urgent voice.

  Qadir rose to his feet in one fluid motion. The woman started away from him, and he automatically captured her arm to keep her by his side. She frowned and tugged, trying to free herself.

  “You got them. I’ve got to go,” she said.

  The high-pitched sound of sirens told him that someone had already reported the incident. Reporters would cover the building in minutes once they knew who the target was. The woman yanked her arm again, trying to break free with a new sense of urgency that made him frown.

  “You’ll come with me,” he stated.

  “Qadir, your hand. You’re injured?” Tarek exclaimed.

  She had opened her mouth to protest, but at Tarek’s words, the woman’s mouth snapped shut and she looked—irritated! Qadir followed the direction of his brother’s gaze. Bright red blood could be seen between his fingers.

  “The blood is not mine. Tarek, call my physician.” he ordered.

  “Your guy is going to need some help,” she observed with approval. “The gunmen must not have hit an artery, otherwise he would’ve bled out by now.”

  Qadir listened in disbelief as this woman ignored the fact that she had been shot. Instead of being hysterical, she was acting as if nothing had happened. All around them, women had been screaming and many were now crying and hyperventilating from the terror of their close call. Hell, even some of the men were weeping like babes. The only thing he could rationalize was that she was in shock.

  “This doctor is for you. Nizar will be seen by someone else,” he growled. r />
  He guided her with a hand at the small of her back and they entered the elevator. He looked down with amazed bewilderment at the top of her head. She could actually be his Almukhtar. She might have just saved his life. He couldn’t even tell what color her hair was. It was completely covered by the knitted sock hat that she had pulled down over her ears.

  He narrowed his eyes, wanting to pull it off and see her clearly. She absently held her arm, making herself even smaller than she already was. She barely came up to his chest.

  “I need my board,” she suddenly said.

  He frowned, trying to comprehend. “Your board?” he repeated.

  She nodded. “My skateboard. I shoved it at the two lunatics downstairs before they started shooting. I need it back,” she said, worrying her bottom lip.

  Astonishment filled him again. She had just witnessed a shooting, had been shot, and she was worried about a piece of battered wood on wheels. It was clear as she spoke that she was distressed by the idea of losing it.

  He turned to his brother. “Will you see that her board is retrieved and returned to her?” he quietly requested in Arabic.

  Tarek gave him a questioning look. He shrugged in response. Now was not the time or the place to explain that his mission to America had changed. He had come for revenge and had discovered his future queen. He smiled crookedly.

  As Tarek radioed downstairs for one of the bodyguards to retrieve the board, Qadir looked at the woman and sensed her growing fatigue. He wanted to comfort her, but the elevator wasn’t large enough to pick her up. He would carry her once they reached the upper board room of his kingdom’s newly acquired business. The silence was suddenly broken when the woman spoke again.

  “So, do people normally try to kill you on Friday nights, or is today a special day?” she casually inquired.

  The three men with him all turned and looked at her as if she had lost her mind. A chuckle slipped from him, and he shook his head. Her comment fit perfectly with what he had noticed of her personality so far.

  He slipped his hand against her side and gently braced her as the elevator stopped. The two bodyguards exited first, making sure the floor was secure. Tarek stepped out next before he looked at Qadir and nodded.

  Qadir scooped the unsuspecting woman up in his arms, ignoring her startled squeak of protest. He scowled when he realized how dainty she was under the cover of her bulky clothing.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, glaring up at him.

  He chuckled. “I thought it was obvious—I’m carrying you,” he said.

  He addressed Tarek in Arabic, ensuring that the doctor would be brought to Carthmen’s office.

  “Dr. Fuah is already on his way up,” Tarek replied and then teasingly added, “I don’t think she is impressed with your chivalry.”

  Qadir glanced down at the woman in his arms before refocusing on where they were heading. If the look in her eyes could kill, he would be dead.

  He wanted to kiss her pinched lips, soften them until they opened under his, but he was fairly certain that if he tried, she would bite him.

  Qadir looked at Tarek and asked, “Can you review the papers while I stay with her?”

  Tarek gave him a startled look before he nodded. “Of course.”

  The woman sighed and yawned. “Are we there yet?” she asked, mimicking a bored child.

  He looked down at her with amusement. “Yes, little one,” he softly goaded, “we’re there.”

  When her eyes blazed up into his, it occurred to him that with this woman in his life, he might never be bored again.

  Chapter Three

  “I recommend rest. She should also be seen by her local physician. The wound should be kept dry for the next seven-to-ten days, or until the stitches are removed,” Dr. Fuah said.

  The woman looked at her arm, turning it back and forth with an appreciative gleam in her eyes as if she had just won a trophy for best injury of the day. Qadir didn’t know whether to be exasperated by the confounding woman or amused. She refused to tell him her name.

  “Call me Wheels,” she had responded with a delicate shrug of her shoulders.

  “Wheels? What kind of name is that?”

  She had given him that pixie grin of hers, her eyes mischievous, and replied, “The best kind.”

  She had even refused to relent to Dr. Fuah’s gentle inquisition. She had joked with the doctor as she removed the outer layers of her clothing so he could attend the wound. She removed each piece of clothing as if she were doing a stealthy striptease for Qadir, and her eyes dared him to leave. He would have left if she hadn’t suggested he might want to stay in case she needed him to hold her hand. The sarcasm in her voice had been as thick as her challenge.

  He gritted his teeth. The worst part was that she was completely aware of the effect she had on him. She wielded the unique magic of her eyes like a sword. Her magnetic weapon of choice trailed a path down his body with the same casualness as the movement of her fingers when she unfastened each button on her faded blue blouse.

  He caught his breath when she dropped her left sleeve and revealed the wound on her upper arm to the doctor. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her lips were curled in a secret smile as she made eye contact with him and held the material so that it barely covered the creamy mound of her breast. All the while, her eyes danced with mirth—and defiance.

  “You do sweet work, Doc. I don’t think I’ll have much of a scar to show off to the boys when it’s healed,” she commented, skillfully sliding her shirt back up and buttoning it, showing nothing she didn’t want to.

  A grumble of displeasure slipped from him before he could contain it, and he resisted the urge to kiss the amusement from her lips when she gave him a silent look of admonishment. Fortunately, Dr. Fuah missed their provocative exchange since his focus was on her wound, not the wicked thoughts dancing through her mind.

  “I’m concerned—” Dr. Fuah began.

  “I’m healthy as a horse, Doc. Don’t you worry about me,” she said, pulling on her coat.

  “Dr. Fuah, I would like to speak with you for a moment—alone,” Qadir stated.

  “Yes… yes, sire,” Dr. Fuah replied.

  “I will return shortly,” he informed her.

  “I look forward to it,” she purred, a wicked light gleaming in her eyes again.

  Qadir turned and exited the room, followed by Dr. Fuah. He had met some of the most beautiful, experienced women in the world, and made love to his share of them, but none had ever challenged him. None had ever flirted with him and dismissed him at the same time. It was as if the woman—Wheels—had been born without the self-preservation gene—as proven by her behavior earlier when she faced down the gunmen.

  “What are you concerned about?” he demanded, turning to the elderly, plump doctor who had been his personal physician since he was a boy.

  “I’m concerned about how thin she is, and I noticed older wounds on her body.”

  Qadir stilled and looked at the closed door behind Fuah. “What kind of old wounds?”

  “A knife wound and another gunshot wound that have healed and left scars. She also has a large bruise on her shoulder that I would say is perhaps a week old. I’m concerned that she may be a victim of domestic violence.”

  Qadir’s swiftly inhaled breath sounded loud in his ears.

  “She appeared to want you there. Perhaps she will open up to you, sire,” Fuah mused.

  “I will take care of the matter,” Qadir quietly declared. “What do you need for a more complete physical exam?”

  Dr. Fuah’s lips twitched in amusement. “Her approval—and perhaps some privacy.”

  Qadir bowed his head in acknowledgement and embarrassment. He should have known that nothing escaped the man’s notice.

  “Once she is on the plane, I will ensure you have everything you need—as long as I get a full report.”

  “If you get her on the plane, then I will be ready—with her permission, of course,” Dr. Fuah
responded with a chuckle. “Something tells me, sire, that she might not be easy to persuade.”

  “Since when has a woman ever turned me down?”

  “Never, sire. If you are finished with my services, I would like to check on Nizar. I’m not sure I trust your finest guards with the American emergency medical system.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  Qadir looked at the door again, replaying in his mind every moment he’d had with his mystery woman. He smiled in anticipation.

  Turning the handle, he entered the office, stopped, and cursed. She was gone!

  Aimee stepped out of the elevator. The lobby was full of men and women in blue, detectives, and emergency medical crew. Outside, a media frenzy was brewing. Aimee stood behind a large fake plant and warily watched the craziness. When she saw her skateboard on the reception counter, a bright yellow evidence tag attached to one wheel, a pleased grin curved her lips.

  Crouching, she slipped around the tall plant, ducked behind the counter, and grabbed the board with her good arm. She snipped off the evidence tag with a pair of scissors and almost tossed it in the trash before she decided it would be a fun memento of a crazy day. She also pocketed the uneaten apple left from the receptionist’s lunch. Slipping back behind the plant, she headed for the stairwell exit leading to the parking garage.

  A blast of cold air hit her when she pushed open the door, and she shivered. She needed to run an errand before she headed home. Exiting the garage, she tossed the skateboard ahead of her and jumped on it.

  Her mind wasn’t on the bright lights or the crowds of pedestrians as she weaved in and out of them. It was on the tall, dark, and sexy man she had played Knight in Shining Armor with. She knew she was playing with fire, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. It was the first time in her twenty-one years of life that she had actually found a guy worthy of her interest.

  She grinned as she remembered her mom sweetly declaring that Aimee had been born with the soul of a Viking, the smarts of a Roman, and the strength of a Queen. Aimee snorted fondly. She wasn’t that full of herself. She just knew who she was and what she wanted. Her life had always been unorthodox, and she wanted… someone who could match her, somehow, but surprise her too. Someone maybe like Qadir.