The Sheikh's Secret Son (2 page)

Drawing on every resource at her command—her upbringing, her independent nature, her long years of taking care of herself—Eden willed her heart to slow. Willed her lips to smile. Willed herself to remember who she was, where she was, and why she was here.

She was here to explain international oil and gas law to her bosses, to her firm's clients, and to a Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir of Kharmistan or his representative.

Which one was the tall guy wearing the headpiece Henry had talked about? The representative? Or the sheikh himself?

Did it matter?

Because she knew this man, if not his true name or position. She'd never forget him.

He was the self-assured gentleman standing smack in the middle of the reception area, holding court over those from her office and the clients her office represented.

He was the devastatingly handsome man she'd known almost six years ago in Paris.

He was the fickle, duplicitous man she'd known as Ben Ramsey…and she'd borne him a child. A boy child, with his same aristocratic features, his same dark eyes and hair, his same elegant posture, his same almost princely air of confidence.

Eden didn't feel much like humming a chorus of “It's a Small World After All.”

 

Jim Morris broke away from the group before the elevator doors had closed, and for once Eden was happy to see the ambitious young lawyer. Jim looked worried, which made her even happier, as that meant he was probably going to grab her by the elbow and quickly drag her into another room so that he could tell her why the universe was about to explode here on the twenty-sixth floor.

“Trouble?” she asked almost eagerly as she kept her head down, carefully avoiding the eyes of the dozen or so men who probably wouldn't have given her a second look if her hair caught on fire.

“That depends, Eden,” Jim said, hurriedly taking her arm—she'd almost offered it, she was that anxious to be rescued. “Come in here, okay? And tell me, please,
please
tell me that you know why in hell the sheikh felt the need to be here today?”

Eden tugged her elbow free of Jim's tight grip
and sat herself down in the nearest chair. It was more elegant than falling down.

Her stomach clenched into a tight ball, and she swayed slightly as a wave of panicked nausea hit her. Had she heard Jim right? Ben Ramsey was a sheikh? For crying out loud, Sawyer was the son of the Sheikh of Kharmistan? No. How could that be? Ludicrous. That was simply ludicrous.

Oh, God. Jim meant it. Now she knew. Ben was the sheikh. Sawyer was his son, the son Ben didn't know existed, thanks to his defection all those years ago in Paris.

How much danger was Sawyer in, now that she knew? If she was to tell Ben…

She cleared her throat, tried to focus on Jim Morris. “So he is the sheikh, then? Mr. Klinger said he might show up, but I thought—but then I hoped…well, never mind. What you're saying is that the guy in the headcloth—what
do
they call those things, anyway—is the sheikh himself, and not just his representative? What's the representative's name? Wait, I have it in my notes.”

She set her attaché case on the desk in front of her and quickly unzipped it, then pulled out a thick manila folder and began paging through it. She always kept a “cast of characters” in her private notes, just so she could cram for the final exam that was the actual meeting with her firm's clients.
Mostly, however, she was stalling for time, time during which she hoped to put her shattered brain back together.

“Ah, here it is. Nadim. Yusuf Nadim. How could I have forgotten? He's the one we've all been dealing with the most, right? Man,” she said, pressing a hand against her belly, “I've got to stop this, calm down.” She put down her notes, looked up at Morris, knowing she must resemble a doe caught in headlights.

She began to pace, trying to burn off energy as an oil well burned off excess natural gas.

“Is he here, too, Jim? This Nadim guy? I only saw one of those headpieces—Lord, what
do
they call them? I feel like such an ugly American, calling them ‘headpieces.' I know what a kimono is, Jim, I know what a kilt is—I even know the proper name for those shorts some Europeans wear on special occasions, although the name escapes me at the moment. So why don't I know what those headdresses are called? Laziness, that's what it is. Sheer laziness on my part. I should be ashamed of myself.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “I don't think that's important right now, Eden. What's
important
is that this Nadim fellow is back at the hotel, sick from the flight or something, and that the sheikh is here on his own, and making one hell of a mess out of six months of our hard work. Why couldn't this Nadim
guy just have postponed the meeting? Why do we have to have this big shot, know-nothing Sheikh of Ara-bee here to screw up the works?”

Pulling herself back from the inanity of trying to calm her badly jangled nerves by thinking about headpieces, Eden did her best to slip into her professional role. Jim wasn't exactly known for his social skills, and he had just crossed the line.

“One, Jim,” she began firmly, “you're out of line. Two, you're still out of line. Unless you want to be that redneck ‘y'all' lawyer from Texas, and I don't think you like insults any more than anyone else does. Third—how so? How is everything going wrong? Today's meeting should have been nothing more than a formality. All the bugs were worked out months ago.”

“Got you, Eden. That was stupid. I'm sorry.” Morris raked a hand through his thinning hair, hair he wore three inches too long in the back in an effort to make the world believe he owned more of it. Eden noticed, withholding a grimace, that he'd had his hair permed since she'd seen him last. Talk about someone who could benefit from one of those headdresses!

She mentally shook herself, once more tried to keep her mind on what was important. Tried to pretend her private world wasn't falling apart.

“All right, Jim. We'll forget it. Now, as I said,
we should be ready for some signing on the dotted line this morning, shouldn't we?”

“Yeah, you'd think so, wouldn't you. You thought so, I thought so, everybody in our firm thought so,” Morris grumbled. “But it turns out the sheikh—this Ramir fellow—is a lawyer of some kind himself, educated at Yale, if you can believe that. A Yalie! He's got, like, a million questions. We need you, Harvard. Harvard always beats Yale, right?”

“What do you want me to do, Jim? Threaten to tackle him? Besides, I saw Klinger out there, right?” Eden protested, feeling the urge to bolt sliding over her again. This was too much. Too much information, too many memories, too many fears. They were all crowding in on her, bearing her down, crushing her.

She could barely think. “Surely Klinger can handle this. We're just here for decoration at this point, Jim, and you know that. As I said, a few comments, a lot of ego-kissing, some signing on the dotted line, and we're outta here.”

“How interesting, Ms. Fortune. And who will be kissing my…ego?”

Eden closed her eyes, wishing the action could make her disappear. The way he'd disappeared so many years ago.

“Oh, God,” she breathed almost soundlessly,
looking at Jim Morris, whose thin features had turned the color of putty. Then she squared her shoulders, turned around, and looked straight into Ben Ramsey's eyes. Into Sheikh Barakah Karif Ramir's dark, mocking eyes.

“I'm sorry, Your Highness,” she said quickly. “As you can imagine, you weren't supposed to overhear my associate and me talking. I apologize.”

Ben kept looking at her. Staring at her. Staring straight through her. With Sawyer's eyes, damn him.

“You may go now,” he said rather imperiously. “Closing the door behind you as you leave—something you might have considered earlier.”

Jim Morris knew he'd been the one addressed, even though the “Ramir fellow” was still looking at Eden. He didn't hesitate in escaping the small room. Rats deserting a sinking ship moved slower than he did as he left Eden alone to face the insulted Sheikh of Kharmistan.

Ben took two steps in Eden's direction.

She backed up an equal two paces, until she could feel the edge of the table against her hips. She placed her hands on either side of her, holding on to that edge, her posture definitely one of defense rather than offense.

Which was stupid. The last thing she wanted to do was to look in the least vulnerable.

“You are looking well, Eden,” Ben said, touch
ing a hand to the soft, snow-white material that made up his headdress. He should have looked silly, or pretentious, dressed in his gray Armani suit, the headpiece held in place by two coils of something that looked very much like gold-wrapped silk, the edges of the material flowing over his shoulders.

But he didn't look silly. He looked wonderful. Dark, and mysterious, and somehow larger than life. Peter O'Toole as Lawrence of Arabia, but photographed in sepia tones. His eyes as dark as any Arabian night. His features chiseled from desert rock weathered by desert winds. His tall form muscular but not musclebound. His movements measured, graceful.

His hands…well, she already knew about his hands.

“And you. You're…um…you're looking well,” she answered at last, then cleared her throat. Maybe the action would help her to breathe. But she doubted it. “You knew I'd be here today?”

“Yes, Eden, I did. A knowledge you obviously did not share.”

Eden's temper hit her then, like a sharp slap on the back meant to dislodge a bit of stuck fish bone, or pride. “You're right, Your Highness. I had no knowledge that you'd be here today. That
Ben Ramsey
would be here today.”

He bowed slightly, from the waist. A regal incli
nation, certainly no gesture that her words had impacted him, no sign of any reaction that had even a nodding acquaintance with the word “embarrassed.”

She longed to clobber him with something hard and heavy.

And then he really blew her mind…

“Very well,” he said coldly. “If you wish to play the ignorant, Eden, I suppose I am willing to listen as you tangle your tongue in knots, trying to deny that you did not know who I was—who I am. Or is your memory truly that faulty, that you forgot my letters, my explanations. That you forgot to answer those letters, just as you chose to forget me, forget Paris.”

“Letters? What letters? The only letter I ever received from you was the note you left on the bed. Let's see, I think I still remember it. ‘Eden, darling. I have been called home. Stay where you are, I shall contact you, explain everything as I should have at the beginning.' You signed it with love, as I recall.”

She knew very well how he had signed the note, because she had kept it, for all of these years. It was all she could ever give Sawyer of his father.

The anger was back, cold and hard. “Did I know you were really a sheikh, Ben? How in hell was I supposed to know that? By reading between the lines of that note?”

When he said nothing, she stepped away from the table, picking up her attaché case as she headed past him toward the door. “I waited, Ben. I waited for nearly two weeks, long past the time I'd planned to return home, nearly too late to begin my next law school term. I waited, and I worried, and I finally realized that I knew nothing about you. Nothing important—like where you lived, if you had a family. If you had a wife. Finally, I woke up, realized I'd just had myself a Paris fling, and chalked you up to experience. And that's how I'd like to keep it, Ben. An experience in my past, one I'm in no mood to repeat.”

He took hold of her elbow. Lightly, not really holding her in place, although she couldn't move. She was too shocked by the sensation his slight touch set off in her body, a warmth spreading throughout her, betraying her.

“I do not believe you have been asked to repeat it, Eden,” he said quietly, his deep tones a seductive rumble low in his throat even as his words cut her, made her bleed. “But we are going to talk. Not here, not at this moment, but later. You will be at my hotel at six this evening, if you please. The Palace Lights here in San Antonio. Do you know it?”

“Oh, sure, like that's going to happen!” Eden shook herself loose from his grip, using much more force than was strictly necessary. “I wouldn't cross
the street to see you,
Your Highness.
Put
that
in your…oh, hell, just stuff that in your
headpiece,
okay!”

She started for the door—when had the room grown so large?—but Ben spoke again, once more halting her in her tracks. “You will please tell Attorney Klinger and the others that His Highness has decided not to open Kharmistan to foreign investors. You might call them foreign devils, or infidels, if you think it will help prove that this ignorant Arab has no business sense, no concept of the fortune he is turning down.”

Eden whirled back to face him, her blue eyes narrowed as her entire face pinched and blanched at the same time. “You wouldn't dare,” she said, her heart pounding so loud she could barely hear herself speak.

He turned to her slowly, his dark eyes cold, his face a mask of handsome, deeply tanned, unreadable flesh. “If you have done your research, Eden, and I am convinced you have, you will know that I currently hold the position of twenty-third richest man in the world. I do not have much time for such lists, but they do seem to impress Westerners. So you see, Eden, I do not need your clients. I never did. I would not be here today if I had not seen your name on one of the status reports the faithful Nadim placed on my desk six months ago. He did not remember
your name. I, however, have it branded on my heart.”

Eden refused to comment on his last statement. “Six…six months ago? You've been planning all of this? Negotiating with our clients for six long months? Putting us all through hoops, acting as if you wanted this deal—all so you could come here today to insult me? Embarrass me? Why? Do you plan to have me lose my job? Is that it? Are you that petty? You've ignored me for more than five years. How does that end up being
my
fault?”