Читать книгу Promised To A Sheikh - Carla Cassidy - Страница 10

“Sheik Al Abdar, could you tell us if this impromptu visit to Texas is for business or pleasure?”

Sheik Omar Al Abdar flashed a slightly cool smile at the female reporter whose voice had risen above the others. He’d only just stepped out of the private jet that had flown him from his small, Middle East country of Gaspar to a private airstrip just outside Mission Creek, Texas.

“I was unaware that the press had been alerted to my presence here in Texas,” he replied.

“When one of the most eligible bachelors in the world comes to Texas, Texas sits up and takes notice,” the reporter responded with a dazzling smile.

Omar paid her no attention. His mind was focused on his mission.

What if she says no? The question came unbidden to Omar’s mind and he shoved it away, refusing to consider the possibility.

Rashad Aziz held up his hands to halt the volley of questions. “Please, please, His Royal Highness has traveled a long distance today and is eager to get to his destination. He will answer no questions at this time.”

As if on an unspoken cue, several guards moved into position, shielding Sheik Omar from the small crowd of reporters as they ushered him toward an awaiting car.

“Thank you, Rashad.” Omar smiled at his personal assistant once they were all settled in the car and pulling away from the circle of reporters. “It would appear the owner of the airstrip leaked the information about our arrival here.”

Rashad Aziz, a petite man in his fifties with skin the color of a coconut shell and a cynicism Omar often found amusing, grimaced. “I’m sure he was paid handsomely for giving the information to those vultures.”

Rashad withdrew a small pad from his breast pocket. “We have made arrangements for you at the Brighton Hotel in Mission Creek. The Ashbury Suite will be yours for as long as you like. I spoke to the owner of the hotel myself, and he has assured me that his entire staff is eager to see that your every wish is granted.”

“I’m sure it will be just fine,” Omar said absently. “And now you will tell the driver that we will go to the Carson Ranch before checking into the hotel.”

Rashad didn’t blink an eye even though the plan had been for Omar to go immediately to his hotel. Rashad moved to the seat directly behind the limo driver and quickly relayed the change in plans. He remained seated there, as if instinctively recognizing that the sheik wanted a few moments with his own thoughts.

Omar stared out the window at the passing landscape. It irritated him that the press knew he was here. He’d hoped to fly into Mission Creek, accomplish his goal, then return to Gaspar without the glare of the media upon him.

He did not want the press to be privy to his personal business, and this trip to Texas was strictly personal. When he succeeded, he’d be more than happy for the world to know what he’d done.

What if she says no? Again the question came from nowhere to plague him with the disturbing possibility. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a photograph.

The picture was of a young woman in a shimmering silver ball gown. The dark brown wavy hair that framed her heart-shaped face complemented her peaches-and-cream complexion. He remembered her eyes had been like emeralds, flirting and dancing and surrounded by thick, long lashes. A beauty mark at the corner of her mouth drew attention to the lush, thoroughly kissable-looking lips.

Elizabeth Fiona Carson. She’d been twenty-one years old when the photo was taken at a cotillion Omar had attended in this very town. That had been six years ago—and now he had come to claim her as his bride.

What if she says no?

He tucked the photo back in his pocket and straightened up in the seat. Of course she would not say no. He was Sheik Omar Al Abdar, King of Gaspar. Any woman would be proud to be chosen by him as his wife.

As the driver turned onto the Carson property, Omar once again turned his attention out the window. The Carson ranch was known throughout Texas for the quality of its cattle, but he was more interested in the fact that this was Elizabeth’s home, the place of her birth and her upbringing.

In the letters they had exchanged over the past year, she had spoken of this place and of her parents with great affection.

Although not nearly as big as his palace back in Gaspar, the main house was certainly impressive. A large porch ran the length of the front of the massive house, along with dozens of large windows.

The grounds were well kept, manicured to perfection and with aesthetically pleasing flower gardens and an abundance of trees.

As the car began to turn into the half-moon driveway in front of the house, Omar leaned forward. “No,” he said. “Not the main house. There should be a caretaker’s cottage somewhere on the premises.” He pointed to an offshoot drive that led past a four-car garage. “There. Go there.”

The driver did his bidding, passing the garage and other outbuildings. In the distance Omar spied the small cottage where he knew Elizabeth lived.

He knew it not only from the letters she’d written him, but by the baskets of flowers that hung from the small porch. She’d told him she loved flowers.

As the car came to a halt before the little cottage, Omar felt a curious fluttering in the pit of his stomach. It couldn’t be nerves, he thought. He was a sheik, the king of his country. He didn’t get nervous, he made other people nervous.

Hunger. Surely that was what made his stomach roll. They had traveled all day to arrive in Texas, and their last meal had been far too long ago.

Rashad opened the door to allow him to step out. With a head full of thoughts about the woman inside the cottage, Omar absently smoothed a hand down the front of his Armani suit, hoping he didn’t appear too travel rumpled.

As Omar walked up to the front door, his two bodyguards stationed themselves on either side of the porch and Rashad returned to the back of the limo.

Omar drew a deep breath, aware that this would be one of the defining moments of his life. At thirty-eight years old, it was far past time he claimed a bride, and even though he hadn’t seen Elizabeth Fiona Carson for six years, she was the woman he had chosen to make his wife.

He knocked on the door, at the same time aware of the sweet scent of the nearby flower baskets. He made a mental note to ensure there were always fresh-cut flowers in her rooms at the palace.

The door opened, and Omar gazed at his bride-to-be. “Elizabeth,” he said. In an instant he drank in the sight of her, pleased that she looked just as he remembered.

“Omar!” Her brilliant green eyes widened in shock at the same time her hands raced first to her hair, then to smooth down the front of her dress.

Even though her dark wavy hair was slightly tousled and the denim dress she wore was rather plain, she looked lovely, and the desire he’d felt for her on that night so long ago sprang to life as if the six intervening years had never occurred.

“Wha—what are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming to Texas. I just got your last letter today, and you didn’t mention a word about coming here.” She bit her bottom lip, as if aware she was rambling.

Omar found the rambling charming. He smiled at her, more certain than ever of what he was about to do. “I didn’t let you know I was coming to Texas because I wanted to surprise you.”

“You’ve certainly done that,” she replied. “Uh, would you like to come in?”

“I would not be so thoughtless as to appear un-announced on your doorstep and expect you to entertain me,” he replied. “I have yet to check in to my hotel, but I wanted to stop here first and ask you an important question.”

“Question?” She still looked stunned by his appearance. Again she raked a hand through her hair, and he noticed her hand trembled slightly. “What kind of a question?”

He captured her fluttering hand in his, and again her beautiful green eyes widened. He could smell her fragrance, a floral scent that instantly reminded him of the night at the cotillion.

She had bewitched him that night, blatantly flirting and charming every man in attendance, and Omar had been no exception. But at that time Omar had been no more ready for marriage than she had been.

“Elizabeth, I’ve come to tell you how much I have enjoyed our correspondence over the past year, that through your letters I feel as if I have come to know your mind and your heart.”

Her eyes seemed to grow even wider, and he tightened his hand around hers. “Elizabeth Fiona Carson, I have come to Texas to claim you as my wife. Will you marry me?”

Elizabeth Cara Carson stared at the handsome man before her, fighting against the panic that urged her to jerk her hand away, turn and flee into the cottage.

This can’t be happening, she thought frantically. “Omar…I…I…this is so sudden,” she finally managed to say as she pulled her hand from his. In truth, this was not only sudden, it was a disaster!

“I have taken you by surprise,” he said, stating the obvious.

“That’s certainly an understatement.” She had known from the photos she’d seen of him since their one and only meeting six years ago that he had matured into a devastatingly handsome man.

However, no picture had prepared her for the dark, liquid warmth of his eyes, or the impossible width of his broad shoulders. No pictures had prepared her for the hard, masculine planes of his face, a masculinity tempered by long, dark eyelashes and a soft smile.

Omar nodded. “I will leave you now to contemplate my proposal. Would you do me the honor of having lunch with me tomorrow? We can discuss our future at that time. I’m staying at the Brighton downtown.”

“Lunch?” she echoed.

“I will send a car for you at noon. Does that sound all right?” His dark eyes were bottomless pools that beckoned her in. But she averted her gaze from his, refusing to fall into the seductive depths.

She was in trouble—big trouble—and perhaps by noon the next day she would be able to get it all sorted out.

“That would be fine,” she agreed. “Lunch tomorrow. I’ll be ready at noon.”

“Good. I look forward to it.” He gave her a small, formal bow, then turned on his heels and headed back to his awaiting car.

Our future. The words rang in Cara’s ears as she watched the stretch limo disappear from her sight. The minute the car was gone, she flew into the cottage and grabbed the phone.

Fiona. She had to get in touch with Fiona. Quickly she punched in the numbers that would ring in her sister’s quarters at the main house.

“You know I want to talk to you.” Fiona’s voice purred in Cara’s ear. “Unfortunately, I’m not here at the moment, but please leave your name—”

Cara hung up, suddenly remembering that that morning her sister had been whining over the fact it was Saturday night and she didn’t have a date. Fiona had decided to spend the unusual free Saturday night at Body Perfect, the spa in the Lone Star Country Club.

Cara grabbed her car keys and left her cottage. She had to talk to Fiona. She had to tell her that Sheik Omar was here, in Texas, and had just proposed marriage to her—only, he thought she was Fiona. Things were suddenly a major mess.

It took only minutes for Cara to reach the Lone Star Country Club. As always as she pulled up in front of the impressive four-story pink granite building, a swell of pride filled her heart.

The resort and country club was part of her legacy, built partially on Carson land by her grandfather and a neighbor, J. P. Wainwright, in 1923. In the intervening years the country club had become world renowned for its luxury, many amenities and top-notch staff.

But Cara’s pride lasted only a moment, quickly swallowed by the imminent need to talk to her sister.

She parked her car beneath the covered portico and jumped out. “Hi, Larry,” she said to the awaiting valet.

“Ms. Carson, nice to see you again,” he said as he took her keys from her.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” she said, then flew through the doors that led to the huge lobby. She nodded and smiled to the people she knew as she hurried to the elevators.

Body Perfect, the ladies’ spa and beauty salon was located on the second floor. The receptionist greeted her in surprise. “Cara!” She frowned and looked at her computer screen. “I didn’t realize you had an appointment this evening.”

“I don’t. I just need to speak to my sister,” Cara replied. “Can you tell me where she is?”

“She has an appointment for a massage with Heidi in fifteen minutes, and I think she was going into the sauna before her massage.”

“Thanks,” Cara said, then rushed toward the changing room just outside the sauna.

As she changed her clothes and grabbed one of the white, fluffy body towels provided, she thought of that moment when she’d opened her door and seen Sheik Omar on her front porch.

She wouldn’t have been more stunned if the Easter bunny had been standing there in all his floppy-eared splendor.

Omar had asked for her hand in marriage. Cara’s stomach clenched. Suddenly the harmless little deceit she and Fiona had indulged in for the past year didn’t seem so harmless anymore.

Fiona would know what to do. Fiona was good at extricating herself from trouble. Cara opened the door and stepped into the steamy mists of the sauna.

She instantly spied her sister, prone on one of the benches, a hand towel covering her face. She was thankful there was nobody else using the facility at the moment.

“Fiona,” Cara said as she poked her sister in the side.

Fiona yelped and grabbed the towel from her face. “Cara, what are you doing here?” she asked in surprise. She sat up and faced Cara.

The two women were identical twins. The only difference was the location of their beauty marks. Cara’s was just above her lips on the left side and Fiona’s was just above her lips on the right side. Mirror images.

“We’re in trouble,” Cara said without preamble. She sat down next to her sister on the bench. “Guess who showed up on my front doorstep ten minutes ago?”

“I can’t imagine.” Fiona raked her fingers through her damp hair.

“Sheik Omar Al Abdar.” Cara watched as her twin sister’s green eyes widened in shock. “He asked me to marry him, Fiona.”

Fiona stared at her another moment, then threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, this is just too amusing!”

Cara swallowed a sigh of irritation. Fiona never took anything seriously. “Fiona, the man proposed to me, but he thinks I’m you.”

Fiona eyed her sister curiously. “What on earth did you write in those letters to inspire a marriage proposal?”

Cara shrugged. “Just stuff,” she replied. Her dreams, her hopes, her innermost thoughts—that was what she had written to Sheik Omar, and at the end of each letter she had signed her sister’s name.

Fiona waved a hand dismissively. “Well, I’m certainly not going to marry any sheik,” she exclaimed. “Besides, if I remember correctly, Sheik Omar is old.”

“He isn’t old,” Cara instantly protested, thinking of the man she’d seen only minutes earlier. “He’s only thirty-eight.” And he’d looked as fit and as virile as any twenty-year-old, she mentally added. “He’s quite handsome and he wants to have lunch tomorrow to discuss our future together.”

“So, have lunch with him and keep your mouth shut.” Even through the steam, Cara could see the bright sparkle of her sister’s eyes. “Oh, Cara, have a little fun with this!”

“I couldn’t do that,” Cara said softly, although Fiona’s words held a provocative appeal. “He should know the truth.”

“Why? Why does he need to know that I got tired of writing him letters and you kept up the correspondence with him?”

She grabbed Cara’s hands in hers. “Your life is such a bore. I’m not saying you have to actually marry him, but you’re twenty-seven years old and have never had anything exciting happen in your life—other than that dreadful incident last year in school. Wouldn’t you love to have a great story to tell your grandchildren someday?”

The “dreadful incident” was what had prompted Cara to decide not to renew her contract as an English teacher at the high school for this year.

“The way my love life is going, I’ll probably never have grandchildren,” she replied softly.

“Of course you will,” Fiona exclaimed. “You’re the type who will eventually fall madly in love and settle for a life of simple domesticity, complete with kids and a dog.”

Cara grinned. “You make it sound like a fate worse than death.”

“It’s fine for other women.” Fiona grinned impudently. “I just have loftier ideas for myself.” Her grin faded and once again she reached for Cara’s hands. “Go for it, Cara. How many times in your life are you going to be able to be engaged to a sheik?”

Cara said nothing, for a moment remembering the warmth of Omar’s hand around hers, the sweet appeal in the depths of his eyes. Would it be so terrible to pretend for just a couple of days to be Elizabeth Fiona Carson instead of Elizabeth Cara Carson?

Certainly she would love to get an opportunity to talk in person to the man whose letters had so touched her heart. She would love to spend just a little bit of time being somebody special in his life.

“Go for it. I’ll even make it easier on you,” Fiona said, pulling Cara from her inward thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

Fiona took the hand towel and dabbed at her forehead. “I’ve been so utterly bored the past couple of weeks that I’ve been toying with the idea of taking a little vacation. First thing in the morning I’ll hop a jet to Paris for a week or two. That way I’ll be out of town and there will be no chance that Omar will realize you aren’t me.”

Cara was silent for a moment, thinking of all the reasons she shouldn’t indulge in such a subterfuge, yet unable to still the sweet anticipation that rushed through her as she realized she was going to do it.

“And, Cara, if you are going to be me, please do me justice,” Fiona said dryly. Then she placed the towel over her face and once again stretched out on the bench.

Just for a couple of days, Cara told herself minutes later as she showered, then dressed once again. She would pretend to be the woman Omar had been so taken with at the cotillion, the woman whose signature she’d signed to the dozens of letters she’d written him.

Just for a couple of days she wanted the opportunity to shine in somebody else’s eyes. In Omar’s eyes. Eventually she would tell him she couldn’t marry him, and he would return to Gaspar none the wiser.

It seemed a foolproof plan, but Cara had a feeling the only fool in the whole plan might just be her, for even contemplating such an adventure.

As Cara Carson left the Lone Star Country Club, two waitresses in the country club’s Yellow Rose Café went on break together.

“So, Daisy, do you have any big plans for the rest of the weekend?” Ginger Walton asked, as the two sat down at the small table in the break room.

Haley Mercado, who for the past six months had been pretending to be Daisy Parker, smiled at Ginger. The auburn-haired, blue-eyed young woman had, in the past couple of months, become a good friend. “Yeah, I’m working tonight, then I’m working tomorrow night.”

Ginger laughed. “Me, too. At least working all these hours keeps us out of trouble, right?”

“Right,” Haley replied, although nothing could be further from the truth in her case. She was in a world of trouble.

Working undercover for the FBI, Haley was not only pretending to be somebody she wasn’t, she was also tied emotionally and by blood to one of the most powerful families in the Texas Mafia. And that was just the beginning of her woes.

“Just think,” Ginger continued as she opened a bag of potato chips. “Maybe someday we’ll be here waiting tables with tired feet and sore backs and our Prince Charmings will waltz in and take us away from all this.”

Haley snorted in appropriate Daisy-like fashion. “Honey, I gave up on the notion of Prince Charming a long time ago,” she exclaimed in the thick accent she’d adopted for her new persona.

“Not me,” Ginger replied, a dreamy expression in her eyes. “I’m not looking for a man to take care of me or anything like that,” she hurriedly added. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. But it would be nice to have somebody special to share my life with, somebody who adored me as much as I adored him.”

Ginger’s words stirred a memory in Haley, one she rarely allowed to surface in her mind. A single night of passion spent in the arms of the man she’d loved from afar for years. Her heart ached as she thought of the consequence of that night.

She shoved away the memory, knowing that to indulge herself in thoughts of the past and that man would only make her life now more difficult. And things were difficult enough already.

“Where does Harvey have you stationed for tomorrow night?” Ginger asked.

“The Men’s Grill,” Haley replied.

“Lucky you, the tips are always good in there,” Ginger replied.

Yeah, lucky me, Haley thought. She’d already told her contacts at the FBI that she was assigned to the grill the following night. That meant when she came to work the next evening she’d be wired, and her goal would be to record any conversations that might take place that could bring down the Mafia.

The temporary Men’s Grill was the place where power was wielded, deals were made, and bargains were sealed. In the smoky confines of the private bar and restaurant, “the family” met to conduct business.

“The family” included members of her family, the Mercados, and part of her deal with the FBI was that she would help tumble the Mafia in exchange for immunity for her father, Johnny, and her brother, Ricky.

However, there was one man Haley hoped to bring to his knees. Frank Del Brio. His very name caused a chill of fear to race up her spine. Fear coupled with rage.

Since the death of Carmine Mercado, the head of the “family,” there had been rumors that her brother was the logical choice to take his place. Haley had also heard rumors that Frank Del Brio was acting as if he was already the new don.

But that wasn’t why Haley wanted to see him arrested and locked up for the rest of his life.

Frank Del Brio had briefly been her fiancé. It had been because of him that she’d had to fake her own death and was now working with the FBI. He’d been responsible for her estrangement from her family, for the plastic surgery she’d undergone to transform her features and for the murder of her mother.

“Hey, am I paying you two to sit in here all night?” Harvey Small, the manager of the Lone Star Country Club, stuck his head into the break room. “Break is over. I need you on the floor.”

“Back to the salt mines,” Ginger said. She crumpled up her empty chip bag, tossed it into the nearby trash container, then stood.

“Yeah, no rest for the wicked,” Haley said, also standing.

Maybe tomorrow night she would get the information the FBI needed and the mob would be busted. Frank would be thrown in jail, and Haley could reclaim her life. She could be reunited with all the people she loved.

And maybe tomorrow night Frank Del Brio would recognize her beneath her disguise and all would be lost. She shoved this frightening thought out of her head as she and Ginger hurried back to work.