The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(80)

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.





Chapter Three





Lucy




My first video call with Khabib’s parents came a few days later. His father, Ra’id, looked almost exactly like Khabib, only older, sterner. As our call connected, he paused for a minute, taking me in.

“You are Lucy Morrison?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are aware of the details of our arrangement?”

I nodded and he smiled Mahir’s same unconvincing, lips-together smile.

“I understand you are not overly excited about these added responsibilities, but I cannot stress enough how important this is to me and Khabib’s mother. These past few years we’ve watched with helpless fear as he gallivanted about your city with reckless abandon. All our pleas and advice have gone unheeded; Khabib has left us no choice. I trust you understand that a parent’s love for their child can sometimes know no bounds.”

Another nod, which was probably as feeble as my first. But Ra’id wasn’t here to convince me; he was here to tell me what my responsibilities were.

“My son, as you’ve probably already seen, is an immoderately busy man. He does keep us abreast of many of his activities, particularly those in relation to the business, and yet—” Ra’id paused to tug on his thin mustache, “I fear he is not entirely forthcoming. In fact, as story after tabloid story has proved, my son has been tight-lipped about his…extracurricular activities, in particular.”

I gave my expected nod, and he continued.

“These are the activities his mother and I would like reported to us. If Khabib is engaging in anything he shouldn’t be, we want to be first to know about it. Of course, Khabib will never be informed of this facet of your job as personal assistant to him, nor can you ever at any point reveal what I’ve told you today without risking being immediately fired from your position at Samara Motors. My company needs people they can trust, not someone who shamelessly follows their own interests.”

Now, he was the one who nodded, tugging on his mustache once again.

“Most importantly, however, will be your role in influencing Khabib towards more appropriate activities for a man of his age and position. We aren’t against him having fun—on the contrary, his mother and I want Khabib to be as happy as possible. The only thing is, we know Khabib, and we know this life he lives with rash abandon has not been making him happy. So, it’s up to you to steer him towards things that will be for his better good, things he may one day even come to be grateful to you for.”

As I began to say “And how…” Ra’id continued, not waiting for me to finish.

“Any excuse will do to steer him in the right direction, especially if you can steer him towards the idea of finding himself a suitable, virtuous Arab woman to court…”

At my blank stare, his eyes slightly widened.

“Ah, of course—the wife business. I didn’t mention it yet.”

Another blank stare, but Ra’id was deep in his explanation already.

“We’d like you to find a respectable wife for Khabib. He is already several years older than I was when I married his mother. And I think a nice Arab girl would be good for my son. She would be the stabilizing influence he needs, and add happiness and joy to our whole family. I know such a woman may be harder to find in such a westernized city as Los Angeles, but it is a big city; I’m sure there must be some, somewhere.”

Ra’id paused, finally glancing at me.

“Any questions? Concerns?”

I had no questions and enough concerns to fill a 500-page textbook, but I said nothing, only shook my head.

“Good. So, your added responsibilities start as of now. My family is counting on you, Miss Morrison. Good day.”

And then the call was over, and I was late to work. Though it hardly mattered—as of now, being late was the least of my worries. Yes, my life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.



***





The next few weeks passed in an anxiety-filled, party-filled blur. Khabib took me everywhere with him: to car shows, Hollywood shoots, meetings.