The Sheikh's Virgin Bride(81)
At first, I accompanied him with shy reticence, trying to casually steer him to the tamer parts of each event, as I had been instructed. We lingered by the food table, avoided the drinks as long as possible. I tried roping him into conversation with any female who looked remotely Middle Eastern and unmarried.
Yet, soon enough, I found myself irresistibly gravitating to the wilder parts along with Khabib too: the exploding spectacles of opening champagne bottles, the blaring dance floors, the delicious masterpieces of cocktails. We went to wrap parties on the weekends, spending the night dancing and drinking until we collapsed into a limo that took us to the next car show. We gulped down coffee and popped sleeping pills like they were going out of style.
And yet, still, every Monday at 7 p.m., I sat down on my rickety kitchen chair and told Ra’id everything. That is, everything, minus a few particular details, such as the drinking and late-night partying. If Khabib’s parents had wanted a good spy, they should have searched for someone with credentials, not some born-and-raised California girl whose closest experience to spying was following her crush home as a pigtailed six-year-old.
Even so, even as I tirelessly detailed every car show, meeting, and wrap party that Khabib and I attended, even with my failed attempts at matchmaking, Ra’id was still unsatisfied.
“There must be something more—you did not see my son disappear with any women? Go into any back room or anything like that?”
To my “No, I’m sorry”, the clean-cut man only frowned.
“Just make sure to be on the lookout for any suitable wives at these functions you go to. Some nice, upstanding woman—there must be some nice Arab women around at these events, no?”
“Maybe,” I said, though mentally I was doing the biggest eye-roll of the century.
Unless Ra’id considered car models or actresses who had posed nude to be “nice Arab women”, then he was sadly out of luck. Still, I promised to do my best, which wasn’t entirely a lie. After all, there were no suitable women for me to foist on Khabib. Though, truthfully, even if there were, I wouldn’t venture to do such a thing, not anymore.
Khabib was different than I had expected, kinder. Now, in my kitchen after my latest “spy video chat” with Ra’id, I sat back and thought of the latest extravagant wrap party we’d gone to, just a few days ago. I’d shown up in the nicest dress I had, a stunning royal blue satin gown.
“I do love that dress,” Khabib had joked, his eyes lingering on me approvingly, “But it seems like I’ve seen it several times these last few weeks—is it the only one you have?”
To my faltering “Yes”, he had almost looked embarrassed, before instead joking, “I guess I don’t pay you enough for a proper Hollywood-ready wardrobe, eh?”
My embarrassed, strangled laugh had been so unconvincing that I’d had no choice but to explain, “My mom, she’s sick. The drugs are expensive.”
At this, Khabib had looked like he was the one who wanted to disappear into the soft velvet carpet underfoot (when I was the one who actually wanted to disappear). He had put his hand on my shoulder.
“Lucy, I…I had no idea. I’m so sorry. Do you…need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
His touch had been warm, gentle, gentler than I’d have thought. That had been the first time he hadn’t spoken to me with his usual smoothness, and his awkwardness had been endearing. I had shaken my head.
“No, I’m fine. Really, it’s…it’s just been a bad month. But thank you.”
I’d put my hand on his, and our gazes had met. For a second, I’d felt the warmth of his hand shoot down the rest of my body with an excited tremble. Sliding his hand away, his gaze still on mine, Khabib had smiled.
“Your concern for your family, I really respect that. Your country is a wonder in many ways. And yet—” a shadow had crossed his face, “In other ways, not so much. The value placed on family, for instance. It seems like most people here do not have it to the same extent as you, and are lonelier. It is refreshing to find that is not universally the case.”
At the admiration in his dark eyes, I had been momentarily speechless. When I’d shifted my gaze away to my hands, I’d found the words.
“Thank you, I…well. My mom’s always been there for me, always been my greatest supporter, my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Feeling tears forming in my eyes, I had moved my hand to brush them away. But it was too late; when my hand had been inches away from my face, Khabib had grabbed it. Catching my surprised, nervous look, he’d put my hand down and patted it.
“Don’t be ashamed of your devotion to your mother. Or anything else, for that matter. Your authenticity is one of the things I like best about you. Lucy, these past few weeks…”
He had fallen silent, then his gaze had flicked to the dance floor. Grabbing my hand, he had grinned.
“What do you say we dance the night away?”
And dance it away we had. We’d moved and grooved until we’d been completely out of breath and our faces had hurt from smiling so much. It had been an unbelievable experience—me in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by gorgeous Hollywood stars and a whole bunch of strangers and yet, despite that, dancing as if I was alone in my room. Dancing as if I was the type of person who went out dancing, who had wild, irreverent fun.