Sheikh's Scandal(8)

Besides, Liyah had no fantasies that Gene Chatsfield would publicly acknowledge her. Not after a lifetime of him not doing so.

Theirs would always have to be a private relationship. The Chatsfield name had spent enough time in the tabloids. Gene would never willingly be party to dragging it through the red ink of more media scrutiny.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in meeting his twenty-six-year-old daughter.

His payment of support, as modest as it had been, all the way through her college years indicated he felt something toward Liyah. If only obligation.

Just like her obligation to Hena’s memory.

Right. It was time.

Taking a breath to calm her suddenly racing heartbeat, Liyah untucked her mother’s locket from beneath her blouse. She’d worn it every day since Hena had given it to Liyah on her deathbed.

Curling her fingers around the metal warmed by her skin, Liyah took courage from the love and memories that it would always evoke and keyed the elevator for the penthouse level.

A few minutes later, Gene Chatsfield opened his suite’s door, holding a mobile phone against his chest and wearing a puzzled expression on his features. “Yes, Amari?”

Something cold slithered down her spine at her father’s use of her last name. But what else was he supposed to call her? He probably didn’t even know her first name.

That would change in the next hour.

Dismissing the inevitable nerves, Liyah schooled her features into her most comfortable mask of unruffled dignity. “Mr. Chatsfield, I would appreciate a few moments of your time.”

“If this is about your employment here, I have to tell you I trust my human resource and senior housekeeping staff implicitly. It’s no use you looking for special favors from the proprietor and, quite frankly, in very poor taste.”

“It’s nothing like that. Please, Mr. Chatsfield.”

For a moment, Gene Chatsfield looked torn. “Come in,” he said, “and sit down. I just need two minutes.” After the briefest of gestures to the sofa in the lounge area, Gene hovered in the doorway to the room beyond.

“I’m sick of it, Lucca.”

Faintly embarrassed and very uncomfortable to be present for such a clearly personal conversation between Gene and his son, Liyah looked around the room. Beside a large, comfortable chair was a side table that held a glass of what looked like whiskey and a newspaper. The headline screamed across the room. Lucca Chatsfield Does It Again!

What might have once been the amusing antics of a world-renowned playboy—a stranger to her—it now sickened her to know that these scandalous exploits were from her own flesh and blood. She had unfollowed @LuccaChatsfield, wanting no more distractions or information about her family.

“Just keep it off the internet, and for all our sakes, stay the hell away from Twitter,” Gene growled into the phone before cutting the call dead and turning his attention back to Liyah.

If anything, his frown turned more severe, clearly ready to tackle what he saw as another problem. “While I’m aware I must have a certain reputation among the chambermaids, my days of dallying in that direction are years in the past.”

Liyah couldn’t hide the revulsion even the thought of what he was implying caused. “That is not why I’m here.”

Inexplicably, he smiled. “I’m glad to hear it. My fiancée is a possessive woman.”

And he was a former lothario with a past he no doubt wanted to keep exactly where it was. Buried.

“You know, this was a bad idea. I’m sorry I bothered you.” She couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again, but she was leaning toward the idea that maybe...really, it wouldn’t.

No matter what Hena had wanted.

“Nonsense. You’ve interrupted my afternoon for a reason. Come in.” He stepped back and indicated with an imperious wave of his hand that she should enter.

“Are you sure you’re not the emir around here?” she muttered under her breath as she did as he bid.

Apparently, he heard her, because he laughed, the sound startled. “You are no shrinking violet, I’ll give you that, Amari.”

“My name is Aaliyah, though I usually go by Liyah.” It sounded more American, even if the spelling was pure Middle Eastern.

“We are not on a first-name basis,” he replied with a return to his superior, if wary, demeanor of earlier.

She nodded acknowledgment even if she couldn’t give verbal agreement. He was her father; they should be on a first-name basis.

He led her into a posh living room with cream furniture, the walls the same saffron as a great deal of the hotel. Recessed lighting glowed down from the arched ceiling and a fire burned in the ornate white marble fireplace.

“Please, sit down.” He indicated one of the armchairs near the fire before taking the one opposite.

She settled into the chair, her hands fisting against her skirt-covered thighs nervously. “I’m not sure how to start.”

“The beginning is usually the best place.”

She nodded and then had a thought. Taking the locket from around her throat she handed it to him.

“This is a lovely, antique piece of jewelry. Are you hoping to sell it?” he asked, sounding confused rather than offended by that prospect.

“No. Please open it and look at the pictures inside.” One was of Liyah on her sixteenth birthday and the other was of Hena Amari at the same age.