Amity’s heart pitter-pattered in the silence that followed. She didn’t know what to say. Her other clients with awful images, who were often involved in hedonistic parties or terrible divorces or this or that, never really cared how she saw them. They generally treated her like garbage and expected her to pick up the pieces of their reputations, without remorse.
And yet: this first meeting with Aziz confused her, spun her on her head. Here was a billionaire who truly cared about his countrymen, about his deceased father’s image, about his future. And furthermore: he cared about what she, t
he PR rep, thought of him. She felt cold chills spike up her arms, despite the 90-degree heat, and she rubbed at them with absent fingers.
“I understand,” she finally spoke, her voice meek. “And I appreciate the metaphor.”
“I had a good feeling about you,” Aziz said warmly. He gestured toward the plates, then, trying to wade through the awkward waters he’d drawn for them. “Eat up, Amity. Trust me, it’s going to be a difficult couple of days, readjusting to the schedule here. I’ve flown from Los Angeles one too many times; the jetlag is not an easy one to crack.”
“As long as I can get a nap in later, I’ll be fine,” Amity said, opting once more for her professional voice. “Would it be possible for the limo to take my intern to the hotel while we eat? I’m sure she’s ready to sleep in a bed by now.”
“Of course,” Aziz said, gesturing to his right-hand bodyguard, who then rushed off to tell the driver to leave. “You can ride with me. We can eat here before heading into the city—if that suits you, of course.”
Amity agreed and watched as the limo containing Flora spun tires from the scene and rushed back towards the city, winding down that dune road. “I assume our accommodations are close to yours?”
“Your intern’s hotel is located directly across from my apartment block,” Aziz confirmed. “I’ve booked her the presidential suite. You won’t have to interact with each other unless you’re meeting on business.”
“That’s perfect,” Amity said. “And I’ll be staying at that hotel, as well?”
The Sheikh hesitated, his eyes searching the horizon. “Actually, I’ve arranged different accommodations for you. I’ll need to work with you incredibly closely, you understand. I want this to be a swift process, which means we’ll need to work together basically every day.”
“And what does that mean for my accommodations?” Amity asked hesitantly.
“You’ll be staying in my downtown mansion. Fear not, it’s big enough for two—several floors, not a studio like you might be used to in Los Angeles,” he offered. She could tell his voice was genuine, not attempting to brag.
“Anyway. You’ll have a suite of rooms all to yourself, with plenty of time to work. I’ll show you when we arrive.”
Amity looked down, her heart beating strangely in her chest. Why did it excite her to be staying in the same mansion as this man? It never normally excited her to speak to a client. Pure business. That was her mantra. Pure. Business.
The pair finished their breakfast, and Aziz stood up, adjusting his suit. He looked so suave, it nearly took Amity’s breath away.
She stood as well, donning her sunglasses. “I don’t know how you handle this heat all the time.”
“Not so different from L.A., now, is it? Maybe fewer tourists…” he said, winking before sliding his sunglasses over his eyes. He lifted his elbow to her and she accepted it, walking alongside him as they descended from the dune.
The bodyguards flanked them until they reached the second limo. Aziz cracked the door and allowed her to enter. She leaned her head against the rest, taking a deep inhale of the air conditioning.
“All right,” Aziz said, cracking her another smile. “Let’s get into the city. I want to show you what this place is really about.”
FIVE
The limo spun its wheels, making clouds in the sand, much like the car that had whisked Flora away. Amity wrung her hands together, gazing out at the dunes. The beauty of the scenery was unimaginable, truly—a world she couldn’t yet comprehend. She couldn’t find the correct words to say to Aziz, so she sat in silence, her brain humming.
But Aziz continued speaking, telling her about his life in the city and what it was like growing up there. “My mother died when I was eight,” he explained, bowing his head. “I suppose I went a little crazy after that. My father left me alone often, given that he was so busy with the company and then with his charity work. That was really when the city was booming. We were competing with so many other countries, but the money just kept streaming in. Oh, look. This is the best view of the city.”
Amity’s gaze zipped toward the window again and she caught the view: dozens of skyscrapers rocketing into the sky, sprawling apartment blocks, and towering palm trees. The beauty was staggering, and yet, she tried to stay nonchalant. After all, she was meant to be the yuppie from L.A. Nothing was meant to distract her; nothing was meant to seem “bigger” than her.
“So,” Aziz began, his voice warm. “When did you arrive in Los Angeles? I assume you aren’t from there. You don’t seem like a born and bred California girl, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
Amity raised her eyebrows. Clients rarely wanted to discuss her personal life. And really, what kind of personal life did she have, anyway? “Um, you’re correct, actually! I’m from the Midwest. Minnesota.”
“But California called your name?”
“At least for a while,” Amity admitted. She felt bizarre, already divulging this information. But she kept her chipper, professional demeanor. “I’m planning to open a New York office quite soon. I’ve longed to travel for a long time. This opportunity to come to Al-Mabbar—well, it was the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Aziz said.
The limo took a left then, and led them down a massive shopping avenue. The ambiance could not have been less like L.A., Amity thought.
Glancing around her, she was nearly speechless. Gorgeous, olive-skinned people sat outside cafés, their chins pointed toward the immense blue sky. They sipped coffees and teas and ate breakfasts similar