Free The Sheikh's Reluctant American (The Adjalane Sheikhs #3) by Leslie North

his mother, the blood pounding in his temples. “Nimr is dying?” The words stuck on his tongue. It seemed impossible.
    His mother stood and patted him on the chest. “Please talk with him. You must make it right. It’s not good for a family to be at war with one another—and it is not good for Nimr.”
    Malid forced a smile and took his mother’s hand. “As long as you are well, that is all that matters.” He turned and started for the door, and saw Nigella standing there, shifting from one foot to the other. He ought to introduce her. Instead, he waved from Nigella to his mother. “Mother, this is Nigella. Please see she is made welcome.” With that, he left.
    He headed for where he thought Nimr must be—in his study. The spider sitting at the heart of his web. It was time they had done with all deceptions.
    His father’s study was a room he had come to hate—comfortable leather chairs, books lining one wall, paintings on two of the other walls, French doors that opened into the garden. Malid could only remember the times he had been left standing here, facing his father’s desk, waiting for his father’s disapproval.
    Stepping into the room, Malid saw his father look up. Nimr put down a pen he had been writing with and folded his hands, his dark eyebrows lifted. “You have thought better of your words?”
    “We had an arrangement.”
    Nimr frowned. “I see you still have not thought about anything.”
    Malid threw out a hand. “The mighty Nimr Adjalane—don’t you ever tire of acting the puppet master who makes us all dance?”
    Standing, Nimr put his hands flat on his desk. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
    “And how dare you use my mother as a pawn. She isn’t ill. You are—but I would call it a sickness in the head.” Malid jabbed a finger at his father.
    Nimr straightened and slashed a hand though the air. “None of that matters. And our arrangement was for you to negotiate with Opell Oil—once you had a deal, I would give permission for you to visit. I was hoping you would learn more than you have.”
    Malid took a step forward. “I worked out an excellent deal. I don’t know what devil drives you, but I will not play your games, and I no longer must live by your rules.”
    “From what I can see, you don’t live by any rules. Everything I have tried to do has been for your own good—but you are too blind to see. You are an Adjalane and you belong here to take the family forward. But no…you cannot see that. How did you even get in here?”
    “Nassir brought me.”
    Nimr frowned and sat down suddenly. He clutched his left arm with his right hand. His skin took on an odd pallor—and fatigue filled his eyes. Malid held still, suspecting yet another ploy—another trick. Nimr was never sick—never. He thought of what Nigella had said—that Nimr could not express what he felt. And his mother had said his father was the one who was ill. Well, it did not matter—nothing did. Malid turned to go—he would not be back.
    Before he could, Hassan—Nimr’s servant—came into the room and said, “Gordon Michaels is here to see you.”
     

Chapter 13
    Malid watched as his father tried to pull the cloak of his position around him. He straightened and let go of his arm—but Malid felt as if he’d just seen the first chink in his father’s armor. It made him seem human, something Malid would have sworn would never happen.
    Ignoring Malid, Nimr glanced at Hassan. “Show him in.”
    Gordon Michaels came in as if he had been lurking right behind Hassan. The man looked rushed, his face slightly reddened, his hair tousled. His suit seemed wrinkled by travel and his tie looked as if it had hurriedly been pushed into place. However, Malid knew this was a man to reckon with. From all he had heard, Gordon Michaels had perfected the look of a country-boy—but his reputation was of a shark. Nigella trailed into the room behind him, and sent a frown and a small shake of her head at Malid, as