my intern to meet me downstairs—”
“But Miss Winters?” the maid interrupted, her eyes large. “I’ve attempted to contact Miss Flora several times this morning, to no avail.”
Amity frowned, her eyebrows low. Already, her suspicions about Flora were being proven correct. She would party her way through the project, without helping Amity with a single element of the Sheikh’s case. She sighed gruffly. “Very well. I’ll see you soon.”
She shut the door with a clatter and moved to the wardrobe, rifling through her clothes and brushing her hair, thinking she could take a much-needed shower once she’d organized the office and made her first steps toward completion of this project. Her head had rolled the previous evening—with lusty thoughts, with an unexpected crush. But she would blotch it out now, much like she’d blotched out the terrible image of celebrities all over Hollywood. No one spoke about Justin LeGarde’s theft at the Whole Foods anymore, and she wouldn’t think of her attraction to Aziz a single moment longer. She had to think of it the same way.
The office was a long, bright room near the gardens, with massive windows and sea green drapes that arched in the breeze from the corner fans. The maid placed a cup of tea on the table for her, bowing deeply before leaving her alone, a lost figure in the echoing office.
Amity tapped her fingernails against the desk, staring at her computer. After pushing aside her feelings for Aziz, she’d begun to assess the conversations she’d had with him—about his father, about his livelihood in Al-Mabbar. She was starting to cultivate an idea.
After a brief search, she found the numbers for several Al-Mabbar charities, many of which Aziz’s father had worked with closely. She dialed the first number, a charity that worked with young orphans, and summoned her chipper, lively voice.
“Hello there. My name is Amity Winters, and I represent Sheikh Aziz al Arin.”
“Yes, Miss Winters. Thank you for calling. What can we do for His Highness today?”
“Well,” Amity began, knowing her smile could be felt through the phone, “I’d like to make a public donation in the Sheikh’s name. I think you’ll be quite surprised by the sum we’re willing to put down.”
The line was quiet for a bit. Amity knew this must have been a shock—that the spoiled, rampant Sheikh (as he was perceived) would put down such an insane amount of money for a good cause. For orphans, of all things. She waited for the awe, for the questions. She’d used this tactic with several pop stars back in LA, and each time, without fail, the stars had received nothing but good press in the following weeks. This would work like a charm.
“Ah, I’m sorry—” The woman on the other line hesitated.
Amity heard the shuffling of paper, the surprise. But the words that came next nearly knocked her over.
“According to our records, the Sheikh made a substantial donation just a few weeks ago. Quite a hefty sum—larger than the figure you just mentioned—and he asked that he always be recorded anonymously.”
Amity drew her head back. She took a deep breath. “Anonymously?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Winters. I can’t process a public donation for you today. I have to trust what His Highness stated previously.”
Amity thanked the woman and stabbed her finger on the End button, shaking her head. An anonymous donation? Why would he do that?
Frustrated, she turned her gaze to the next charity on her list, one that fought to end hunger. She dialed the number, humming to herself until the call connected. A moment later, the woman on the other end of the line informed her that the Sheikh had done the exact same thing—donated anonymously—only a few weeks before!
Each time she dialed a new organization, she encountered the same problem. And each time, her heart rallied high in her throat, generating anger
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