Cinderella and the Sheikh - By Teresa Morgan Page 0,12

let me do that. Is that so bad?"

"All right." She hated that she was conceding to him. "But I'm going to pay you back."

"Of course." His lips curved in yet another irritating smile. "You can repay me from your bride-price."

Rasyn whipped out a gold pen and signed a check without hesitation. Libby didn’t get a look at the value, but Mr. Gray's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw it.

After tapping his pen on the table twice, Rasyn made out another check. "For Mrs. Zippoli." He passed it to Mr. Gray.

Libby's mouth went dry. She could only watch in astonishment as Mr. Gray looked at the check. Her landlord's eyes bugged out even further than they had when he'd seen the first check.

Once they'd left Mr. Gray's apartment, Rasyn handed her a thin piece of paper. "Will you take this receipt to your friend?"

Libby swallowed. The receipt represented five years of rent. She'd never seen that kind of money. He hadn't even batted an eye at writing that check. Her hands shook just holding it.

"You know," he said. "My grandmother had gray eyes."

Looking at his profile as he stared straight ahead, Libby realized that what she'd said to Mrs. Zippoli was true. Sheikh Rasyn Al Jabar was a good man.

For the first time since they'd met, Libby felt that maybe she did have a chance for happiness with him. Maybe, despite the gulf between their cultures and their backgrounds, they could find a way...

She thought of her mother, pining for her lost love. What if this was Libby's own chance? Could she afford not to try?

"I have to go back upstairs anyway." Libby's heart thudded in her chest. "I think I forgot my passport."

"Ah, yes." He pulled a familiar bound booklet from the inside pocket of his tailored jacket. Her passport. "But I did not."

Chapter Five

Twenty-four hours later, Rasyn walked the halls of the Faridah Palace. All around him, the world spun. Maids carried linens to unknown destinations. Self-important tribal sheikhs stopped to greet him. Guards watched his every move.

If things had been different, all this might have been his. Rasyn shoved the thought from his traitorous mind. He had to put Imaran on the throne, where he deserved to be.

"Cousin," shouted a familiar voice.

Rasyn turned to see a face he knew like his own. In fact, it wasn't too different from his own.

Dressed in a traditional black thobe—a robe with a collar similar to the Chinese style—that matched his close-trimmed beard, Imaran walked toward him with the confidence of a natural ruler. His cousin was the only part of this world that he'd missed while he was in New York.

They embraced, pounding each other on the back like the childhood friends that they were.

By unspoken agreement, they walked together. Both knew the destination, the little green courtyard that had virtually belonged to them as boys.

They talked of Imaran's patrols. There had been some armed skirmishes near the border. As if the news of Uncle Anwar's illness had leaked out, the conflict in Jalaal was threatening to spill into Abbas. Another reason for Rasyn to step up his assault on the waitress' heart.

"So, Rasyn, how is my uncle's favorite nephew?"

Rasyn flinched inwardly. Their uncle's partiality was the one conflict between them. Since both their fathers had died of a fever twenty years ago, his cousin had thirsted for their uncle's love. Unfortunately, their uncle preferred Rasyn.

"Please, Imaran, let us not start that." He answered in English, a habit that had remained from their school days, when they'd practiced the language on each other. "I am simply happy to see you."

"There's no need to be modest, cousin. He likes you better. Everyone knows it."

Rasyn shrugged, wishing for the thousandth time his uncle could see Imaran for the man he was. Or Imaran would stop caring. Soon, none of that would matter, he reassured himself.

They arrived at their courtyard, a shaded square with marble paths and date palms that reached to the sky. Childhood memories invaded his mind. They had chased each other, played like brothers and fought mighty battles by land—a backgammon board—and sea—paper boats in the gushing fountain.

"How is he?" Rasyn asked, referring to their uncle.

Imaran shook his head. "Still confined to his bed. You should go see him soon. He will name you heir before long."

Rasyn inhaled deeply. He loved the old man who had been like a father to him since age ten. But his uncle's love had opened a chasm between him and Imaran.