Chapter 13
Paris
Dahlia was waiting for him in the drawing room on the sixth floor.
“A sight for sore eyes,” said Tariq.
“As pretty as a princess?”
“Far prettier,” he said, taking her into his arms. “And not so hairy. Shall I call you Princess Dahlia?”
“Hmm, Princess Dahlia,” she said. “I like the sound of that.”
“Tell me, princess, do you prefer hay or oats with your champagne?”
“Caviar. The real stuff. Beluga from the Caspian Sea.”
“You have royal tastes,” said Tariq.
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” said Dahlia.
Tariq kissed her. She smelled of vanilla and sandalwood. Maybe one day she would be a princess, indeed.
Her name was Dahlia Shugar. She was twenty-eight, tall and blond, the dyed variety, with olive skin, hazel eyes, and a womanly figure.
They’d met at the Bvlgari boutique in Beverly Hills earlier that summer.
She wasn’t a shop girl. She was the store manager.
He’d bought a ruby ring, a diamond Serpenti necklace, and a forty-carat diamond tiara.
The bill was something over $4 million. She had not been impressed.
His request for a date was politely refused.
He returned an hour later with a mocha latte and a red rose.
Only then did she agree to have dinner with him.
Never once did she ask for whom he’d bought the jewelry.
They’d spent the night in his suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. When she slipped from his bed at dawn, he asked himself if he was in love. To his amazement, he decided he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t say no. For Tariq, that was close enough.
And so, he ordered his people to look into her.
Nothing serious. A body frisk, so to speak.
They reported that Dahlia had graduated from UCLA with honors, that she’d lived at her present address for three years, that she held $38,560 in her bank account, and that her parents were, as she’d stated, from Italy and Lebanon, the father Catholic, the mother Maronite, both deceased.
She wasn’t Muslim; then again, she wasn’t a Jew.
A woman who told the truth. Refreshing.
“Come sit with me.” Tariq picked up the crocodile Birkin bag from the couch and placed it on the table.
“I’m not sure I should,” said Dahlia, eyeing him suspiciously.
“The prince commands it.” He patted the couch, and Dahlia sat next to him. He kissed her neck. “Look, I have a picture to show you. From lunch.”
“I don’t want to see the langoustines,” said Dahlia. “I hate food pics.”
“It’s of us,” said TNT, handing her his phone. “Two hundred thousand likes on TikTok already.”
Dahlia studied the selfie of the two of them smiling at their table at the restaurant earlier that afternoon. “Very nice,” she said.
“Is that all?” he asked.
“You look handsome,” said Dahlia.
“Check the background,” said Tariq, pointing to a dark-haired woman seated at a table for two, next to the window, a man across from her with his back to the camera. “It’s her. She didn’t even know it.”
Dahlia regarded the woman. “Yes, I see.”
He kissed her again, placing a hand on her thigh, squeezing her firm flesh. “How do you feel? Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
“Certain?” he asked.
“A bit shaken, to be honest,” said Dahlia. “I’ve never done anything like that.”
“It’s to be expected.” He slipped his finger beneath her undergarment and touched soft, moist skin.
“Please,” she said, arching her back. “Stop.”
“And you are still committed?” he asked.
“Of course,” she whispered. “More than ever.”
“I know you are,” said Tariq, feeling himself stir.
“Please,” said Dahlia. “Someone may come. Stop.”
“Are you sure?” he whispered, kissing her, biting her lip.
“Yes . . . no.”
He slid a finger inside her. “Which one?”
Dahlia moaned, her body trembling. She placed a hand on him. “Damn you.”
“Get on the floor,” he said.
“Here?”
“On the floor.”
“But the door is open—”
“Do as I say.”
“Yes, Tariq.” Dahlia slid off the couch and lay down on the carpet.
Tariq pulled down her skirt and her undergarments. “Yes, my prince.”
“Yes, my prince,” she said, with respect, staring him in the eye.
Tariq unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants to his ankles. He looked upon her. She had not groomed, as he’d requested. The sight enflamed him. With care, he entered her. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him.
When they had finished, he lay by her side, panting. He turned his head and looked in her eyes. She smiled at him wickedly, and he felt himself stir again.
“You are a bad, bad man,” she said.
Tariq smiled, content with himself. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course, my darling. Anything.”
“Who is she?”
Tariq put a finger to her lips. “The enemy, my sweet. The enemy.”