Aimee was almost within sight of Becker’s Courier Services when she saw Peter biking quickly toward her from up ahead, hollering, “Hey, Wheels!”
She wondered with amusement what the drama was this time. He slid sideways to a stop on the bicycle.
“You’ve got a ghost,” he announced. His heavy breathing formed a thick fog in the cold air.
Aimee slid her foot lightly along the sidewalk to slow her skateboard. “Who is it?” she asked.
Peter shrugged. “Don’t know. Carl says it’s the Feds. Polly thinks it’s the Mafia. Since you’ve probably pissed off both, I’m not betting on either one.”
Aimee resisted rolling her eyes at him. “Fat lot of good you are. Can you at least describe them? That might help me narrow down if I’m about to do time in the slammer or wear new concrete boots for the winter,” she dryly stated.
“I dunno. Tall, dark, foreign-looking, bathing in money. Guess that rules out the Feds. I’ll go with the Mafia,” Peter said with a shrug.
Aimee’s heart skipped. “Not Mafia. Middle East somewhere,” she guessed.
Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You trying to rule out any safe place to hide?” he quipped.
She did roll her eyes at that comment. “You remember the shooting down at the Harris building last week?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You saw it?”
She grinned. “I not only saw it, I might have tackled some rich dude and saved his life.”
“You’re shitting me, right? I heard that two guys came in and were iced by this Sheikh’s bodyguards. I never heard anything about a lowly courier from Becker’s being involved,” Peter exclaimed.
“Not only involved, I’ve got the stitches from being shot to prove it,” she boasted with a twinkle in her eye.
“Damn it.”
“You keep betting against me, you’ll never be able to get out of here,” she teased.
Peter gave her a crooked grin. “I’m not paying until I see the evidence. Piggy may still have you beat. He had to have three pins in his ankle.”
Aimee shook her head. “Piggy broke his ankle when he stepped off a curb while eating a hot dog. Self-damage through inattentiveness does not count.”
“So, do you think he’s here to give you a big thank you reward for saving his life?” Peter curiously asked.
Aimee shrugged. “I hope not. As much as I could use it, I’ve got a policy about not taking rewards for doing the right thing.”
“You’ve got a really messed up code of honor, girl. Just promise me if he offers you a million dollars, you’ll give it to me. I don’t think so highly of myself that I would turn it down,” Peter said.
“I’ll consider it,” she dryly replied before motioning for him to start pedaling. “How about a lift back?”
Peter snorted, but kicked off. Aimee grabbed the back of his seat and let him pull her along the uneven sidewalk.
She didn’t bother hiding the pleased smile when she saw the trio of vehicles parked in front of Stanley’s place. The long limousine’s windows were dark in the back so she couldn’t see who was inside, but she knew who it would be.
She released the back of Peter’s bike and glided over the cement, her attention moving from the limo to the door when a familiar figure appeared. Her smile grew as she came to a stop a couple of feet in front of him.
“It’s nice to see you’re still in one piece without me there to save you,” she teased.
Heat rushed through Qadir the moment he saw Aimee gliding on her skateboard behind the tall, lanky man who had rushed out of Becker’s Courier Services minutes before. He devoured her with his gaze, assessing that she was alright. The frustrations of the past week melted away under the intensity of her brilliant, infectious smile.
His discussion with Stanley Becker had been brief. The old man was hard as nails and more protective than a Pitbull. The man wouldn’t even tell him her full name. He was beginning to wonder if anyone knew it. The investigator his brother hired had discovered nothing—no birth certificate, no Social Security card, no driver’s license, not even a library card. It was as if the woman didn’t exist—yet here she was, at last.
“You have not been at work,” he said.
Mischief gleamed in her eyes and he could have sworn she was 'amirat khurafia, a fairy princess, casting her spell on him. He was a willing conquest for his mysterious sprite. Tarek’s words of caution hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm the slightest bit.
“I’ve been at work, just not delivering the messages you’ve been sending,” she stated, kicking her skateboard and catching it in midair.
With exasperation, he grasped her slender waist, which was once again camouflaged by the worn, baggy coat she wore, and looked into her eyes. She warmed his blood, and he was certain she felt the same shock of awareness that he did.
“Why?” he asked in a low voice.
The expression in her eyes softened. “Because you weren’t sending the right one.”
Qadir briefly closed his eyes and muttered a curse in Arabic, thankful that she wouldn’t understand what he was saying.
“There is a dinner tonight. I would like you to attend it with me,” he said.
Her peal of warm laughter made her cheeks flush a rosy shade.
He tilted his head in defiant bemusement. If he weren’t a supremely confident man, a response like hers might make him worry. At least, that was what he told himself as he worried.
When her laughter died, her own bemusement showed in the smile that curved her lips.
“I might be a little underdressed for any party you invite me to,” she said softly with a shake of her head.
“I do not even know what color your hair is,” he suddenly said, fingering her knitted cap.
She tugged the cap further down on her head. The challenging look was back in her eyes, but then she studied him curiously. She slid her hand over his.
“If you want to see my hair, you’ll have to tell me when and where the party is. I’ll be there,” she promised.
He smiled with satisfaction, though his confusion at her assumptions showed in his eyes. “I will send a car for you, of course. As far as clothing is concerned, pick out anything you wish at LaClaire’s and have them place it on my account.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And how does that work? Can any old street bum walk into LaClaire’s and order up an outfit?”
“I will inform Chantel you will be coming. Call me if you need anything,” he said, pulling a black business card from his pocket. “It has my direct line.”
Aimee slowly took the card from him. With wary confusion, she glanced at his face and then examined the card before sliding it into her pocket.
“I have to go now,” Qadir said with regret, “but I will see you this evening. Call the number on the front of the card and give my assistant your address. Unfortunately, I will be in meetings and will not be there myself to pick you up, but I will wait with bated breath for you at the Mayor’s Annual Ball.”
“A Ball…” she softly exclaimed. After a moment, she gave the ground a small, lopsided smile as she refused to look at him.
He touched her chin, tilting her head up. “You will be the most beautiful woman there no matter what you wear, habibi,” he murmured.
Her smile was bright and pleased, if still a little disbelieving. She shook her head playfully as Qadir released her and stepped back.
”Trying to be both my fairy godmother and my Prince Charming? What an overachiever,” she teased.
He laughed and resisted the urge to tell her exactly what he wanted to be for her—and do to her. He bowed his head respectfully and returned to his car.
The bodyguard closed the door. Qadir’s gaze remained locked on Wheels. He hadn’t dared kiss her goodbye. He knew if he did, he would not return to his meetings.
If tonight went as he planned, his beautiful 'amirat khurafia would not be returning to this dismal job, which didn’t pay her enough to wear decent attire.
Pulling his phone out, he dialed LaClaire’s. His 'amirat khurafia needed more than just one dress. He would clothe her in the finest New York had to offer.
Then I will peel each piece off of her, he thought.
“Spill it, who was the hotty?” Polly demanded the moment Aimee entered the workroom.
Aimee laughed. Everyone had their eyes glued to her like she had just sprouted wings—or horns. She clutched the little black card in her pocket as if it was a magic ticket. The only problem was… she wanted to do this on her terms, not his.
“I need your help,” she said.
“Name it,” Carl said, tilting his head back and grinning.
“Did he give you a million dollars? I can help you spend it,” Peter said.
Aimee laughed. Polly tried to hit Peter, but he ducked and danced over to Aimee, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him.
“What do you need, Wheels?” Stanley asked.
She gazed at them with wide eyes. “Everything. I’ve been invited to a ball tonight.”
The crowd around her burst into conversation. Polly’s squeal of delight mixed with Carl and Peter’s groans of dismay. Aimee giggled when the inevitable joke was made about turning her skateboard into a carriage and the three guys into footmen. Polly gushed about finding the perfect dress for the occasion. Even Stanley added his two cents. In the end, Aimee had all the help she needed to make this ball special.
Polly’s Aunt Eddy welcomed Aimee into her vintage boutique, and she borrowed a full length silk, sequin and bead embellished ballgown from the turn of the 20th century that was the same deep violet color of her eyes.
The dress had three-quarter sleeves that hid most of her scars and the wound from last week. Aimee had removed the stitches the night before. The bodice of the dress was tight against her small breasts. Delicate beads and tiny pearls decorated the bodice while an overlay of sequins molded the dress to her slender waist and flowed over her hips. The dress flared out behind her.
Eddy produced a pair of cream-colored demi boots with pearl buttons and low, wide heels.
“Can’t have you slipping, sliding, or tripping on some slick polished floor. The women of old knew how to protect their ankles,” Eddy said with a prim nod of her head. “Now take off the dress and let Polly take care of your hair.”
Polly worked as a beautician when she wasn’t working at Becker’s. Polly and Eddy breathed an exclamation of awe as Polly unwound Aimee’s very long, black curly hair.
Yolanda used to say that she had been gifted with the tresses of a fairy-tale princess and begged her to never cut it. Yolanda had spent hours brushing her hair and braiding it. Aimee did the same. As a result, her hair flowed like a shimmering curtain down past her derriere.
“Girl, I can’t believe you keep this hidden under that disgusting cap!”
Aimee laughed. “I don’t think me flying down 5th Avenue looking like a wild woman would be conducive to a long and healthy life. One snag in a taxi and I’d be bald.”
“You’d make a gorgeous model,” Polly countered.
Aimee laughed. “I can hear it now ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, for the tiny gnomes of the fashion world, here is Wheels, the death-defying, wild woman of New York and her trusty skateboard,” Aimee said, imitating a deep-voiced announcer.
Eddy and Polly laughed and teased her about her wild-woman persona. It was a fun four hours to get ready, and now Aimee felt like a princess as she settled into the horse-drawn carriage Stanley had arranged for her. She curled her fingers in the vintage muff and tried to refrain from thinking about the demise of the poor animal who had been sacrificed to make it.
Polly had insisted on her leaving her hair down, and it certainly helped keep away the chill from the open air. Her cloak helped more. Aimee’s face was almost completely concealed by the hood of the cloak and the lavish fur-trimming.
The ball was at the Waldorf Astoria. She breathed a sigh when the carriage driver smoothly maneuvered the silver and white carriage between two limousines. She had arrived.
“I hope you have a wonderful evening, Wheels,” Stanley’s brother said as he drew his horse to a standstill in front of the golden doors.
“Thank you, Franklin—for everything,” she breathlessly replied as she rose to her feet.
A doorman rushed forward and opened the carriage door for her. Aimee extended her hand, the doorman firmly grasped it, and she lifted her long skirt as she stepped down, out of the carriage.
Several men outside the venue stopped to gawk at her. Their glances started out as casual curiosity, but quickly became intense stares that spared no regard for their own dates. Paparazzi turned like a swarm of locusts, snapping pictures with blinding lights.
Aimee sparkled in the brightly lit entrance, her cream-colored cloak richly embellished with white pearls and tiny amethyst gems. Murmurs of speculation as to who she was rippled through the crowds. Aimee didn’t bother hiding the grin that she figured no one could see under her hood. She almost wished she could magically turn back into her usual self just to see their faces.
Still, for one night, she would be Qadir’s Cinderella. A doorman and the mayor of the city opened the doors for her. She swept through with a smile and a husky thank you. Amusement touched her smile when she noticed a few men trying to suck in their guts as she entered the ballroom.
Then she saw him, and Aimee’s breath caught in her chest for a moment before it broke free. Qadir wasn’t quite the tallest man in the room, but he was the handsomest. As he impatiently scanned the room, she studied him. His blue-black hair was pulled back and tied at his nape. The coal black tailcoat was tailored to perfection for his broad shoulders and lithe body.
“Your cloak, ma’am,” a clerk requested.
Aimee nodded and passed the clerk her hand muff, not taking her eyes off of Qadir. He turned, his eyes locking on her as she pulled back her hood.
The look he gave her was scorching. In his expression, the fire of desire battled with a steadying relief. She felt the same as she unhooked the fastenings on the cloak, letting it slide off her shoulders.
The clerk caught her cloak and handed her a ticket. She slid it into the cream-colored beaded pocketbook Eddy had given her.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the clerk, already stepping forward.
The crowd parted as if by magic, their eyes on the dazzling young woman with flowing black hair that seemed to cup her derriere. She was different, ethereal in a dress that was as timelessly beautiful as she was.
Aimee’s smile grew brighter, outshining the largest diamond in the room, as Qadir strode with long, determined strides toward her. Her lips parted at the promise held within the depths of his dark chocolate eyes. Before she could greet him, he wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her with a passion that nearly set the room ablaze.
Aimee could feel her knees tremble. She would have made a spectacular puddle of purple silk and sequins if not for Qadir’s strong arms holding her up. She wound her arms around his neck and returned his kiss as if she would die without it.
A soft sigh slipped from her when he slowly ended the kiss. She looked up at him, her lips swollen and moist, and gave him a crooked, mischievous smile.
“I guess you like my hair,” she murmured.
He twirled a small tendril of her thick tresses around his finger and lifted it to his cheek, looking at her as he nuzzled against the softness of it.
“I want to wrap myself in it and tie you to me, 'amirati alkhayalia,” he replied in a voice filled with barely restrained need.
A shudder of desire went through her, threatening to send her into an orgasm right there and then if she didn’t defuse the situation.
“If you do, we’ll both be posting bail and explaining to the judge in the morning why we burned New York down—or at least the Waldorf,” she joked, slowly pushing against his shoulder.
He grunted in response, straightened, and reluctantly released her. The surrounding crowds breathed a sigh and a low murmur filled the air again. He touched her back and guided her across the room to a surprisingly private area.
“I was worried that you would not come,” he admitted.
“What… and miss all of this… and that hot kiss?”