"You've got to be kidding me!"
"No, I'm not," her agent Kristen Flinch reassured her best-selling author Andie May. The Sheikh super romance writer, who had filled a gap that had been missing for years with a touch of adventure, drama, and lots of romance. Epics that swept across the desert sands with Alpha male heroes, feisty women, and not a blond in sight.
"Hollywood wants me," she gasped.
"Um, not quite Hollywood."
"Bollywood?" She enquired, not so sure.
"No, a film company in Dubai, backed by a very rich producer, who wants to turn your book into a film." Kristen paused, taking a deep breath. "He wants you to do the rewrites for the film."
Dazed, Andie dropped into a chair, amazed she was still standing. "I'm not sure. I don't do film scripts. I need to think this over. What if I don't go?" She asked, running her teeth over her bottom lip.
"There is a chance he might pull his backing. He made it very clear you had to do the rewrites. As he said, you're the expert on the story, and he wants you."
"Great, just great, so if I don't go, my book stays a book, and people would lose their jobs. That's a bit unfair. Isn't it enough, I wrote it? Which book?"
"Strangers in the Sands." Great, just great. One of her favourites was set in the United Arab Emirates desert. Probably why they were filming there.
"And who is this man?" Please let it be one of those old men with too much money to burn. Probably doing it for his mother or daughter. Her books were quite popular in the Arab lands.
"A backer of the film company."
"So I would be working with the countrymen of the area." She twitched her nose, well that wasn't going to work so well. They would never agree on anything! The cultural difference would be huge and vast as the sands of the desert itself.
There was rustling of paper on the other end. "Half and half. There are few choices for leads. I send you the photos; he said it was really important that you approve the actors."
"What?!" She squeaked. Was he crazy? What did she know about picking out actors to play the parts? "Listen, Kristen, I need to think about this. When do you need to know by?"
"As soon as possible."
Shaking her head, Andie chewed on her bottom lip. "I'd let you know," she said softly and closed down the phone, placing it on her desk. She pushed away, stood, and walked around her special-themed room, surrounding herself with everything Middle Eastern.
Persian rugs, gauzy whimsical curtains over the windows, large cushions, and bookcases filled with books, reading, travelling, and research, she had bought over the years. One must not forget her collections of camels. Potted fake palms in the corner, Moroccan-styled hanging lanterns. Everyone had thought her a little bit strange, but it always put her in the right mood for writing.
Andie patted one of the camel's head. "So what do you think Kismet? Shall I go? To finally see the real Dubai." She was in two minds about going. All her stories came from her imagination, beautiful pictures on the internet, or travel books, using facts, and their culture, but kept religion out of it on both sides, because it was always about love.
True love between two people.
She was scared; if she went to Dubai it could shatter all her dreams in real life.
Of course, she knew what she wrote wasn't real, but how she visioned the land of sand. The way she saw her tall, dark breed of Sheikhs. Of course, they didn't exist out of her special world of make-believe.
The phone rang, making her jump, letting it go to the answering machine. Kristen again and sounding very apprehensive. "The backer is very anxious about receiving your answer," her agent begged.
Frozen, she stood there. She was no heroine, not like the ones in her books. They were everything she wanted to be, brave, speaking up for herself, and travelling the world.
She hadn't even been out of Australia. Never gone anywhere unless with her friends, and never ever been in love. What she wrote is what she wanted it to be, and never would be. She wasn't pretty or super slim. Nothing was appealing about her, apart from her imagination.
She had nothing to offer. What did she know about scriptwriting for a film anyway?
Her background in writing was very little, with no degrees. All her stories were edited by experts. If she went out on her own, they would see the fraud that she was. Then again, to see her vision on the big screen was beyond words.
What if they made a hash of it?
Sinking into a chair, she clutched her arms, staring out the window into the streets of a modern-day street.
****
High in the air somewhere over the Arabian Desert a thoughtful Shihab Kadin Jalal Al-Dharr shut down his phone. That didn't sound good, picking up the book he turned to the back, and flicked to the front page then the back inside cover, but no picture. She never had a photo of herself in any books.
Her agent had warned him, she mightn't agree to the terms.
Something he didn't want to hear, so reached for the plane phone and spoke to the pilot.
"Set a flight plan to Victoria, Australia."
It was time to persuade a reluctant writer to become a part of the magic world of film.
****
Bullets went flying through the air. He dived, taking her with him, rolling behind a dune. Sand spat behind them. "What did you do to peeve them off?" Heart pumping, eyes wide, she clung to him, who held her hard against his frame.
Ismail stared at her in disbelief. "Me? They are not shooting at me."
"Are you sure about that? The bullet seemed more in your direction than mine. Anyway...." A hand clamped tightly on her mouth. Wide are-you-kidding-me eyes glared at him.
The ringing of the doorbell made Andie jerk, lowering her printed paper beside the laptop. Scraped back the chair from the kitchen table across the wooden floorboards, she stood, heading out towards the front door.
Padded barefooted along a corridor, passing stairs towards the next level of the double story weather-board house that opened up to a large entrance area with a side table, a coat stand covered in coats and a couple of umbrellas.
Reaching the front door, raising her toes, she peered through the arched stained glass top part of the door and saw a tall, dark figure on the other side whose back was to her.
Sighing, she reached for the handle and turned.
She had been right in the middle of a scene.
Opening the door the stranger turned to face her, a smile pulled at his generous mouth. Andie couldn't believe the sight before her eyes, standing outside her door, curling her toes, because he was all her sheikhs wrapped up in one perfect parcel of gorgeousness.
His olive, darker tones, his broad shoulders, and chest that the immaculate cut suit couldn't hide. Thick wavy black-as-sin hair crowned his jaw-dropping structured features. Thick, long lashes hooded the most stunning liquid silver eyes.
She blinked, how strange. She had never had a silver-eyed sheikh before.
Noted, silver was a new colour for her sheikh.
High-slanted cheekbones, an angular-shaped face with a strong chin, all outlined by his jet-black stubble that matched his hair. She had this urge to reach out and touched him. Was his hair as silky soft as it looked? Would his stubble bristle against her fingertips that highlighted his full inviting lips? The bottom lip's slightly fuller.
Pity he was wearing a suit. One tailored for his body, not off the rack, showing off his long legs and torso, towering over her five foot seven height without heels. She did like her men tall, dark, and very sheikh-like.
He's a complete dreamboat.
Perfect for her book cover. Hmm, would he even consider such a thing?
"Miss May?" He enquired amused, shoving his hands into the pants pocket, that spread open the front of his jacket, exposing his dark blue silk shirt. Her fingers itched to undo the top three buttons, so she could see some of his necklines, wondering if he was smooth, or had some chest hair, or inked.
Although he didn't wear a tie, he was buttoned up to the top.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice sounding huskier than normal, hands clammy, and her heart racing. She pulled the door in closer.
After all, she didn't know this man from a bar of soap. He could be a mass murderer for all she knew. Killing off his victims with his sheer beauty. He smiled, lips curling, eyes twinkling. Kill me now! Her fingers dug in a little bit deeper, just to stay standing, or would that be swooning at his feet into a pool of wet mess?
"I cannot help wondering what is going through that brilliant mind of yours, Miss May."
Her eyes widened and gulped. "You know who I am?" Her befuddled brain refused to work properly. He had called her that before. How did he find her? That was her author's name, not the one attached to this house.
His smile turned into a dazzling grin that stole her breath away, causing her heart to flip-flap. "Yes, I do. I am your number one fan."
Her eyes widened further. "Yes, and we know how well that turned out."
He inclined his head. "I do not plan to hobble you, Miss May. Far from it. I have other plans for you." Really? Did she swoon now, hand on her forehead, fall into his arms so that he would capture her, and hold her for the rest of her life? Oh, yes, please.
No, no, too easy. Nothing ever came easy. One had to work for it. True love didn't come easily. There had to be mistrust, even dislike, however, there was nothing to dislike about this man, then frowned, taking in his clothes, more closely, stepping forward, fingering the lapel of this jacket.
So soft and silky to the touch, of the finest quality, which meant money.
"Armani?"
"Yes, and you know your suits."
Only through research. "It's about the cut of the suit. He has such style and this has been tailor-made for you, not off the rack, or altered. Handmade especially. Love the colour. At first, I thought it was black, yet different."
"Steel black." She looked up at him curiously.
"You're kidding me."
"I kid you not." Her fingers slid under the lapel. "Is this for research Miss May?"
She laughed softly. "First one I have seen up close and personal, oh, I like that. Can I use it? Of course, I would need photos of you and the suit." A dark brow arched at that. "Sorry." She stepped back, dropping her hand away. "I need my visuals. I need pictures for all my scenes. Quirky I know, but I can't visualize it in my mind, but know exactly what I want. Believe me; I have spent hours looking for just the right scene."
She was saying too much. One of her biggest bad habits. Never knew when not to say anything. Let's just bore him with your entire process of writing. Boring! She took a deep breath and tucked hair behind her ear that had escaped from her messy ponytail.
He nodded thoughtfully. At least he wasn't giving her a strange look, as if she was mad as a hatter. She probably was. There was no edit button on her mouth. "Is it also true, you have never been to the Middle East?"
Chewing on her bottom lip, she nodded. Here it comes, how pathetic her descriptions were of the desert lands that she loved writing about.
"I'm sorry, who are you, apart from being my number one fan?" She smiled. "And what can I do for you?"
"Ah, yes, you have spoken to your agent? Have you not talked about turning one of your books into a film?"
"What!" She gasped, alarmed. "How could you possibly have known about that?! You came here for a part?" He was perfect and explained his movie star's stunning appearance. Shaking her head, she reached for the door again. "You need to contact the company. I'm not sure if it's going ahead." She knew nothing about this stranger at her front door.
Again, how did he find her? Surely Kristen wouldn't give her home address away.
Or maybe he had Google her. Anyone can be found, if one knows where to look. A hand shot out stopping the door from closing. Panic sent her heart racing for a different reason. She knew it was too good to be true. Number one fan, huh! "Please step away, or so help me, I'd scream blue murder!" She threatened.
"How does one scream blue murder?" He asked, taking her off guard. "I know the saying, but what does it actually mean?"
"Me and my very hearty full lungs, screaming, and bringing in the neighbourhood."
"Ah, yes, but what do you yell?"
He had to be kidding. "Fire, of course, everyone reacts to 'fire'." Why was she telling him this?
"Miss May, I am not an actor, or here to cause you harm, but I do need you. I will not take no for an answer. You are my next big project," he proclaimed loud and clear, enthused.
"Step back or I would be forced to call the police." He stepped back, dropping his arm, reaching inside under his jacket.
The door slammed in his face.
She dropped. Rolled off towards the side.
Breathing laboured, heart pounding, and mouth dry.
Eyes squeezed tightly closed.
Tapping on the door. Not bullets. Damn, who would want to kill her? She lay there spread eagle across the floor, nose to the ground, opening an eye as a card slipped under the door that she eyed off. Her fingers crept across and pulled towards her quickly.
Her overactive imagination had overreacted again.
Easing up, she sat crossed-legged as she read over the provided card.
Shihab Kadin. Productions of Kadin Film associations. Oh crap, the man behind the film offers. Now he will know she is insane and would want to ditch her as soon as possible. "Can you give me a few minutes? I need to check this out," she said from behind the door.
Time to recover her dignity.
"Of course, however, can you do it as quickly as possible? There are many moving curtains," he noted.
Andie punched a number into her cordless phone, which she had in her pocket. "Kristen?" She breathed a breath of relief. "What was the name of that man you said wanted to do the rewrites?"
"Shihab Kadin."
"Oh, did you give him my address?"
Kristen released a long breath. "Yes, I did. He flew in yesterday, came straight here, and we have a long talk. He wanted to talk to you personally."
"And you didn't warn me?" She asked, shocked.
"He asked me not to." Well, that was stupid of him. He won't be doing that again if he had any brains.
"Okay, thanks."
So he was who he said he was, and not so easy to find her. He had help, much to her relief.
Standing, she straightened up her loose-fitting clothes that were comfortable for hanging around the house and writing. Not suitable for any company. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door, feeling foolish.
He stood on the other side, the jacket is done up, arms crossed, smile gone. And why not? He had a door slammed in his face. Thankfully, he hadn't seen her do a swan dive. How embarrassing was that?
"I am so sorry, Mr Kadin. I had no idea, please come inside." She opened the door further and allowed him in, waving at a police car that drove slowly by. Her ever-watchful neighbours had done their duty again. She placed a hand on his arm. "Smile and wave," she hissed between her smile since the police car was in no hurry to drive off. Which he did as she led him inside, closing the door. "Sorry about that, everyone is tense at the moment, because of the situation around the world."
He sighed sadly. "Yes, I know." His eyes rested on her up-tilted face. "Thank you for seeing me. I guess I didn't explain myself properly, and the situation of my need to see you, Miss May."
"Andie please, and I did you an injustice. I didn't see you as a threat or anything, just someone who wanted to use me for their gain." She would never tell him about the drop and roll as under an attack. Yet he had gone inside his jacket. How did she know he was going for a card, not some sort of gun, ready to shoot her down? She needed to stop watching all those murder mysteries movies and cop shows. She paused, looking behind her towards the kitchen, where she had been editing. Stop having shootouts. "Coffee?"
"That would be appreciated, Miss... Andie..." he changed at her warning glare. "Is that short for something?" She nodded. "And you're not going to tell me," he noted by her silence as he followed through the double-story house into the kitchen.
"Please make yourself at home," she waved over to the long dark cedar table with matching chairs, one end full of papers, a laptop, and notepads.
"Hard at work I see," he waved his hand over her work.
"Always," she smiled, crossing over, closing the lid of her laptop, gathered her papers, and shoved them into a folder, stacking the notepads on top after she flicked closed. Thoughtfully she looked around the kitchen. "Perhaps we should go to the living room; I can put on a fire." Nodding, he followed her back out towards the front door, veering off towards the left into a large open room. "Please make yourself at home and I would see to that coffee."
Leaving him she went back to the kitchen.
Shihab entered further, noticing the large Persian rug on the floor, the centrepiece, his eyes sorting out all the Middle Eastern little trinkets around the room, and there were camels in many sizes, hanging Moroccan-styled lanterns in a corner near a bay window that had been turned into a reading corner. Yes, he could see her sitting there, under the soft glowing patterned light shade, legs curled up at her side, nose in a book.
He settled into a high-back leather armchair that was so out of place with the other pieces. A more modern piece, which was more fitting for the house. The pieces from his homeland had been added later. Her own special touch. He was good at reading people.
This one was so passionate about what she believed and loved. Yet there was such innocence about her that came out in her writing. He wasn't kidding when he said he was her number one fan, well, not the only one. She was unique.
Then she was there carrying a tray with a very familiar-looking server of bent metal with a long curved spout. "And she said she's never been to the Middle East," he noted, amused.
"It's called eBay and Ishka," she explained her purchases.
"If you come back with me, you would be able to buy the real items from the country," he pointed out.
"I'm not sure how I would get it all back," she smiled at him. Yes, he could see her getting lost in the Dubai souks. Spending hours over the different market items. He would take her there before they move out to the movie set.
His mind was already made up, she was going, and no excuses.
She placed the tray on a rounded wooden table and poured out the dark coffee into small white cups. The strong aroma told him before he tasted it, she was serving real Arabic coffee and crossed over to hand one over, and that he took with a 'Shukran' that she deserved.
She settled on a large ottoman near his chair, sipping from her white cup.
"I am beginning to see the visual." Holding the cup in one hand, he took a sip. She sipped from her cup without a reaction to the strong brew. He sank further back in the seat, crossing one leg over the other.
She looked across with curious large hazel eyes, messy chestnut hair pulled back from her sweet, soft oval features, sprayed with freckles against her fair skin. One that didn't see much of the sun, he would guess.
"Tell me why you wanted me, especially to do the rewrites?" She asked her voice soft and alluring as she was, like a warm summer breeze against one's skin. Warm, caressing, and with a hint of heat. She kept observing him, drinking in every detail of him, as if she couldn't get enough that punched him in the gut.
Yes, women looked at him; he knew the effect he had on the women population, but nothing like this. He had to stay focused. Once he got what he wanted, then he would see how far this could go. This natural attraction between them was like an invisible string pulling them closer and closer that he wanted to reach out and touch her, to see if she was silky soft as she looked, skin so creamy.
He leaned forward, placing arms between his legs, hands together, and cup on the side table. "You know your stories, you wrote it. I want to put your story and soul onto the screen," he told her with such passion.
Andie believed him.
She reached out and touched his hand.
A tingling of awareness rippled through her body as if she had been zapped, so pulled back. Was that even real? Yes, she wrote it, but never experienced it before. It was amazing but also scary. How can it be? They were strangers. Then leaned forward, serious, without touching him again. "I'm no screenwriter. What I write comes from my mind, my imagination. They aren't real, but you want to make them come alive in film."
"They were born in your imagination. They are a part of you; all your characters are you. So you know them inside out. How they think, and who they are. You would be able to bring them alive Andie," he pulled back, frowning, shaking his head. "Now that doesn't suit you."
Startled, she looked at him strangely. "Sorry, what doesn't suit me?" He didn't know her, so how could he say that about her?
"This pseudonym, you are no Andie, you are like a goddess. The goddess of love, Aphrodite."
"What?" She burst out laughing, so hard that she nearly fell off the ottoman she was sitting on. "Me, goddess of love!" She squealed with laughter, wiping away tears that had sprung.
He crossed his arms. "I find nothing funny about it at all. I shall call you Aphrodite until you tell me your real name."
That shut her up and eyed him closely. He was deadly serious as far as she could see.
She released a long breath. Just her first name. It wouldn't hurt. "On the condition, you tell no one and are not allowed to use it. And before you ask why, it's about my private life that is so separate from my writer's one, and would like to keep it that way."
His brows went down thoughtfully. "Is that why you have no photos on your dust covers?"
"Really," her eyes widened and circled her face with a finger, "you want to see this on a dust cover? Now that is scary." His frown turned into a scowl. "More to do with privacy," she added quickly which didn't seem to reassure him though nodded understandingly. "You're really not going to call me Aphrodite?" A brow went up, as did the corner of one side of his full sensual mouth. "Andrea."
"There, not so hard and that is much more suitable, and feels more comfortable on the tongue, Andrea, it suits you than this Andie," he waved away with his hand. He leaned back in his seat, making himself at home. "The question is Andrea, what do I have to do to get you to come with me?"
She shook her head. "It was so out of the blue. I need time to think it over."
"As you wish," he glanced at the watch, straightening, and stood. "I am sorry I do have to leave for now. I have important calls to make, business."
Standing, she walked him to the door, showing him out. Shihab clasped her hand in his and brought it up to his lips, warming her all over. "My plane leaves within the week. I do hope you would be on that plane."
"I...I can't. I'm sorry, but I don't even own a passport," it just dawned on her.
"I see, well that can be fixed."
"Not by a week," she gasped.
"It can be done, a rush order. Leave it in my hands, Miss May, on the condition you agree."
"If I agree to go with you to the Middle East, see to these rewrites, you would see to my needs, gee, I don't know."
Still holding her hand, he guided her closer, next to him, staring up into his amazing liquid silver eyes. "If I didn't know better, I would say you were mocking me."
She laughed openly. "I do. It's a dream come true, but I dread it's too good to be true. Can you do this, Mr Kadin?" She breathed in awe.
"For my favourite writer, I can do anything. And it is Shihab."
"You're really my number one fan," she laughed softly and then sobered. "Thank you, if you really want me to rewrite scenes without destroying my story, then yes, oh yes," she freed her hand, throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank you," then he was gone, driving away in a hired slick fancy dark car.