“You wanted to see me?” she said, stepping inside. She held his gaze, determined not to comment on the burn, or show how sympathetic she felt at the pain he must have endured. She’d had enough burns herself in working with molten glass to know the pain. Never as big a patch as he had. What was a fabulously wealthy man like he had to be risking his life to fight oil fires?
Her heart beat faster. Despite the burn scar, he was the best-looking guy she’d ever seen. Even including Alexander. She frowned. She was not comparing the two. There was no need. The sheikh was merely her new landlord. The flurry of attraction was a fluke. He could mean nothing to her.
“Please.” He gestured to a chair opposite the desk. “You’re considerably younger than thought. Are you really a widow?”
She nodded as she slipped onto the edge of the chair. “My husband died April a year ago. What did you wish to see me about?”
He sat and picked up a copy of the lease. “This. The lease for the guesthouse you signed with my grandmother.”
She nodded. It was what she expected. He held her future in his hands. Why didn’t she have a good feeling about this?
“How did you coerce her to making this?” he asked, frowning at the papers.
Ella blinked. “I did not coerce her into doing anything. How dare you suggest such a thing!” She leaned forward, debating whether to leave or not at his disparaging remark. “She offered me a place to live and work and then came up with the lease herself so I wouldn’t have to worry about living arrangements until I got a following.”
“A following?”
“I told you, I blow glass. I need to make enough pieces to sell to earn her livelihood. Until that time, she was—I guess you’d say like a patroness—a sponsor if you would. I rented the studio to make my glass pieces and she helped out by making the rent so low. Did you read the clause where she gets a percentage of my sales when I start making money?”
“And if you never sell anything? Seems you got a very cushy deal here. But my grandmother’s gone now. This is my estate and if I chose to sell it, I’m within my rights. I don’t know how you got her to sign such a lopsided lease but I’m not her. You need to leave. Vacate the guest quarters so I can renovate if necessary to sell.”
Ella stared at him. “Where does it say I have to leave before the end of the five years?” she asked, stalling for time, trying to think about what she could do. Panic flared again. It has seemed too good to be true that she’d have a place to live and work while building an inventory. But as the months had gone on, she’d become complaisant with her home. She couldn’t possibly find another place right away—and she didn’t have the money to build another studio. And not enough glass pieces ready to sell to raise the money. She was an unknown. The plans she and his grandmother had discussed had been for the future—not the present.
“I do not want you as a tenant. What amount do you want to leave?”
She didn’t get his meaning at first, then anger flared. “Nothing. I wish to stay.” She felt the full force of his gaze when he stared at her. She would not be intimidated. This was her home. He might see it as merely property, but it was more to her. Raising her chin slightly, she continued. “You’ll see on the last page once I begin to sell, she gets ten percent of all sales. Or she would have. I guess you do, now.” She didn’t like the idea of having a long-term connection with this man. He obviously couldn’t care less about her or her future. Madame al Harum had loved her work, had encouraged her so much. She appreciated what Ella did and would have reveled in her success—if it came.
Sheikh Khalid al Harum saw her as an impediment to selling the estate.
Tough.
“I can make it very worth your while,” he said softly.
She kept her gaze locked with his. “No.”
“You don’t know how much,” he said.
“Doesn’t matter. I have the lease, I have the house for another four years. That will be enough time to make it or not. If not, I’ll find something else to do.” And she’d keep her precious home until the last moment.
“Or find a rich husband to support you. The estate is luxurious. You would hate to leave it. But if I give you enough money, you’ll be able to support yourself in similar luxury for a time.”
She rose and leaned on the desk, her eyes narrowed as she stared into his.
“I’m not leaving. The lease gives me a right to stay. Deal with it.”
She turned and left, ignoring her shaky knees, her pounding heart. She didn’t want his money. She wanted to stay exactly where she was. Remain until those looking for her gave up. Until she could build her own future the way she wanted. Until she could prove her art was worth something and that people would pay to own pieces.
Khalid listened to the sound of her hurried footsteps, then the closing of the front door. She refused to leave. He glanced at the lease again. As far as he could tell, it was iron tight. But he’d have the company attorneys review. There had to be a way. He did not want to sit on the house for another four years and he suspected no one would buy the place with a tenant in residence. What had his grandmother been thinking?
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the chair his unwanted tenant had used. Ella Ponti, widow. She looked like she was in her midtwenties. How had her husband died? She was far too young to be a widow, living alone. Yet the sadness that had shone in her eyes until the fire of anger replaced it, showed him she truly mourned her loss. And he felt a twinge of regret to be bringing a change to her life.
Yet he couldn’t reconcile her being in the cottage. Had his grandmother been taken in? Was Ella nothing more than a gold digger looking for an easy way in life? Latch on to an old woman and talk her into practically giving her the cottage.
He was on the fence about selling. He remembered his grandmother in every room. All the visits they’d shared over the years. Glancing around the study, he hated to let it go. But he would never live in such a big house. Which left selling the estate as the best option.
He should have visited his grandmother more often. He missed her. They’d had dinners together in Alkaahdar when he was in town. Sometimes he escorted her to receptions or parties. But long weekends at the estate doing nothing were in the past. And in retrospect she’d asked after him and what was going on in his life more than he’d asked after hers. Regrets were hard to live with.
Though if she’d seen Ella’s reactions, maybe she would have stopped chiding him that he made too much of the scar. Ella’s initial reaction had been an echo of his one-time fiancée’s own look of horror. He knew it disgusted women. That was one reason he spent most of his time on the oil fields or in the desert. He saw the scar himself every morning when he shaved. He knew what it looked like.
Shaking himself out of the momentary reverie, he picked up the phone to call the headquarters of Bashiri Oil. The sooner he found a way to get rid of his unwanted tenant, the better.
Ella stormed home. She did not want to be bought out. Why had Khalid al Harum come to the estate at this time? He’d never visited in all the months she’d live here, why now? She had her life just as she wanted it and he was going to mess it up.
And how dare he offer her money to move? She was not going anywhere. She needed this tranquil setting. She’d gradually gotten over the fierce intensity of her grief. She owed it to Alia al Harum. The older woman had such faith in her talent and her ability to be able to command top money for her creations. She had strongly encouraged Ella to prove it to herself. And she would for the memory of the woman who had helped her so much.
And no restless grandson was going to drive her away.
She shrugged off the dress and tossed it on the bed. So much for dressing up for him. He only wanted her gone. She pulled on her jeans and oversize shirt. Tying her hair back as she walked, she went to the studio. The glass bowl she’d created yesterday still had hours of graduated cooling to complete before she could take it from the oven. She was impatient to know if it would be as beautiful as she imagined. And flawless with no cracks from irregular cooling, or mixing different types and textures of glass that cooled at different rates. Fingers crossed. Patience was definitely needed for glasswork.
In the meantime, she picked up her sketchbook and went to sit by the window. She could do an entire series in the same technique if the bowl came out perfect. She stared at the blank page. She was not seeing other glass artwork, but the face of Khalid al Harum. What a contrast—gorgeous man, hideous scar. His grandmother had never mentioned that. She’d talked of her grandchildren’s lives, her worry they’d never find happiness and other memories of their childhood.
When had the fire happened? He could have been killed. She didn’t know him, nor did she care to now that he’d tried to bribe her to leave. But still, how tragic to have been burned so severely. She looked at the couple of small scars on her arms and fingers from long-ago childhood scrapes. Fire was dangerous and damaging to delicate human skin. Every burn, no matter how small, hurt like crazy. She shivered trying to imagine a huge expanse of her body burned.
Had it happened recently? It didn’t have that red look that came with recent healing. But with all the money the al Harums had, surely he could have had plastic surgery to mitigate the worst of the damage.