He tried his best to make it look like a critical malfunction.
The grid-scale battery that supported the solar arrays accompanying the plant burst into flame, a fire that spread to neighbouring battery units and took the entire desal plant offline.
But Zynara’s companies had engineered the system to be extraordinarily robust, perfectly designed for the harsh desert conditions it operated in.
Her people on the ground were unanimous in their reporting: the plant had been sabotaged.
The flames looked terrifying on camera, and Malik talked loudly about the dangers of batteries and the unreliability of renewables on the summit stages for most of the morning, but he was forced to stop as soon as Zynara’s teams got the situation under control.
It turned out the vision of Zynara’s autonomous drones flying in 50 megawatts of replacement battery units, connecting them like Lego and restoring power and the water supply for Ain Zargiers’ western region all before lunchtime was far more impressive.
People liked a good news story after all, and happy kids playing under water fountains had it all over grumpy billionaire princes.
Malik sulked and made dark remarks about eco-terrorists and his superyacht, but no one paid him any attention.
Stock prices in Zynara’s battery companies soared.
Lottie was very pleased to help her celebrate.
Zynara wasn’t so uptight that she wasn’t going to get back at her brother and have a little fun while she was doing it.
She sent a stupidly expensive evening gown to Lottie’s room and red soled heels to match. She also sent a rich chestnut brown wig and a hairdresser. The howls of outrage were audible from her office, but she knew Lottie would do as she was told.
The result, which she couldn’t take her eyes off as they were driven into Azzouan, was exquisite.
“Stop smirking like that,” Lottie pouted. “I thought you liked my curls. You’ve dressed me like a Bond girl.”
Zynara flicked a finger under her chin. The chestnut hair framed her face and softened the sharper edges of her mischief. The dress settled on her curves like mercury, and Zynara was torn between going through with the rest of the evening or just taking the girl now in the back of the car.
“I thought it was appropriate.”
She didn’t miss the quick flash of panic across Lottie’s expression, or the swift way she covered it. Zynara wondered if Lottie was ever going to tell her the truth, and then dismissed the thought. Sami was right. She could enjoy herself now, couldn’t she?
“Where are we going?” Lottie asked.
“Casino. One of Malik’s. He calls it the Kasbah Royale because he’s a pretentious idiot, but the champagne is excellent. I have a job for you.”
“I serve at your pleasure,” Lottie pointed out with a sly smile.
Zynara was in her favourite suit and Lottie was making her feel reckless. Pleasure was most definitely on the menu tonight—after she’d extracted some retribution from Malik, of course. She took Lottie’s chin and kissed her, running a finger over her lower lip when she was done. “Don’t you just.”
Lottie's eyes danced at her for a long, loaded moment, and then that magical thing happened again—that curious factor that Zynara could never seem to properly calculate: they both laughed, giggled even, and leant their bodies against each other as the car purred through the glittering city streets.
She’d been aiming for decadent, dangerous and debauched, and instead the two of them were comfortable.
Malik hosted a private table most evenings at the casino—the most exclusive club in Azzouan.
Membership was ridiculously expensive, and entry was by royal approval or secret handshake.
Malik’s crowd hung there every Saturday night, gambling away the GDP of several undeveloped countries, then pissing away the same in expensive alcohol.
Zynara wasn’t a member and she rarely stooped to patronising Malik’s establishments unless she had to, but she doubted the concierge on the door would dare stop her.
Her aim had been to sit Lottie at Malik’s table in the private lounge, stake her an amount to make her little brother weep, then count cards and whisper the play in her ear. But Lottie, of course, walked up to the table with more rizz than everyone else there, and owned the game from the top.
“Evening, boys. Got room for little old me?”
Malik was bored and boozy already. He glanced at her, but without her signature halo of curls and the cheap party frocks, all he saw was another of Zynara’s women.
“Come to raise some funds for your hydrogen plant, Nizzy?” he drawled. “Need some cash to fix that desal facility? Such a terrible accident.”
“Chasing a downpayment on another boat, Qasirim?” Lottie asked sweetly. She winked at his companions when they laughed. Zynara rested her hand on her shoulder and loved her sass. Lottie quivered under her touch.
But after the first hour, Zynara knew she wasn’t needed.
Lottie played with the lazy confidence of a woman with con artist in her blood.
She played the first few hands like a siren, boldly controlling the play with some dazzling bluffs, flirting with moguls who fell for her charm and tossed their chips to the centre of the table glad to surrender.
She purposefully lost hands too, amping the dizzy bint act up so high Zynara worried it was glaringly obvious, except that the men lapped it up and preened and patronised her like fools.
After the second hour, four players down, the wickedly sharp edge of her game began to peak from under her act.
Malik started sweating, and Lottie sipped her martini like she’d ordered his downfall as a side dish.
Zynara watched from the bar now, her appetite twisted in new directions. She’d come as a puppet-master, to remind Malik how childish his game was, but it was Lottie who was the star of this performance. Watching her work was making Zynara as horny as hell.
By the time the game was three hours in just Lottie and Malik remained and the chip count was over a hundred million.
Zynara wished she hadn’t retired to the bar.
She wanted to rest her hand on the nape of Lottie’s neck.
She wanted to stand behind her, slide a hand down the V of gown and grope her breasts right there at the table.
She wanted to tip her mouth up to her own and kiss her hard.
She settled for staring at her moodily over the edge of her glass.
Lottie met her eyes over Malik’s shoulder and dropped her gaze to Zynara with a pretty little display of submission that was absolutely ridiculous given the pile of chips in front of her.
She gave it a beat—and then licked her top lip slowly and wickedly.
Zynara snorted into her whisky.
Malik turned to look at her over his shoulder, then back to Lottie. The dots finally connected.
“I know you. You’re the bitch who swindled ten million out of me after Prince Tareq Al-Farouqi died on my yacht last week. You—”
“I’d say you have a chance to win it back, Qasirim, but I really don’t think you have,” Lottie said.
Malik swore, but the croupier dealt the river and desperation kept him in his seat.
With a final flutter of those deadly lashes, Lottie went all in.
Malik, in his arrogance, called her on it, and Lottie won with an exceptionally modest full house.
Malik tossed his single ace and a pitiful six to the green, swore and summoned his cronies to his side.
They swept from the lounge all shoulders and swagger, anything to show they hadn’t just diddled away their dicks.
Lottie raked one-hundred and forty million into a messy pile and looked triumphant.
Zynara couldn’t stand it any longer.
No words. Just a look. She crooked two fingers.
Lottie followed her into the main room, out to a terrace where the eternal fragrance of jasmine and rose swirled through Zynara’s senses and tangled love with desire, and they slow-danced in the moonlight.
For all her triumph, Lottie rested her cheek on Zynara’s shoulder with a meekness as thrilling as her victory, and the soft hush of breath into her neck confused things further.
“You were very, very clever,” Zynara told her softly. Mistake. Lottie’s irrepressible ego burst exuberantly to the fore. Weird thing was, Zynara realised she really, really liked it.
“Tell me again, princess! I was freaking incredible. Amazing. Did you see me? I just killed it! Wiped the fucking floor with them.” Zynara let her steal a kiss too.
“Someone’s going to count my chips though, right?
I mean, we just left them back there on the table.
A posh joint like this isn’t going to steal my takings, are they?
I just won a literal shit tonne of money—”
“Shh, darling,” Zynara crooned. Lottie hushed instantly, and Zynara really, really liked that too. “You’re with me. Everything is taken care of.” She raised an eyebrow, watched it hit Lottie hard until she bit her lip and pushed down her sass. She pulled her close again. “Dance,” she ordered.
And Lottie’s hand slipped under her jacket, her palm pressed against the small of Zynara’s back, and its warmth there was twice as enticing as the tease in her smile.
She laid her body against Zynara’s in the most beautiful, pliant way—no pretense, no cunning, just luscious Lottie Finch and the playful way she lightened Zynara’s heart.
She’d reserved a room upstairs and had intended to take Lottie up to it. She was going to tie her to the bed and make her moan and beg—and she had no doubt they’d both enjoy that still—but Zynara realised she wanted something completely different altogether.
She linked their fingers, kissed the back of Lottie’s hand and invited her back to her penthouse in the Tower of Falcons. She messaged ahead and commanded rose petals be strewn over the bed and a hundred candles be lit to bathe the place in gold.
Then she summoned the car.
Table of Contents
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