Starla and the Sheikh

By Livia Lang

One sassy diva + one mysterious billionaire = love hotter than the desert sun!

Starla's pop music career has tumbled into the gutter, and she can't fill stadiums anymore. Now she's alone, ditched by her fans and trapped in her crumbling, beloved mansion. Creditors constantly hound her for money she doesn't have, and if she doesn't get cash fast, she'll end up homeless and heartbroken.

Help arrives in the form of an unexpected request from a mysterious, billionaire sheikh, Aban Karim. The sexy playboy wants someone to sing at his upcoming birthday festivities, and he's set his sights firmly on Starla. The job is almost too good to be true; Aban offers her two million dollars for just a few days work.

Starla shouldn't question the possible solution to her problems, but she is afraid the sheikh wants more than a song. Could he also want to buy her for his bed? And if so, will she be able to turn down the indecent proposal, considering the sparks that are flying between them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Livia Lang
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386325017

Book preview

Chapter 1

Starla

S tarla, you are a goddamn mess.

I managed to lift my head off of my white silk pillow, wondering what minion of Satan was there to harass me at the crack of dawn. Did the world even exist before ten o'clock in the morning? I didn't know, and I was just fine with never finding out. I shut my eyes again, hoping that it was just a bad dream.

And not even packed. Plenty of time to party, but not an ounce of energy left to do your job. You're lucky I'm even here.

Damn, the voice is still droning on.

I rolled over and blinked to focus my sleepy gaze. Karl, my annoying, ever-present manager was standing next to my bed, stuffing shoes and dresses into a suitcase. A short man with a receding hairline and middle age paunch, he was a father figure of sorts. Except he actually liked me, unlike my own flesh and blood. He was perhaps the only person who could wake me up bright and early in the morning and not get a stiletto thrown at his head.

I didn't party last night, I mumbled, rolling out of bed with great difficulty. I merely had some friends over, and we stayed up late talking about philosophy and world politics.

He dismissively snorted so loudly in reply that I feared he might burst a blood vessel in his brain.

God, he is sassy in the morning, I thought, rubbing a hand across my face. He's getting grumpy in his old age.

Fine, I may have had a small party, and things got wild. I didn’t get much sleep, ok? Not that it is any of your business! But why are you here packing like a madman? Where are we even supposed to be going before the sun has come up?

"Where are you going, you mean. I'm not going with you this time because believe it or not I have other clients. He turned around to glare at me when I made a small sniff of disbelief. I knew he didn't have anyone else, because why would he be standing there in my crumbling mansion if he had any other choice? He didn't like being reminded of that fact, however. Don't even start with me, Starla. I am not in the mood. I just need you on that plane and headed off to Sheikh Aban Karim’s birthday party. If you mess this up, I swear I will drop you like a hot potato."

The fog that covered my exhausted, sleepy brain began to lift. Ah yes, the sheikh. The worst job I've ever been suckered into taking.

I hadn't realized how far I had fallen from relevance until this booking came up. No one wants to face the truth that their career had begun an inevitable, and permanent, decline, but the sheikh’s party had made that fact all too clear.

I sighed sadly and gave Karl a defeated looked. Do I really have to go?

It's just a private concert. He'll pay you to come and sing him happy birthday, dance around, mingle with his friends, and do some of your old tunes. A couple of days work, and it'll pay you more than you have made in the entire past year, Karl earnestly tried to convince me, pretending with all his might that this was a normal gig.

I knew better - I could see the desperation in his eyes. We both needed me to make more money and make it fast. So Karl had signed a deal with the devil himself, and I had gone right along with it.

There was a seedy, underground world where former beauty queens and fallen starlets roamed. It involved very wealthy men who wanted to spend an evening with a famous woman. The more depraved the desires and fantasies of the man, the more he paid. The women were always hired under pretenses like private modeling or entertaining at a special party, but the truth was that it was all about sex and power.

It was a disgusting business, and I had fumed silently for days when the sheikh had first been brought up, cursing Karl for even suggesting such a demeaning arrangement. I had once been the biggest pop star in the world! How dare Karl offer me to some old rich man like meat on a platter!

My rage, however, was short-lived, because necessity has a way of hitting you in the face over and over again until you have no choice but to sell your soul. I had signed the contract at long last, dotting my name with tears.

See, I had a problem even bigger than potential prostitution. My creditors, if I could call them that, were going to take my home. I loved the beautiful mansion I had bought in my first year of stardom; it was an old Spanish style Hacienda, and I knew every nook and cranny like the back of my hand. I adored the adobe walls, big wooden doors that had been hand-carved a hundred years ago, and the drafty windows overlooking old Hollywood. The mansion was the one thing I had clung to with all my might, even when I had lost nearly everything else. For through it all - the awards, the parties, the scandals, the public break ups - that house had been my place of safety and sweet solitude. It was somewhere that the bloodsuckers I called family couldn't reach me.

Unfortunately, I no longer had the money to hire lawyers or mount a public campaign to save my house. And there weren't any new big stadium concerts happening, not after the New Year's Ball disaster. So, I had only one chance left to keep the shambles of my life together, and that was to sell myself under the guise of singing a ‘private concert.’ Only by giving up my dignity, could I save my one place of refuge in the world.

How much is he paying again? I asked, brushing my hair with my fingers to try and get the tangles out. The bright red locks, my signature feature, were a mess after a long night of drinking and cavorting.

Karl avoided my gaze. Two million.

I sucked in my breath and closed my eyes to try and steady my heart rate. Two million would make a lot of problems go away, at least temporarily. I'm giving him one hell of a birthday present to be paid that much, I said at last.

Karl ignored my pointed response. Are you going to get dressed or do I have to put you on the plane in your pajamas? I'm sure the paparazzi would love those photos. Karl slammed my hastily packed suitcase down on the floor and leveled a stare at me. You need to do this, you know.

I know, I said, getting up and grabbing an outfit off the mess of clothing on my floor. I just wish things were different.

Me too, kid. Me too, Karl said softly, for the first time showing some pity. I knew that underneath his oily exterior, he had a soft spot for me and was saddened by what was happening.

I slipped off my pajamas and then got into a flowing grey shirt and white capris, not caring if Karl watched. Having been in show business for years, I was well used to costume changes in front of a group of people. Assistants waxed me, rubbed lotion on me, and adjusted my bra before every show. At least they had used to, back when I still performed real concerts. Anyway, Karl only had eyes for his long-term boyfriend, Vincent, and didn't give a single fuck about my boobs.

I checked my hair a final time in the bedside mirror, before sliding on a pair of large, oversize sunglasses. I grabbed my purse, a big black tote with my initials engraved on the clasp, and slipped on matching black flats. I appeared more put-together than I felt.

You look like a star, Karl said putting a hand on my shoulder gently. A true pop star, just like the first day I saw you.

I remember that day. I was singing to myself in the mall, not giving a damn about anything. I smiled sadly at the memory, which seemed so far away, even though it was only a decade before. When Karl first met me, I was barely a teenager and wanted to stay out of my parents’ house as much as possible to avoid their drama. So I had spent hours in our small town’s mall, singing away and looking at all the things I couldn't buy. After Karl had discovered me there, everything had changed almost overnight. For better and for worse.

Just do this one gig, and we can figure out some way to pay everything off. We'll make it ok, Karl said, pulling me in for an unexpected hug. You can be big again; we just need some more time to work on your comeback.

Yeah, just this one gig, I said softly into his shoulder. Then things will be different.

I didn't know any former star who only did one night of prostitution, though. The fall from grace was always permanent. Once you sold your soul to the devil, he never gave it back.

Chapter 2

Aban

Icouldn't believe she was actually going to be there, right in front of me. Starla Allen. Well, that was her official name. She was the type of star who didn't need a surname, however. Like Cher, Beyoncé or Madonna, all you had to do was say Starla, and everyone knew exactly whom you were talking about.

The plane had five minutes until touchdown, and I was already a wreck. I had been all morning, in fact. If I had known I would feel so giddy, I may not have invited her in the first place. But for some reason I had wanted my birthday to be special, so on a drunken dare from my best friend I had invited my childhood crush to come entertain. It had seemed like a good idea to Drunk Me, but Sober Me couldn’t help but feel awkward.

I stood by the runway, trying not to fidget with the gold rings that covered my hands. I had put them on at the last minute to impress Starla, but they were only making me uncomfortable.

That is what I get for letting a woman get to my head. I look like an overdressed peacock.

It’s not like I knew her, so I wasn't sure why I was nervous.

There had been plenty of pop stars in my mansion before her: nubile, thin, and willing to join in any debauchery that presented itself. Their eyes, covered with heavy makeup, were always empty except for the desire to gobble cock or cocaine. That's why my cousins and I invited them to parties - the girls had insatiable appetites. They all ran together, and I had never felt even a glimmer of being star struck when they came.

But Starla had always seemed different than the normal self-obsessed celebrity. Maybe it was because she was one of the first girls I had dreamed about as a teenager. I could still clearly remember when she had first hit the international music scene with her big easy smile and ruby hair. She had a voice like an angel, and the entire world had fallen to its knees for her. Including me.

She had been young and fresh faced then, just a few years my junior. I had covered my room in posters of her, much to my father's continual embarrassment. I couldn't help it, though - I had loved looking at her. Her eyes always had innocence in them, and a touch of sadness that I had wanted to fix, even as a young teenage boy. Lots of things had changed since those youthful days, but I still felt like a stupid schoolboy waiting for her on the runway.

The plane is going to be landing shortly, sir. Omar, my most loyal servant, was standing by my side, listening to the pilot's chatter on a headset. You won't have to wait long now.

I nodded. Omar was a kindly old man, and no doubt knew exactly how I was