Mistletoe for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 17)

by Annabelle Winters

  “I believe you missed a spot,” declared Renita, raising an eyebrow and pointing directly at the Sheikh. “The dirt is right there, standing and staring like the sex-maniac he is. Though I do not think your dustpan will be able to handle that level of filth. Good luck. Do not say I did not warn you.” Then Renita’s sand-colored eyes narrowed, and she deliberately eyed Queenie up and down, her gaze resting on Queenie’s bosom for a moment before moving down to her wide hips and then back up to her eyes. “Though perhaps you are well-made to handle Bawaar’s filth, you American whore. Home-wrecker. Slut.”

  Queenie almost choked as she tried to understand what in God’s name was unfolding here. This woman was either completely insane or else Queenie had inhaled too many cleaning products in the janitor’s office and now she was hallucinating. Yup, that was it. Ammonia, Lysol, and freakin’ Windex. Who needed LSD?!

  “This is between you and me, Renita,” she heard the Sheikh growl from behind her. Queenie could feel his anger, hear it in his voice, and for some reason it made her heart leap, made her think she was protected, she was safe, she was . . . his? “Do not insult someone you do not even know. It is one thing to insult me—ya Allah, I am used to that by now. But—”

  “Insult?! What do you know about insults?!” Renita screamed, and Queenie took a step away from this madwoman who seemed on the one hand completely in control and on the other hand unhinged as all hell.

  But the Sheikh had calmed down, and he stepped between Queenie and Renita. “Stop it, Renita. No one is fooled by your act. You were a terrible actor in bed, and you are equally bad when you are standing upright. Now take your European co-star in this little staged drama and get the hell off my property or I will have you thrown out on your bony arse.”

  “Act? Co-star? Drama? Have you no shame, Bawaar?” said Renita, her face suddenly going calm, her eyes going cold in a self-satisfied way that sent a chill through Queenie. “Anders is the head of Van Hosen Security. I hired his firm to protect me since my husband the Sheikh has declared that I no longer deserve to be protected by Wakhrani Secret Service. Me! The Sheikha!” She paused and swallowed, her gaze moving across the room before resting on the Sheikh, her expression showing faint triumph, as if she was getting to the finale of her little act. Or big act, Queenie couldn’t quite tell. All she knew was that this bitch was good, and Queenie had best stay out of the goddamn way. She wasn’t getting in the middle of whatever this was. Kings, queens, Sheikhs, Sheikhas? Nope. She was just the cleaning lady, and she needed to keep her head down and slip away offstage.

  Queenie took a step to her left, eyeing the broom and dustpan and wondering if she should just leave it there and quietly exit the room. But then she looked at the Sheikh, saw the way he was standing there fearless and alone, every set of eyes on him.

  Yeah, he’s fearless, but he’s also alone and vulnerable in this, she realized. He’s been blindsided by this woman. Who knows whether they’re officially divorced or not, but I can tell he isn’t with her anymore—at least not in his heart. Perhaps he’s never been with her in his heart.

  Queenie saw the slightest of flinches in the Sheikh’s stoic expression, and she somehow knew that no one besides her had seen it. Suddenly she felt like she knew him. Like they were connected. Like she understood him in a way that no one else did.

  And so Queenie held her ground. She stayed silent, but she didn’t move. She stood by his side, waiting for Renita to deliver the knockout punch, whatever it was. Somehow she knew she was already a part of this. She thought back to that chance encounter in the elevator, that second meeting beneath the mistletoe. A Christmas Miracle? Or was this the Nightmare before Christmas?

  “That is not true, and you know it,” came the Sheikh’s voice, steady and even. “I never refused you the services of Wakhrani Security. In fact I was told you sent your bodyguards away last week, choosing to hire your own private security.” He glanced at Anders Van Hosen and rolled his eyes. “With the bill coming to me, I should add.”

  “That is only right,” Renita said, her lips tightening into a thin smile as she folded her long arms across her chest. “Because he is not just protecting me. He is also protecting the heir of Wakhrani. Our unborn child, Bawaar.” She sighed, raising her eyebrows and touching her lip in a move that had clearly been rehearsed. “Tell me, Great Sheikh. If our child is born after we are divorced, does it mean I will be giving birth to a bastard?”

  Queenie stared at Renita as she felt the Sheikh stiffen beside her. The room had gone dead silent. Not even a whisper emerged from the shocked onlookers. Even the band had stopped in awe of the madness being played out on center stage.

  And then the Sheikh spoke.

  “Out,” he said. “Everyone. Everyone in the goddamn room. You too, Renita. Out. Now. Now!”

  Queenie watched in stunned silence as the entire room slowly emptied. Not a single employee dared to let out even a murmur, and Queenie was certain several of them were actually holding their breath, afraid to make a sound in the Sheikh’s presence.

  In moments the room was empty, the faint clicking of the blinker on the Christmas lights the only discernible sound. Renita had left too, Queenie suddenly realized, even though it seemed odd that she would walk away after dropping that news out there. Had that always been her plan? Or was even that stoic queen scared of the Sheikh when he took command of the room?

  The door at the far end closed with a soft thud, and it took Queenie a moment to realize that if she was watching the door close, seeing the Christmas tree stare back at her, hearing the Sheikh’s deep but controlled breathing, it meant that shit, she was still here! Still in the room!

  She glanced down at her feet in those steel-toed monstrosities that made her feel like Mrs. Frankenstein, frowning as she wondered why she hadn’t left the room. Had the Sheikh even noticed? Had anyone noticed? Was a janitor so much a part of the background that no one could even see her anymore? Or was this truly a dream, her dream, which meant she had to be here or else all of it would go poof and disappear!

  But then she felt the Sheikh’s eyes upon her, and although her body shuddered and her knees trembled, she turned to him and glanced up into his green eyes. If this is my dream, she thought as she felt the Christmas lights blink at her—or perhaps wink at her—then I can do anything I want, and if it gets too weird, I’ll just pinch myself and wake up!

  Since when have you been able to control your dreams, you moron, she thought as Bawaar turned his full attention to her, his green eyes focused on her in a way that made her shift on her feet.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked.

  Queenie blinked and shrugged. “I have no idea,” she finally said, half-turning toward the door but not taking a step. She glanced at the floor absentmindedly, wondering why her damned feet weren’t moving, why she was feeling hot under those blue overalls, why those Christmas lights suddenly seemed like warning flashers. And had the damned Christmas music started to play again even though the band was gone? Had there ever been a band? What was going on?

  “You do realize you are still standing beneath the mistletoe,” came his voice from somewhere to her left, perhaps from above her. “And since it is a tradition, I must uphold it.”

  Queenie glanced up and saw the mistletoe in the archway above her. Then she felt the Sheikh’s shadow fall across her, smelled his scent as he approached. Suddenly her feet came under her control again, and she took two steps back, moving out from beneath the mistletoe as she watched this king in his maroon fitted tuxedo approach.

  “Are you crazy?” she whispered. “After what just happened? After what your wife said? After the news that she’s . . . OK, you know what? There’s no way. No. Stop. I said no!”

  The Sheikh stopped just inches away from her, his lips so close to her face she could feel his warm breath on her smooth forehead. She felt him breathe deep, like he was trying to control himself, to hold him
self back from taking what he wanted.

  Queenie told herself she should take a step back. Hell, she should turn on her heels and run like hell, get away from this madness that was threatening to suck her in! But once again she was frozen in place, looking up into the Sheikh’s eyes, that Christmas music sounding extraordinarily loud, almost booming.

  “She is not my wife anymore,” he said softly, reaching out and touching her hair gently. “And regardless of whether what she said is true, she will never be my wife again. I am single. It is Christmas Eve. We are alone in a room, standing beneath the mistletoe. And I am going to kiss you, unless you can think of a damned good reason why I should not.”

  Queenie blinked as she looked up into his eyes. He seemed almost a foot taller than her, broader than any man she’d been this close to. He could easily overpower her, she realized, and there was a part of him that wanted to do just that, she could tell. She could see the way he was taking deep breaths to control himself, clenching his left fist as the fingers of his right hand tightened in her hair. He’s just looking for a release, Queenie thought, not sure if she was relieved or indignant. She couldn’t deny the attraction, but neither could she deny that it would be pretty darned stupid to act on it in this messed-up, volatile situation with melodramatic, possibly pregnant, ex-wives and European security guards and a hundred office workers standing outside the door!

  Oh, shit, Queenie thought as she pictured the scene if she walked out the door into the hallway right now. There’ll be like a hundred people standing out there, whispering and wondering what the hell she was doing alone with the Sheikh all this time! Then she wondered if anyone would even remember she was in there or if the janitor in the blue overalls would just fade into the background, get erased from their collective memories. What would they say when they told the story to their friends? Would they remember her face? Was she a part of the story or just a prop: interchangeable, replaceable, disposable?

  “I can think of a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t kiss me again,” Queenie heard herself saying, her own voice sounding surprisingly strong as it cut through that horrendous Christmas music.

  “Well, you had better start listing them,” he said, smiling as he leaned closer. Suddenly this felt like it was just the two of them alone in an elevator, alone in the world, alone in the universe. “And perhaps you will strike upon one that I actually give a damn about.”

  Queenie gasped as the Sheikh kissed her hard on the mouth and then pulled back. She staggered as the blood rushed through her body, electricity surged up and down her back, her buttocks tightened, her thighs flexed, her nipples stiffened all at once. Did that really just happen?

  “Go on,” he said, kissing her again and pulling back once more. “I am listening.”

  “Well,” said Queenie, fluttering her eyelids as the words somehow kept coming even though she felt like she’d slipped from a dream into a daze into a full-on hallucination. “For one, your ex-wife just said she’s pregnant with your child.”

  The Sheikh grunted. “It is usually a fifty-fifty chance that anything Renita says is a lie. But even if that is true, why is it wrong for me to kiss you? I am divorced, and even if I am to be a father, I have already made it clear that I will never be taking that woman back into my life.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .”

  “So unless you believe that kissing a single dad is somehow morally wrong, that first reason is no good,” Bawaar said, shrugging and kissing her again.

  Queenie blinked and looked up into his eyes. Who was this guy? Was he for real? Was he using her as a diversion from his family drama? Was he using her as a weapon to strike back against his psycho ex-wife? Did she even give a shit?

  “There’s like a hundred people standing outside that door,” she whispered, feeling her resolve weaken to the point where it felt ridiculous to resist.

  The Sheikh shrugged again. “And they were all inside the room when I kissed you the first time. I can invite them back in if you’d like.”

  He kissed her again as she giggled, and Queenie shook her head and touched his chest. God, he was big, she thought as she glanced down and gasped at the peaked front of his fitted trousers. He still had his tuxedo jacket on, but it was obscenely pushed out at the crotch, and Queenie instinctively reached down and undid the jacket, placing her hand on his hardness.

  “Ya Allah,” the Sheikh groaned, his right hand pulling on her hair, left hand circling around her and grabbing her ass.

  What am I doing, Queenie wondered as she felt him close in for a ferocious kiss even as she tightened her fist around his tremendous cock. I can’t do this! Who does this! What kind of woman am I?!

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she gasped, letting go of his cock and pulling away from the kiss. “This is crazy. This is wrong. This is—”

  She saw anger flash across the Sheikh’s handsome face, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to throw her down on the carpet, rip her overalls down the seam, and take her face-down like an animal. But somehow he controlled himself, his jaw tightening into a forced smile as he shook his head and narrowed his eyes.

  “All right then, go on,” he said. “Leave. There is the door. Go on.”

  Queenie blinked as she held eye contact as long as she could. But then she looked away, turning her head toward the carpet near the mistletoe. She frowned as she saw the cluster of crumbs that she’d been called in to clean up in the first place, and then she glanced back at the Sheikh.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m still on the clock, and so I should probably finish the job before leaving.”

  The Sheikh followed her gaze and snorted when he saw the crumbs. “I agree. It is a mess down there, beneath the mistletoe. The crumbs are all the way in the carpet fibers. You might have to get down on your hands and knees to get all of them out.”

  Queenie nodded as she took two steps and then went down on her knees, leaning forward and raising her ass as she squinted at the few crumbs still left over from the Christmas cookie that had fallen from someone’s plate.

  “I might need some help here,” she whispered.

  “Of course,” whispered the Sheikh from behind her, and Queenie felt her body stiffen when she realized he was down on his knees behind her. “I am known for being a hands-on boss. Here we go. Is that helping?”

  Queenie gasped as she felt the Sheikh’s large hands rest firmly on the rounds of her ass, caressing her gently and then squeezing hard. She arched her back down and moaned out loud, and the moment she felt his right hand slide between her thighs from behind she knew this was happening. She’d had her chance to walk away, and instead she’d gotten down on the floor like a whore and stuck her ass up like a goddamn slut.

  Oh, God, Renita is right, Queenie thought as the Sheikh rubbed her mound roughly through her thick overalls, his face pushed up against her ass as she held firm. I am exactly what she called me! What the hell am I doing?! What the hell is he doing?! How is this ever gonna end well? In what world does the janitor ever end up with the freakin’ CEO?

  In no world outside of movies and romance novels, Queenie thought as she began to crawl away from the Sheikh, a chill running through her as she thought back to what she was running from . . . whom she was running from.

  You need to run again, came the thought as she caught sight of her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling tinted windows that overlooked the dark parking lot. Run before you’re trapped again. Before you’re caught again. Before you have to run again. Run now, Queenie. Run, and keep running. You’ve screwed up again, and you need to run again. It’s your own fault, you dumb slut. So get up and run.

  She blinked in confusion as she felt the Sheikh reach beneath her and unzip the front of her blue overalls, shoving his hand inside her bra and groping her boobs, his fingers pinching her nipples as he continued to grind his face between her legs from behind. She could hear him grunt and growl behi
nd her like an animal, but she knew she was the real beast here. She’d destroyed one marriage, ruined one family, and now she was on the verge of doing it again. Was it karma? Some messed up pattern that she was doomed to repeat? An attraction to the wrong kind of men?

  Or do I turn good men into panting beasts when I get down on my knees and spread my fat ass like the filthy slut I am, Queenie wondered as her mother’s words rang out like the crone was still alive, still in the damn room, watching, judging, pointing, laughing.

  Through her tear-filled eyes Queenie saw red. She blinked and tried to focus. The Sheikh had pulled her overalls down past her shoulders, unclasped her bra from behind. She could hear him unbuckling and unzipping behind her, feel her own wetness flow into her panties. But she forced herself to focus on the red, and suddenly she realized the red was letters. Words. Two words.

  Fire Exit.

  Run, came the thought. Last chance to get out. Run.

  And as her past reached out to her like fingers, claws, goddamn talons, Queenie kicked out with all she had, getting the Sheikh in the face with the heavy heel of her black, standard-issue utility boot. She heard him roar in pain, and then she was on her feet, her boobs hanging out, tears rolling down her cheeks as she raced for the exit like everything was on fire, like everything was in flames, like it was all burning down.

  Again.

  5

  FIVE YEARS AGO

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  JUNO, ALASKA

  “I ain’t never seen so much smoke,” said one of the onlookers.

  “No smoke without a fire, like they say,” replied someone else.

  “Don’t see any flames though,” said a third person.

  Queenie watched as the thick black smoke billowed out of the third-floor window. Her third floor window. The apartment building had apparently been cleared out in time, because the firefighters seemed fairly calm as they unwound their hoses and pointed their nozzles in the right direction. There was no one leaning out of windows screaming, “Help me!” There wasn’t anyone on the street saying, “But my 100-pound Rottweiler is still in the apartment! Who’s gonna save him?”