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

by Annabelle Winters

  Queenie’s heart skipped a beat and then began to pound like a drum as she stared at the Sheikh. He’d just talked about them being married! And he’d said it so casually, like it was a foregone conclusion, a done deal! What was happening here? Was she still hallucinating? Had some strange cosmic shift occurred on Christmas Day, and now everyone in the world had their Christmas wishes coming true?

  I want him, she’d wished on Christmas Eve. Now here he was, calmly sipping his tea, glaring at her playfully across the breakfast table as she complained about him snoring!

  “A woman waits a year after marriage to begin complaining?” she said, cocking her head and reaching for the silver cup of steaming tea. “What is this, the 1920s?”

  “You wish!” said the Sheikh. “The rules governing what a woman may or may not do in Wakhrani are more reminiscent of the Middle Ages than the 1920s.”

  Queenie snorted into her tea, hurriedly putting the cup back down before she spilled it all over as she giggled. “Is that why your wife left?” she said, the words coming out before she could stop them. Oh, God, what did she just say?! Oh, God, he was gonna kick her out on her ass!

  The Sheikh hesitated for a moment, but then he took another sip of his tea and leaned back in the hand-carved teakwood chair. “Renita left because Renita was never really here. The marriage was official, but never real. We were never meant to be with one another, and only after our parents died did we have the courage to face the truth and end it.”

  Queenie closed her eyes and took a breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked you that. It’s none of my business.”

  “Everything is your business from now on. We are together, and no question is off limits. What else do you want to know?”

  Queenie exhaled slowly. This was happening, wasn’t it? She was sitting here at the breakfast table with a king. His seed was still inside her, he’d casually implied that they were going to be married, and now he’d point-blank said they were together!

  “Are we together?” she asked, blinking as she almost kicked herself for asking the question. “I mean . . .”

  “Yes,” he said, looking at her with those green eyes focused and steady. “We are together. Next question.”

  “But . . . but your wife. She said she was . . .” Queenie stammered, not sure if she was thrilled or terrified at how calm and resolute the Sheikh was right then. He’d already decided they were together. Decreed it. Ordered it. Whatever the right word was . . .

  “Pregnant, yes. That is indeed what she said.” Bawaar shrugged and snapped his fingers for an attendant to pour him another cup of tea. “And if she is, we will deal with it.”

  “You think she’s lying?”

  “Probably. But perhaps not. Regardless, it is of no consequence.”

  “How is your ex-wife being pregnant with your child and heir of no consequence?” Queenie said, frowning even though she was astounded at how openly they were talking about matters that seemed like . . . well, that seemed like they shouldn’t be talked about this early in a relationship! Had they just skipped like three years ahead in one night?

  The Sheikh held his steady look. “Renita might be carrying my child, but she is not carrying my heir. You are carrying my heir.”

  Queenie almost choked on her flatbread-and-hummus breakfast sandwich as she stared into the Sheikh’s eyes. So they’d met a week earlier in an elevator. Then a kiss beneath the mistletoe. One kidnapping. A night in bed together. And now they were talking about marriage, babies, and how to handle his psycho ex-wife. No way this was real. Not even Mills and Boon would dare to put such a ridiculous story out there because no one would ever believe it!

  But you believe it, don’t you, Queenie told herself as she glanced around the sprawling open room where they were being served breakfast by silent, perfectly groomed attendants. You believe him, don’t you? When he said we’ve found each other because we deserve each other . . . you believe it too, don’t you?

  Maybe it is that simple, Queenie wondered as she took in the sight of the yellow sandstone walls bathed in sunlight, smelled the clean, dry air that floated in from the open desert beyond the balcony, listened to the distant prayer call from the city of Wakhrani. Yup, maybe it is that simple. Maybe my happily-ever-after really is here. My journey prepared me for this moment, for this man, for this life, and it’s the same with him. We skipped the awkwardness and tension of “dating” and “getting to know ya” and jumped right into the “we’re together now, and so all we have to do is figure out the details” phase.

  Is that even a phase, Queenie wondered as she thought back to the men in her life. Boys, really. She’d had a lot of sex, but there’d never been a real boyfriend until all that drama with her blue-eyed lottery winner, her prince who’d been a frog in disguise.

  Then suddenly doubt whipped through Queenie as reality peeked through the fluffy clouds of happiness that had enveloped her ever since she’d woken up beside the man she’d casually wished for on Christmas morning. Reality, which reminded her that this man knew nothing of her past, and if—or when—he decided to ask, she’d have to be honest. And then what? What of all this talk of marriage and being together and carrying his heir? This man was a king! Soon reality would break through to him as well, bringing him face to face with the truth that she was way beneath him, that the fascination with her was just one hell of a rebound, a reaction to the drama his ex-wife was throwing at him. Once that was done, so was Queenie!

  Queenie swallowed hard as a chill rose up along her back. She shifted in her chair, suddenly feeling uncomfortable . . . uncomfortable with everything: herself, this place, this man, this entire damned situation. A part of her wanted to get up and run, to shut this down before it got too far, before she was swept away with the romance of it, before she actually believed a girl like her could end up with a guy like him.

  When does that ever happen in real life, Queenie wondered as her jaw tightened. Sure, bosses fuck cleaning ladies all over America. Kings have been boinking scullery-maids since the Middle Ages. But what happens next? When does it ever end well for the maid?

  “What’s the plan here?” she asked, closing her eyes and facing him, her boldness surprising her even as that annoying sense of dread kept climbing up her spine like a ten-legged insect.

  “What do you mean?” said the Sheikh, sipping his tea and leaning back again.

  “I mean, we’ve known each other for a few days, and you’re saying we’re together now. Forgive me if I find that hard to believe. So if this is just a wham-bam-no-thank-you-ma’am, then you need to let me know now and I’ll just pack my bags and get back to my life.”

  “You have no bags,” said the Sheikh, his green eyes twinkling through the steam rising above his teacup. “I kidnapped you, remember?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “And that means you are my captive. So no, you are not free to get back to your life unless I release you.” He paused, his eyes twinkling again before they narrowed. “Do you want to get back to your life? The life you had before Christmas Eve? Before the mistletoe? Before me?”

  Queenie blinked as she felt herself getting pulled in by his cool confidence, his calm sense of assuredness. Who was this man? Why was he so damned interested in her?

  “Why me?” she asked without thinking. “Why pick me?”

  Bawaar shrugged. “Why not?”

  Queenie blinked as the depth of his simple question hit her square in the heart, making her breathless, almost knocking her out. “Because . . .” she started to say before realizing that if she said any more, it would basically mean she was trying to convince him not to choose her! Was she that insecure? Was he testing her? Challenging her? Asking her to find it in herself to believe that she was on par with a king, worthy of a Sheikh, meant to be with him?

  “All right, listen,” Bawaar said, lowering his teacup and leaning forward. He
reached out and grabbed her hand, the touch sending a spark of heat through Queenie’s body. “You want to know the plan? The truth is there was no plan. The attraction was real. The moment I saw you in that elevator, I wanted you. Perhaps it was because my divorce had been finalized and something had opened up in me. Perhaps it was because I spent my entire life forcing myself into staying loyal to a woman that did not arouse me sexually, that did not call to my body the way you did.” He paused, swallowing hard and exhaling. “And yes, perhaps it is a rebound of sorts. Perhaps I would have felt this way about any woman I bumped into on the elevator. Maybe it was the timing and not the woman.” He shook his head and smiled. “But that is just logic talking, and neither the heart nor the body cares about logic. My heart tells me it is about you and not the situation. And by Allah, my body backs up my heart. So to hell with logic and common sense. If there was no plan before, we will make a plan now.”

  Queenie stared at Bawaar, losing herself in his gaze as she felt him stroke her hand with a firm gentleness that gave her goosebumps. She felt herself nodding, then smiling, and finally she was giggling as she realized that of course she was willing to give this a shot! Worst case he’d break her heart and she’d never see him again. Wasn’t that worth the risk? In it to win it, yeah? No shame. No guilt. She’d already opened her legs for him, and now she was hesitating to open her heart? If she walked away now, it only proved that she was a whore, right? It would only prove what her mother, her teachers, and everyone in school said about her. Only a whore spreads her legs for a man while keeping her heart locked tight. How was that for some logic?!

  “All right,” she said softly. “Let’s make a plan.”

  13

  “Here is the plan,” said the Sheikh, stroking Queenie’s arm and looking into her eyes. He was making this up as he went along, but he felt a calm confidence that was intoxicating as he heard the words roll off his tongue. “We will be married. You will bear my child. That way, if Renita truly is pregnant with my child, it will be no matter because I will make sure the laws say that the child born in wedlock will be the true heir to Wakhrani. Our child, Queenie.” He paused and frowned, a chill running through him as the pieces suddenly fell into place. “But our marriage will need to be secret. And your pregnancy will need to be an even bigger secret.”

  Queenie’s eyes widened, and the Sheikh felt her breath catch. “Why?” she said, her voice soft and urgent, her tone telling the Sheikh that she already understood why. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Bawaar nodded. He hadn’t really considered it until now, but after seeing Renita face to face at that party, he knew she was capable of anything. And showing up with Anders Van Hosen, the head of a security agency with a reputation for doing more than just simple “protection” . . . ya Allah, Renita was sending a message, wasn’t she?

  Take me back, or I’ll take your kingdom.

  The Sheikh’s head spun as the scenarios played out in his mind. Could it be that Renita didn’t realize she was pregnant until after the divorce? That was the only thing that made sense, or else she would have told him about the child before he signed the papers. She would have tried to get him to give it another try for the sake of their unborn child, the heir of Wakhrani.

  Unless she was afraid that I would have divorced her anyway, disowned the child, perhaps even done something more drastic to her and the baby, the Sheikh thought as his jaw tightened and his head began to pound. Perhaps that public scene was carefully planned to protect herself, to make sure that if she suddenly disappeared, all fingers would point to me as the culprit! Ya Allah, she is smart! She could have kept the baby a secret from me until she gave birth. She could have had me killed—the Van Hosens were more than capable of that—and then her child would be the heir to Wakhrani, making her the Queen Mother by default!

  So why not do that? Does she truly believe I would take her back? Or is she just unhinged, playing a game that even I do not understand yet?

  “What’s going on in there?” came Queenie’s voice. “What are you thinking about, Bawaar? Let me in there. Talk to me.”

  The Sheikh took a long, controlled breath. Then he shook his head. “It is possible I made a mistake,” he said softly. “It is irresponsible and selfish for me to bring you into this. It is too dangerous. You are not ready for this. I am sorry.”

  “Wait, what?” Queenie said, pulling her hand away from his, her eyes narrowing in anger. “You already have brought me into this! You kissed me, kidnapped me, fucked me, and now you’re saying I’m not ready for this! I’m in this, Bawaar.” She snorted, tossing her hair back and shaking her head. “And if you think I’m not ready for this . . . whatever it is . . . well, then you don’t know anything about me.”

  Bawaar smiled. “Perhaps I do not. So tell me something more about you.”

  “Oh, so now we’re doing the getting-to-know-you bit? All right. Shoot. Ask me anything.”

  “Did you grow up in Texas?” he asked.

  “Alaska. Juno.”

  The Sheikh’s eyes widened. “Alaska! A desert of ice and snow!”

  “Something like that,” Queenie said, a smile slowly forming on her face. “What else do you wanna know? Favorite color? Favorite food? Go on.”

  “Why did you leave Alaska?” he asked. “Certainly it was not to pursue more promising career opportunities in Texas.”

  “Considering I’m a janitor? I guess not. I left because . . .” She blinked and shrugged. “Let’s just say it was becoming too dangerous for everyone else in my life.”

  The Sheikh grinned. “So you like danger?”

  Queenie shrugged. “I like risk, I suppose. Considering I’m still here, still talking to you, still smiling.”

  Bawaar reached for her hand again, but Queenie pulled away from him, biting her lip and smiling in a way that made him harden beneath his black silk pajamas. He wanted to ask her more, ask her what she meant by her answers. But he held off. In a way he did not want to know. This woman had clearly left Alaska to escape something—perhaps to escape herself. A man? A crime? Both? It did not matter. If and when it did matter, she would tell him, he was sure of it. For now, he did not care about her past. It meant nothing to him.

  “You are indeed still smiling,” he whispered, moving his chair closer and reaching for her hand again. But she swatted him away, crossing her arms over her breasts defiantly. He grinned and leaned back, holding his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “So all right. I will lay it out there. Here is the situation: Wakhrani’s laws of ascendancy have some interesting clauses, and I believe Renita is well aware of them and is looking to play them to perfection. Of course, I am king and I could simply change the laws, but it is a long process, and Renita could take it up with the Pan-Arabic Council and delay things.”

  “Go on,” Queenie said, her arms still crossed over her breasts.

  “The way it works is that the Sheikh’s first born child is heir to the throne. There is no question of legitimacy. For example, if the Sheikh gets a harem-girl pregnant before any of his wives bear his child, the bastard child will have claim to the throne.”

  Queenie frowned. “Sounds pretty equal-opportunity. Also a good way to keep the Sheikh’s cock in line, right? If I remember my historical romance novels, back in England and Europe, the king could spread his seed far and wide, but the bastard children would never have a higher claim to the throne if there were any children born in wedlock.”

  The Sheikh laughed. “Yes, the rule was put into place by my father’s four wives.”

  “Convenient,” said Queenie. “So you had four mothers?”

  “Yes. You could say that.”

  “Well, that figures.”

  Bawaar frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Queenie shrugged. “Well, I’m not a psychiatrist, but you display a strange mix of deep respect and loyalty towards women—for examp
le, you said you never once cheated on your wife, even though you could have easily done it without anyone knowing. But at the same time, there is a need in you to assert control over women—perhaps a reaction to being controlled by women your entire life.”

  “Very impressive. That must be quite a training program we have in place for the custodians at Wakhrani Enterprises.”

  “My in-depth knowledge of psychology comes from reading romance novels. The hero is usually all messed up in the head by either his mother or an ex-lover. Then the heroine comes along and fixes him, even though he tries to deny that he’s all fucked-up in the head. The end.”

  The Sheikh raised an eyebrow. Who in Allah’s name was this woman? He eyed her up and down, his jaw tightening as his gaze rested on the swell of her breasts beneath the loose, flowing white robe she’d worn to bed. “So I demonstrate a need to control women?” he said softly, his eyes narrowing as he slowly stood up. “All right. I will grant you that. But you believe it is a reaction to being controlled by women my entire life? You do not think it is simply a side-effect of being a king, a man in control of everything and everyone, including himself and his needs?”

  Queenie snorted. “You’re just proving my point. Remember how I said the hero always denies that he’s messed up in the head? There you go. Denial.”

  “What about the heroine? She is never in denial? Never messed up in the head, as you say?”

  “Sure she is. Always. And the fix for her is usually . . .” Queenie trailed off, glancing at the peak at the front of his black silk pajamas, her face going flush as she looked back up into his eyes. “You know, let’s just eat. There’s so much stuff here I want to try. What’s that strange looking—”

  “The fix for her is usually what?” said Bawaar, standing and stepping between Queenie and the table, putting his hands firmly on his hips and glancing down at her.