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

by Annabelle Winters

  “I’ll get you puckered first,” the Sheikh said, swatting her nose with his cock as she squealed in laughter.

  “That doesn’t even make sense! Where did you learn English?”

  “Same place you did.”

  “Juno Elementary School?”

  The Sheikh laughed. “I mean a combination of parents and television. I assume you were speaking some form of English before you started kindergarten, yes?”

  “I think I was already reading before I started kindergarten,” Queenie said, pushing herself up on her elbows and smiling. The palm leaves were moving gently in the warm breeze, the desert shrubs swaying in time, clear blue skies overhead, a bright yellow fireball of a sun that seemed to be smiling down at her. How perfect was this?! How perfect was he?! It seemed like they’d known each other forever, the way they were just hanging out in a garden, naked, teasing, flirting . . . just being! It really seemed like they were somewhere nothing could touch them, nothing could reach them, nothing could—

  A harsh buzz suddenly sounded from one of the desert shrubs towards the Sheikh’s left. He raised an eyebrow and turned to it. The buzz came again, and Queenie realized it was an alarm or bell of some kind hidden in the plant!

  “What the hell is that?” she said, watching as the Sheikh sighed and then crawled over to the shrub. She stared as Bawaar poked around in the bush, reached his hand in there, and pulled out a red phone. “OK, you gotta be kidding me! Is that an intercom or something? How did your people know we were here?”

  “They did not,” he said calmly. “There are red intercoms in every room and private space in the Palace.” He put the phone to his ear and shrugged, glancing at her naked breasts and winking. “I am a king. Ruler of a nation. I have to be available and reachable at all times, Queenie.”

  Queenie nodded, glancing at his cock, noticing that as he spoke in Arabic on the phone, clearly his attention was being pulled to other matters. She sighed and looked around for her clothes—or any clothes. Nothing. Finally she glanced back towards the Royal Baths. There must be towels in there, she thought, standing and making her way back indoors.

  But then she stopped, frowning and turning when she heard the anger in the Sheikh’s voice. She couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she understood enough to know that it was serious.

  “Iidha kunt tatahadath alearabiat, aismahuu li 'an 'aerif,” he said.

  Then he tossed the phone at the bush, glaring at the plant as if it was to blame for whatever national emergency had warranted a call on the red phone.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Queenie said, smiling hopefully even though she could see that Bawaar was not in the mood for jokes. “What’s wrong? Are the Americans invading? Do you need me to run out there naked with an American flag and tell them it’s OK?”

  The Sheikh forced a chuckle. “They will probably assume you are a suicide bomber.”

  “A naked suicide bomber?” Queenie said, her hands on her hips, head cocked to one side. “And where would I hide the bomb, genius?”

  The Sheikh glanced down along her body, his green eyes narrowing. “I have some ideas,” he said softly.

  Queenie’s mouth opened wide with indignation, but she could see that despite their fun back-and-forth, there was something else going on in the Sheikh’s world that demanded his attention. She turned towards the Royal Baths once again, thinking about those towels. But then she turned back to him, frowning and blinking as she realized that hey, this was her world too now. After all, he’d said they were together, and she’d already decided she was in this to win this.

  So don’t turn away when he’s got something to deal with, she told herself, swallowing hard as she took a step toward the Sheikh. You want to be his woman? You want to be his partner? You want to be his queen? Then don’t walk away when something serious comes up! Walk to him, not away from him!

  “How can I help?” she said softly. “What do you need me to do?”

  The Sheikh blinked, a half-smile coming to his face. But it was a strange smile, like he was confused—not about her, but about whatever he’d been told on that red phone.

  “I think you have already done it,” he said finally, rubbing his stubble and walking up to her. He took her arm and led her back towards the Royal Baths. “That was my minister of Public Relations. Renita has just announced to the press that although she is pregnant with the heir of Wakhrani, she has chosen to make a clean break from her past.”

  Queenie’s frown got deeper as they stepped off the sand and onto sandstone. She silently stood as the Sheikh handed her a thick, fluffy white towel with gold Arabic letters emblazoned along the borders. “What does a clean break mean?” she asked even as the realization dawned on her. “Wait. Are you saying Renita is . . . she’s gonna . . . she’s planning to . . .”

  “Yes,” the Sheikh said, his eyes blazing green as he pulled on a black silk robe and looked down from his towering height. “She has announced that she will undergo an abortion in Europe. She is going to abort my child, Queenie. She is going to kill my baby.”

  17

  Queenie stared at her drivers license. It said “State of Alaska” on it. She’d been staring at it for several minutes. Or perhaps it had been an hour. It was hard to say. She’d gone to her chambers and thought about packing, but then it had occurred to her that she didn’t have any things because she’d been brought here in the middle of the night, a Christmas present for the Sheikh of Wakhrani. She also didn’t have a passport, which meant it would be kinda hard to get back into the United States. It was kinda random that she had her drivers license, but she’d stuck it in her jeans that night so she’d remember to apply for a Texas license before the new year. The drivers license would probably be enough to establish her identity, and then they’d put her in a holding cell while Homeland Security verified that she wasn’t an American jihadist returning from the Middle East after attending Terrorist Training Camp. It would be painful, but eventually they’d let her into the country, right?

  “Right, but maybe they’ll escort me from that holding cell at the airport directly to a holding cell in Juno State Penitentiary,” she muttered, her mind swirling as she wondered if Homeland Security would investigate her background thoroughly enough to notice that she’d been linked to at least three different fires in Juno. No proof, but sometimes a pattern itself is proof! And then she’d have to explain how the hell she got to the Middle East with no money or a passport!

  “You could just tell them the damned truth,” she said to herself out loud. But then she laughed, shaking her head when she realized the truth was ridiculous. Besides, did she really want to stand there and claim she’d been kidnapped and transported across international borders by a devious Sheikh with green eyes and rock-hard . . . abs? What happens when they ask around and find out about the kiss beneath the mistletoe? Shit, there was probably video of that kiss! Security footage at the office—not to mention like fifty iPhone cameras recording it in high-definition!

  “Or you could just stay here,” she finally said, turning towards a full-length mirror with a hand-carved teakwood frame. “You said you’re in this to win this, right? Then you need to stay here. Face the situation. Fight for what you want, for what’s right!”

  But what was right in this situation, Queenie wondered. What did Bawaar want? She wasn’t worried that he’d want to get back with Renita, no matter what tricks the bitch pulled. Losing the child, however, would have an impact on him—that much she could tell. He hadn’t seemed particularly thrilled by the prospect of Renita giving birth to his heir—or whatever the kid would be depending on the laws—but clearly the thought of her aborting the child didn’t sit well with him.

  “What to do?” she whispered, absentmindedly flipping her drivers license over and looking down at it. An image of that green car came floating back to her, and along with it the sickening memory of that blue-eyed dri
ver, that man who’d lied to her, tricked her, shown her that she was a home-wrecker and a whore. Was that happening again? Should she walk away from this? After all, it was a family situation, wasn’t it? Private. Between Bawaar and Renita. They’d been married over a decade! Yeah, they’d gotten divorced before Queenie had arrived on the scene, but certainly there were complexities here she couldn’t possibly understand. Was she once again inserting her bit butt between a man and his family? Should she step aside and let them sort it out on their own, resolve it as a family matter?

  That’s for him to decide, not you, came the answer from somewhere inside her, the part of her that wanted to hold on to this, to him, to that vision of the future. It made her feel sick again. Was she a gold-digger? She couldn’t possibly be in “love” with Bawaar, could she?

  “Whatever,” she said, shaking her head. “The only time you actually believed you were in love, it ended in disaster. So it’s better if you decide that you’re a gold-digger or whatever and just embrace it. There’s a reason you used to get lost in those romance novels as a teenager. There’s a reason millions of women obsessively read those same books. It’s because that kind of fairy-tale love doesn’t exist. Things don’t work out that way in real life. Billionaire kings don’t fall in love with cleaning ladies. There’s always a catch. Always a twist. And chances are it’s the cleaning lady who’s getting played.”

  “Why are you playing with your hair like that?” came the Sheikh’s deep voice from behind her, and Queenie almost jumped out of her skin.

  “How long have you been standing there?” she asked, turning red when she realized she’d been talking out loud, turning her open hair into knots to match how her insides were twisting up.

  “Long enough,” said the Sheikh coming close and sliding his arm around her waist. “Listen, Queenie. This thing with Renita . . .”

  “You don’t need to say anything,” Queenie said firmly, looking down at his arm and then up into his eyes. “I understand. You need to sort it out, and I’m just a complication. It’s none of my business.”

  The Sheikh frowned, a flash of anger passing across his handsome face. He shook his head. “Of course it is your business,” he said. “We are to be married. She is the complication, not you!”

  Queenie closed her eyes and tried to fight back the feeling that she was in over her head, that this was a world of kings and queens, money and power, and she had no clue what everyone’s motives were. Yeah, the chemistry between the Sheikh and her was real—she’d been with enough men to know what a real physical connection felt like, how rare it was, how special it was.

  “So what do you want to do?” she asked stubbornly. “Get married and ignore the fact that your ex-wife is pregnant with your child and is now threatening to have an abortion?”

  The Sheikh took a breath. “Yes. I will ignore it. It is Renita’s choice, so let her make it. If she is bluffing just to get a reaction out of me, then we will call her bluff, see if she will go through with it. But—”

  “But what if she’s not bluffing? What about your reaction if she does actually go through with it? How would you feel if she does actually abort your child?”

  “How would you feel about it?” the Sheikh said, blinking and drawing back from her, his green eyes narrowed in a way that told Queenie he was shutting himself off from Renita, from the situation.

  “Don’t make this about me,” she snapped. “I’m not your escape route. I won’t be responsible for you turning your back on your . . . your family!”

  “Renita is not my family!” the Sheikh thundered, reaching for her hand as Queenie stepped back, finding herself flush against the floor-standing mirror. “Anyway, both Renita and family have brought me nothing but pain, done nothing but restrict my freedom, forced me to make choices I did not want to make!”

  “Then you should have refused to marry Renita in the first place,” Queenie said, her jaw tightening as the fight rose up in her. She wasn’t going to be a crutch for Bawaar. She wasn’t going to be an excuse for him to avoid choices that he had to make. “It’s too late to change the past. And denying the past doesn’t change a thing either. Be a man and face your choices.”

  The Sheikh’s body tensed up as Queenie spoke, and as he clenched his fists she felt a flash of fear pass through her. But then he just smiled, taking control of himself and his anger.

  “You dare talk to me about denying the past?” He shrugged. “Though I suppose you are qualified to do so.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

  “I am not a fool,” said the Sheikh. “You think I am so enamored by your beauty and charm that I decided to marry you without looking into your past?”

  Queenie stared at the Sheikh dumbstruck. Had she really believed that? God, she was a moron, wasn’t she? This man was the leader of a kingdom! He had security services and spies at his disposal! One phone call and he could probably get a file on her so detailed that he’d know when she first got her period!

  “Well,” she said, swallowing hard as she tried to stay calm. “If you know everything about my past and are still willing to marry me, then maybe you are enamored by my beauty and charm. Not to mention my wit.”

  As she said the words a calmness spread throughout her body, and Queenie realized that what she’d said was true, wasn’t it? If he knew about her past with men, her past with the fires, her less-than-honorable deeds . . . yeah, if he knew all that and he was still here, didn’t it mean this was real, this was true, this was . . . forever?

  But doubt was knocking on the door again, and Queenie began to second-guess herself once more as she watched the Sheikh blink and shrug. Was he bluffing? Was he lying? Was he still playing her? Was she a patsy, brought into this drama for a purpose that had nothing to do with her beauty, charm, or wit?

  “No,” she said before the Sheikh could respond. “I’m in over my head here. I know it. I feel it. I need to distance myself from this until you sort out whatever you need to with Renita and the baby and all that. I can’t be involved with it. If you figure it out and you’re still single, you know where to find me.”

  The Sheikh straightened up, his eyes going wide with surprise. He opened his mouth, but then clamped his jaw tight before saying a word. “You are fired,” he said softly, looking directly into her eyes.

  Queenie frowned and cocked her head to the left. “Excuse me?”

  “You are fired,” he said again. “Your employment has been terminated, effective immediately. I am still your boss, remember?”

  Queenie snorted in disbelief. “Are you being serious? Fired for what?”

  The Sheikh folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. “I do not need a reason to fire an employee.”

  “You are the most unbelievably immature, ridiculously impulsive, freak of a human being! You’re seriously firing me because I refused to marry you?! And I haven’t actually refused, by the way. I just said you need to figure this stuff out on your own, and then we’ll see if there’s anything here.”

  “If the answer is not yes, then it is no,” said the Sheikh, arms still folded, eyes still narrowed. “And in fact the proposal has been withdrawn. If I cannot trust you to stand by my side when there is a crisis, what use are you?”

  “What use am I? Is that what a wife is supposed to be? Someone to be used?!” Queenie was yelling and she had no idea why, but damn it felt good!

  “Do not put words into my mouth!” the Sheikh responded, his own voice rising.

  Queenie just raised her arms and shook her head, not sure whether to laugh or just keep yelling. “All right. I’m done here. You’re obviously just an overgrown teenager with too much money, too much power, and too little of a grasp on reality. Forget what I said about finding me if you sort things out with Renita. I’m done. I’m gone. Also, I quit.”

  “You will quit when I say you can q
uit,” the Sheikh said.

  “You just fired me, you moron,” she snapped. “Now, since you kidnapped me and I don’t have a phone, money, or a passport, please transport me back to the United States the same way you brought me here.”

  The Sheikh took a long, deep breath, his gaze moving up and down along her body as Queenie shifted uncomfortably on her bare feet. Her hair was open, and she had no underwear on beneath her long white gown. Suddenly she felt vulnerable even as she sensed her nipples tightening, her vagina slowly secreting a wetness that made her clamp her buttcheeks together. She couldn’t interpret the look he was giving her, nor could she understand her body’s reaction. She wanted to be disgusted and angry with him, not turned on!

  “I will send you back to America,” he whispered, taking a step towards her as he undid his thick leather belt, “but not without your Christmas present. That would be rude, yes?”

  Queenie blinked as she tried to back up. But she was already against the heavy mirror, and she pressed her ass against the cool glass as her heat rose. “What are you talking about?”

  “If you decide you want nothing to do with me again, then so be it. But you will carry my child,” he said. “You want to distance yourself from the Renita drama? Fine. But I will put you in the same position. Get you pregnant. Let us see what you do, yes? Perhaps you are already pregnant from when we made love on Christmas Day. But if not, I will make sure of it by putting my seed in you a third time. Come. Down on the carpet, my queen. Spread for me. Spread for your king.”

  18

  “Spread for your king,” the Sheikh heard himself say as he slipped his leather belt out from the loops of his tailored trousers. The blood was pounding in his temples, his erection pitching a violent peak. His mind was a mess as he thought of Renita and what she was doing. And now Queenie was turning her back on him! Ya Allah, throughout his life women had pushed and pulled him, twisted and turned him. His four mothers! Renita! And now Queenie!