“I should . . . go,” said Nat, glancing down at herself one more time to make sure all her buttons were fastened and her zippers were up. She felt ashamed, and she didn’t know why. She hadn’t done anything with the Sheikh. What was she ashamed about? All the other guys she’d fucked when she was younger and didn’t give a damn? Who the hell knew. All she knew was that she’d asked for a sign, and here it was. “Yeah. I’m gonna go.”
“As you wish,” the Sheikh said, ignoring Laila’s persistent gaze and focusing all his attention on Nat. “As you wish.”
7
“What does the Sheikh wish for?” Laila whispered as Zameer hung up the phone and turned to see his assistant standing barefoot in his office, her blouse open all the way down. “What do you want me to do for you?”
I want you to leave my sight, came the thought, and it came so quick the Sheikh was almost ashamed. Just that morning he’d been aroused by this dainty creature with her perky breasts and tight ass, but now he could barely stand to look at her. What kind of a man was he? Had he finally gotten to the point where he’d fucked so many women that even a young, attractive little filly like Laila could not hold his attention for more than a few hours? Or was there something else going on here?
He looked past his half-dressed assistant, gazing at the door. He could still picture Nat leaving, her big, beautiful bottom moving in that peach pantsuit as she stormed out of his office. Though had she actually stormed out or had she simply walked out, he wondered, almost laughing at himself when he realized that by Allah, there was something else at play here because never in his life had he given a damn about some woman’s mood when she left his presence!
“Leave,” he said to Laila, not even looking at her. He felt no guilt now, his mind completely on that American woman who’d walked into his life, kissed him, and then walked out leaving nothing but an image of a peach pantsuit and some colorful PowerPoint slides. “Now, Laila.”
He felt Laila’s anger, and a part of him knew this could be a problem down the line. Laila was ambitious, proud, with a temper that matched her sharp looks. But she should have known what this was when she kicked off her shoes the first time, the Sheikh thought, and he snapped his fingers and pointed at the door.
“Mathal hdha tamama?,” Laila said, pulling at her blouse and narrowing her eyes at the Sheikh. “So I am just a flavor of the month to be used and discarded at His Majesty’s pleasure?”
The Sheikh turned to face his assistant, the anger rising as he focused his green eyes on her. “Nem tamamaan mithl dhlk!,” he growled, staring at her until she blinked and looked at the floor. “Every woman in my life is just a flavor for my sampling. We are in America, but do not forget that I am your Sheikh and king. You speak to me like that again and you will join Siddiqui on a flight back to Ladaak. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sheikh,” Laila said, her voice trembling. She bowed her head, turned and left the room, still barefoot.
The Sheikh bowed his head too as the thoughts swirled in his head. Thoughts of Nat, her curves, her voice, the way she looked at him with those big brown eyes, the way she’d so calmly joked about his arousal. Ya Allah, there was a part of her that was so comfortable with her sexuality, was there not? Comfortable with sexuality in general, of its place in the human psyche, the human body, in human relationships. But there was another part of her that was fighting it. He could see it. He could feel it. He’d been in the room with her for less than an hour, but he could feel her conflict.
Because it was his conflict too.
The realization came so suddenly that the Sheikh jerked his head back, his green eyes opening wide as he stared at the ceiling. He was alone in the room, and he'd been alone in life; but for the first time he felt truly lonely, felt the need to connect with someone. Ya Allah, he thought. I want someone.
I want her.
Zameer began to pace as he considered his next move. Nat had walked out of his office after their kiss, but as far as he was concerned, the invitation to visit her winery still stood. He laughed when he realized he’d called it “her” winery in his thoughts even though he owned it, and he shook his head and took a breath as he bowed his head again in private defeat. He was going to her. This was a sign that he had to face his demons, and perhaps Nat was the angel sent by Allah to help him do just that.
8
“I don’t think God’s angels could have created a better pinot,” said the wife, sniffing the cork and smiling at Nat.
“Or Satan’s demon’s, for that matter,” said the husband, swirling the wine and tasting it approvingly.
The couple visiting the winery laughed together, and Nat smiled and pretended to laugh as she watched them drink from one another’s glasses and order three cases from a batch that had been aged four years. Ordinarily she’d have been ecstatic to sell three cases during the middle of the week in the off-season, but Nat didn’t feel ecstatic. That sinking feeling in her gut had stayed with her ever since she’d walked out of the Sheikh’s office and driven through Washington and then back out to Northern Virginia in her second-hand green Ford Explorer.
A beat-up Ford Explorer, she thought absentmindedly as she took the drunk couple’s address down in her order book and swiped the wife’s platinum credit card. She was supposed to be a sophisticated vintner, a woman who actually knew that “vintner” was a word in the English language, a professional with training and experience, culture and taste. The car didn’t fit, she realized suddenly. It never had. She should be driving a—
Nat frowned as the credit-card machine beeped and flashed at her. She sighed and shook her head, looking up at the couple and smiling politely.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. The card was declined. Is there another form of payment you’d like to use?”
The wife glared at Nat as if it were Nat’s fault. “Try it again,” she said disdainfully, wrinkling up her nose and draining the last of the sample from the stained wine glass.
Nat smiled and nodded, swiping the card once more and getting the “Transaction Declined” message again—this time almost immediately, as if the machine was trying to make a point. She shook her head again and handed the card back to the wife. Nat had seen this before. She’d seen it too many times. People living the good life on credit. People living above their means. People living a lie. Was Nat any different? Sure, she’d fixed her spending issues and had paid off her debt finally. But she was living a lie in other ways, wasn’t she?
Nat almost broke down when she thought of how she’d pulled away from the Sheikh even though she didn’t want to pull away from him, even though she wanted to press against his hard body, feel him push back against her, push into her. Oh, God, what kind of a woman was she! She’d fixed so many problems from her younger days: the spending, the shopping, the debt, the partying. And she thought she’d fixed this part of her too, but clearly it was still alive and well, simmering beneath the surface. The soul of a slut. The essence of a whore. The heart of a harlot.
She knew that it made no sense, that in this day and age no woman should need to feel ashamed for wanting sex—good sex and plenty of it! She and Peggy had discussed it again and again, and although Peggy had chosen a different path, marrying the first guy she’d ever dated, they’d agreed on this point every time they got into it:
“I do sometimes wish I’d been with other guys before Henry and I got together,” Peggy would say when she’d had just the right amount of wine. Merlot was her truth serum, and Nat always called her over when it was time to “test” a new batch. “I mean, I love Henry. I don’t want to be with anyone else. I just . . .”
“The grass is always greener on the other side,” Nat would say, smiling weakly as she poured them another glass each.
“Really? Because you’ve never said that you wish you had what Henry and I have,” Peggy would sometimes retort when she’d had a glass or two above her ideal level, her ordinar
ily pale face showing some color, her finance-teacher’s monotone taking on some indignant inflection.
“So are you saying you wish you had what I have? A history with enough guys to field a football team?” Nat had snapped once.
“You slept with an entire football team?” Peggy had responded, and the way her eyes lit up made Nat think that the Pegster had fantasized about being taken by eleven men at once. Or perhaps the entire 53-man roster! Who knew what secrets lurked beneath the public personas of even the closest friends.
“No! Of course not! I just mean the . . . number,” Nat had replied, almost choking on her wine as she remembered her number and knew that she could never, ever say that number out loud because it would confirm she was a championship-level slut, a world-class whore, a harlot who’d spread her legs for more men than she could count.
Peggy had leaned forward with her wine, her eyes narrowing as the sun set over the Virginia hills. “What’s the number?” she’d whispered. “Come on, Nat. Tell me. What is it?”
“Nope. Never. Not in a million years,” Nat had replied, leaning back in her wicker chair and shaking her head as images of the past flashed past her mind’s eye. Perhaps I’m about to die, she’d thought in that moment as she sipped her pinot. Die and be born again. A born-again virgin. How about that? Yeah. That sounds good. “You know what? The number is zero. It’s been two years since I’ve even kissed a guy. The old Nat is dead. Dead and buried.”
Peggy had laughed and shaken her head. “You’re ashamed,” she’d said. “And that’s sad.”
“Excuse me?”
“If I ever have a daughter, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t turn out like you,” Peggy had said, her words slurring just enough to make it clear she was telling the truth.
“Excuse me?! What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nat had snapped. “You’re saying I’m a slut?!”
“I’m saying you’re ashamed to be a slut, and that’s so wrong I can’t even explain it!” Peggy had replied. “My parents were super-conservative. I was a virgin until my wedding night. Don’t get me wrong—I love Henry . . .”
Nat rolled her eyes. “Yes, we know. Can we move this along, please.”
Peggy laughed and shook her head. “All right. What I’m saying is that I still wish I’d had that chance to explore my sexuality before I committed to Henry. To . . . to . . .”
“To slut it up for a few years and then settle down?” Nat had said, rolling her eyes again and shaking her head. “Yeah. Like I said, the grass is always greener, Peg.”
“And like I said, you’ve never really said that you’re longing for what Henry and I have. Which means that you don’t really believe that the grass is greener on my side of the fence. Which means you’re not just lying to me, but you’re lying to yourself!” Peggy had countered. “You enjoyed those days when you were experimenting, doing whatever you wanted with whomever you chose. That’s freedom, Nat. That’s independence. That’s . . . that’s life! And I missed out on it! Don’t you see what I’m saying? You can still have what Henry and I have if you decide you want it, but I can never have what you had! That’s what I would want for my daughter. To have the full spectrum of experience. To celebrate her body, to share it with the men she chooses, and to eventually choose one man who gets her forever. That’s the full range. That’s what I would teach my daughter. To live her life like you did, and then—”
“Wait,” Nat had said, giggling as she felt her wine-buzz come in strong. “I thought you said you’d never want your daughter to turn out like me!”
“Let me finish!” Peggy had howled, clearly drunk by that point. “I mean I’d hate for her to have this negative view of herself that you’re carrying with you, Nat.”
“I’m not negative!”
“Yes, you are! You’re ashamed of your past, and you shouldn’t be! Would a guy be ashamed of himself for fucking a hundred women or would he brag about it to anyone who’d listen?”
“It’s not the same thing, and you know that as well as anyone, Peg!”
“Yes, but it should be the same thing, shouldn’t it? What was the point of the feminist movement if a woman who’s slept with more than one guy is a slut and a dude who humps a hundred women is a stud?”
Nat had laughed, rocking back on her wicker chair until she almost fell over. “Typical,” she said through her hysterics. “A happily married woman spouting feminist ideals to her single friend when she doesn’t have to deal with the consequences. Well, I hope Henry knocks you up again soon and it’s a girl. I really want to see how long you stick to this viewpoint when you actually have a daughter.”
And they’d laughed and finished their wine, agreeing to kinda-sorta agree. That was just over a year ago, and so now it had been three years since Nat had been kissed. Three years until last week.
Nat watched as the wife fumbled through her bag and pulled out another credit card, this one gold. It went through, and Nat smiled politely and went to the back to bring out their wine. She had no front-office staff most of the year, since about half the winery sales came from distribution to independent wine and liquor stores in Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania. It kept costs down, and besides, Nat liked to interact with every customer herself. After all, if they’d taken the trouble to drive all the way out here, they should meet the vintner herself, not some hired wine-clerk. Of course, it also meant she had to haul cases of wine out from the back every once in a while.
Use your butt and legs to lift, Nat reminded herself as she felt a slight catch in her back when she leaned over the first case. She smiled as she felt her glutes and hamstrings tighten, and as she staggered out with the case of wine she was reminded of what the Sheikh had said when he first saw her and thought she was a whore:
“He likes his women big, yes?” he’d said to her, and Nat felt her cheeks going flush with embarrassment as she put the wine on the counter and went back for the second case.
She could feel the beads of sweat on her forehead as she went back for the third case of wine, and only then did it occur to her that the Sheikh hadn’t been mocking or insulting her when he called her a big woman. In fact, now that she thought about it, Zameer hadn’t sounded particularly mocking when he called her a whore either. He didn’t even use the words whore or prostitute. He’d assumed she was being paid to sleep with the manager he’d just fired, and his assumption had come without judgment.
The realization startled her, and it took a moment for Nat to understand that perhaps it was her own prejudices that had colored the Sheikh’s statements. Perhaps Zameer thought there was nothing wrong with a woman choosing to sleep with a man for money, to be a prostitute. Perhaps there was something more to this conservative Sheikh who was loose with his women and tight with his morals about everything else.
There you go again, Nat scolded herself. Assuming that being loose in bed is automatically immoral. Who says it is? The Bible? When was the last time you read the Holy Book, girl? And even if you did, you’ve never actually cheated on a guy. You’ve never committed adultery. Why are you beating yourself up over things you did, things you enjoyed doing, things that made you the woman you are today?
Who are you, and what do you want?
The Sheikh’s words rang out in her head as Nat punched a few keys on the computer and smiled. He wasn’t coming. She’d blown it. The next she’d hear from Zameer was when he came here to evict her from the vintner’s cottage. Though more likely he’d just send someone to do it. Shit, she should have just fucked him, right? She wanted to. Oh, God, she wanted to! And she didn’t even give a shit that he’d clearly screwed some young Arabian slut with a tight brown butt and little perky tits just before she’d walked in with her big pumpkin-sized ass in a peach pantsuit!
Nat laughed and shook her head as she glanced through the window at the empty parking lot. The approach road to the winery was clear, and she shook her head again
and walked to the back room. She glanced at the clock. Just past noon. She could pop a cork now, couldn’t she? It was no longer morning.
Nat selected her standard pinot and got out her old-fashioned corkscrew. But just as she twisted it into the soft cork, she heard the sound of an engine. It wasn’t a car engine. It was a goddamn chopper. As in helicopter.
“What the fu—” she muttered, absentmindedly still winding the corkscrew as she watched the black helicopter land right in the middle of the parking lot, its blades still spinning up a blur.
There were gold Arabic letters painted on the sides of the jet-black chopper, and before the doors opened she knew who it was. The only question was if he was there to evict her, or to . . . to . . .
She was still twisting that cork when the Sheikh walked in through the front doors like he owned the damned place. Then Nat remembered that he did own the place, and suddenly she got nervous and she kept twisting that corkscrew around and around as she stared at the tall, broad king who was also her boss and also the last man she’d kissed, the only man she’d kissed in over three years.
“Corked, I believe the term is,” the Sheikh said nonchalantly, looking into her eyes, a half-smile on his dark red lips.
“Excuse me?”
“The wine,” he said. “You have pushed the cork into the wine. It has been corked. That is the correct word, yes?”
Nat took a moment to break from their locked eye-contact, and she gasped when she saw that she had indeed corked the damned wine. Again.
“Well, that’s not a good sign,” she muttered, shaking her head and putting the bottle down on the counter. “At least it’s a tax write-off,” she added, smiling hesitantly at him.
Uncorked for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 14) Page 4
