Privilege for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 12)

by Annabelle Winters

  “It should not take my Minister of Tourism three rings to answer a phone call from his Sheikh,” said Amir sternly, though his green eyes sparkled and his dark red lips curled into a smile. “Now tell me, how are things going? Do we have any takers for my father’s idea of giving away plane tickets and hotel rooms to bring in some noisy Americans?”

  Amir listened, his eyes widening along with his smile as the Tourism Minister replied. “A wedding? Really? Ya Allah, that is interesting. No, cancel the hotel’s offer of hosting a grand reception the week before the wedding. Instead, inform the wedding party that the Sheikh himself has invited them for a visit. You can give them a tour of the century-old Royal Palace of Johaar, and at the end I will greet them and congratulate the couple. That used to be a tradition in old Arabia, where the Sheikh gave his personal blessing before every marriage.”

  The Sheikh hung up and smiled, shaking his head when he thought back to the old laws he’d studied as a young Sheikh-in-training. Old laws even more outdated and politically incorrect than a man taking four wives. He laughed as he remembered one of the most interesting: Sheikh’s Privilege. An old law that made it clear the Sheikh was the man in charge, the alpha male, the man who could claim ownership of everything and everyone in his kingdom. Every man and every woman.

  Especially every woman.

  3

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  THE ROYAL PALACE OF JOHAAR

  “Who is that woman?” Sheikh Amir asked his Minister of Tourism as they watched the small group of Americans walk through the Grand Atrium of Johaar’s Royal Palace. The two of them stood on a high balcony, looking down on the atrium from above.

  “That is the bride, Sheikh Amir,” came the reply. “Ms. Lora Langhorne. And that is the groom, off to the left.”

  But the Sheikh barely heard the last sentence, and his eyes stayed fixed on the view of Lora Langhorne from above. She wore a yellow sundress that could not hide her strong curves, and the sight of her cleavage from above made Amir’s head spin as he felt the blood rush to his cock like a river flowing downhill. He watched as she walked along the central path of the atrium, laughing and chattering away, reaching out and touching the old statues, leaning in and dipping her fingers into the cool waters of the old fountains where Amir had played as a child.

  The Sheikh’s breath caught when he saw the outline of her round bottom as she leaned over the low wall of the central fountain, and in that instant he knew he would have her. It was not a conscious decision. It was just something that he knew.

  Amir frowned and then backed away from the balcony, a chill running through him when he realized he was aroused to the point where his thoughts actually scared him. He’d always been a sex-driven beast, relentlessly pursuing and dominating every woman who’d caught his fancy. By age sixteen he’d already slept with every female attendant who looked good in a hijab, and by eighteen he’d decided that he could never be satisfied with even four wives because his drive was too strong, too all-consuming, too potent to be denied.

  So he’d avoided marriage like a disease, resisting every offer from the neighboring Sheikhdoms, ignoring his mother’s pleas. His father had discouraged the old Islamic practice of a man taking four wives, the old Sheikh himself marrying just once; but he’d made it clear that Amir was free to take four wives if that made it more palatable to settle down and start a family.

  “Variety is the spice of life,” Amir had said, dismissing his father’s concession with a wave of his arm. “Four women would keep me satisfied for perhaps a year, Father. And then what? Keep a harem on the side? Lie to my wives and to the world while I satisfy my needs in secret?” He’d shaken his head. “A king does not need to apologize for his needs. I know I can never be satisfied without free rein to do as I please, to take any woman I want.”

  “So what is the solution?” the old Sheikh had said. “You are the only heir and you have a responsibility to continue the bloodline. You must marry eventually. Unless your plan is to have bastard children scattered throughout the world, all of them fighting for the throne once your reign is done.”

  “I understand my responsibilities,” Amir had answered. “And there is only one solution that will satisfy my own requirements and the duties of my position: I will marry one woman, but she will be a woman who understands my needs.”

  The old Sheikh had snorted. “A queen who will calmly look the other way while you put your royal cock anywhere you choose?”

  “Why not? That was how it worked in the old world, did it not? All kings had their run of the women in the palace—and the kingdom too, sometimes.”

  “Ah, so now you are a fan of the old ways, is it?” his father had said, shaking his head. “When it suits you?” He shook his head again. “Then perhaps you should think about one of the oldest traditions: Find the one woman who will satisfy you, Amir. The one woman who will give you what you need, both in body and spirit.”

  “There is no such woman,” Amir had snapped, whipping his flowing tunic around him and walking away from his father. “Trust me, I have looked. She does not exist.”

  But now as Amir took a step forward and looked down at the American bride-to-be, his cock leading the way, his mind spinning as if from a sudden bout of vertigo, that conversation came rushing back from the depths of his memory.

  Do not be ridiculous, he told himself as he stole another secret glance at Lora’s curves, the way her breasts pushed against the thin cotton of her sundress, the way her rear moved as she walked. What you told your father that day is still true: No woman can satisfy you forever. Even if you take this woman the way you want, the fire will eventually subside, the passion will fade, and you will find yourself looking elsewhere again.

  Besides, Amir thought as he backed away from the parapet once again, she is to be married in a few days. I have seduced taken women before, but this is not the kind of publicity I want for myself or my kingdom, do I? Do I?

  A smile broke on Amir’s face as he felt a wild rush of adrenaline surge through his hard frame. He thought back to those old, outdated laws of Johaar again, that interesting one in particular coming back to him along with the image of Lora Langhorne and her curves.

  “Sheikh’s Privilege,” he muttered, still grinning, still hard, a feeling of recklessness rising up in him as he dismissed his Tourism Minister and paced the empty hallways. “Do I dare invoke that old law? What would happen if I did? What would the world say? What would Father say?”

  Amir closed his eyes tight, clenching his fists as he tried to fight the perverse, devil-may-care drive that had gotten him into some very sticky situations before—most recently with Marissa. Sheikh’s Privilege? No, he could not do it. At least not while his father was still alive. Though perhaps the old man would be so furious he’d rise from his bed just to take the throne back from his sex-crazed son! Either that, or he’d give up on Amir altogether and move on to the next world. Besides, Sheikh's Privilege was not all that it appeared to be on the surface. It was a complex law, with subtleties and responsibilities that went far beyond anything he was prepared to undertake.

  The Sheikh took deep breaths as he paced, muttering to himself, shaking his head, clenching and releasing his fists. Then he heard footsteps, and when he turned he saw one of his father’s attendants, the oldest and longest-serving of the lot, a man who’d been there since before Amir had been born.

  “Forgive my interruption, Sheikh,” the old man said, his hands clasped before him, head slightly bowed. He glanced up with bloodshot eyes, and Amir stopped in his tracks as if he knew what the man would say before the words came. “Forgive me, Sheikh. But your father . . . he is . . . he has . . .”

  “No,” said Amir firmly, shaking his head. “It cannot be. I spoke to him just this morning. He looked strong. He looked . . .”

  “It is Allah’s decree,” said the old attendant, his voice still unsteady. “He went in peac
e, Inshallah.”

  Amir leaned against the sandstone wall as he let the news sink in. He’d just been thinking about his father’s death, had he not? Did he in some way cause the old Sheikh’s death by thinking about it? Was there a part of him that wanted the old man gone so he could run wild, do as he pleased, be free of expectations? He was thinking about that woman, fantasizing about how it would be if his father were gone and he could do something as insane as invoke the old law of Sheikh’s Privilege, where the Sheikh had the right to take any Johaari woman to his chambers the night before her wedding and decide whether to allow her marriage to proceed!

  “Leave me,” he rasped, rubbing his temples and waving the attendant away. “Stand by my father’s bed. No one is to touch him until I make my final visit.”

  Amir stood in lonely silence for a while. He’d been prepared for this moment for years, and it was not grief that racked his heavy frame. His thoughts were swirling like the desert winds, sending a collage of images to the forefront of his mind: scenes from his childhood; his mother dying of cancer; sexual fantasies about his nannies; those exploits with his female attendants; Marissa and the broken engagement; and Lora Langhorne bending over and dipping her fingers into the fountain, sending ripples through the cool water, ripples that seemed to pass through the Sheikh’s body as well . . .

  Then he heard voices: American accents, women laughing and talking, oohing and aahing. He whipped around and saw that it was the wedding party. Their tour-guide had brought them up the winding stairs to the third floor hallway to look down at the atrium from above.

  Suddenly the Sheikh was face to face with the woman in the yellow sundress, and he could smell her floral perfume, her feminine scent. He could hear her carefree laugh, and he thought of Allah’s decree, of how his father had once commented that perhaps his illness was just incidental, just a means to His ends. What ends? Was she the goal here? Was this woman Allah’s decree?

  “Miss Lora Langhorne,” he said, his jaw tightening, his green eyes narrowing as he looked deep into her wide baby browns. He could barely see straight as those images and thoughts rushed through his swirling mind. He couldn’t be certain how many others were with the woman in the yellow sundress. Then he realized he did not give a damn. He was Sheikh and supreme ruler now. There was no one and nothing holding him back from doing what he wanted, when he wanted, to whom he wanted.

  “Yes?” she said, blinking twice and then freezing, her eyes riveted on him, as if they were the only two people in the world for that moment. “Oh, God. I mean, yes, I’m Lora.”

  “Of course you are,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand, the electricity ripping through him as their skin made first contact. He felt her tremble, and although he knew he wasn’t thinking straight, he tightened his grip on her hand.

  Then with his thoughts swirling, his head spinning, his body burning with need, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her so roughly into him that her soft breasts slammed against his hard body.

  And then he kissed her. In front of her husband-to-be, in full view of the bridal party, with his father lying dead in the next room, Allah’s angels gasping, the Shaitan’s demons cackling, he kissed her.

  By God, he kissed her.

  4

  He’d pulled her into him so fast Lora almost fainted as the air was squeezed from her lungs. She felt the Sheikh’s hard chest press against her bosom, but before she could cry out his lips were on hers, warm and clean, his taste and smell enveloping her as the room and everyone in it seemed to disappear.

  The Sheikh kissed her once, hard and with authority, and then he released her as suddenly as he’d pulled her in. Lora stumbled backwards, gasping for air, her head spinning. She felt someone steady her from behind, and she knew it was Carmen. Somehow she knew it would be Carmen and not Mark. She didn’t understand why she knew that. She just did.

  Carmen was saying something, and so were the other friends who were part of the tour. But their words sounded like gibberish. It might as well have been animals making bizarre sounds in the woods. Still, through all of it she somehow knew Mark hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t done a thing. Did it matter? Somehow it did matter, but in the most sickening way: It mattered because for some reason Lora was secretly glad Mark hadn’t said a thing!

  She stumbled again, but Carmen was holding her tight, and finally Lora nodded and looked up from her daze. She knew she had to look at Mark, but she couldn’t face him. Was this the guilt that victims of assault felt? Or was this the guilt that a cheating whore felt? Was she a victim or a slut? Did she want that kiss or did that man force it upon her? Could both those things be true?

  When she was able to focus again, the Sheikh was gone, leaving nothing but a subtle aroma of his musk, green sage and desert oak, a hint of red spice. She could still see his green eyes, wild but focused, intense but somehow still cool. “Of course you are,” he’d whispered to her before smothering her lips with his. Of course I am . . . what? A fool? A slut? A . . . queen?

  And then she was whisked back to those private moments she’d spent planning the wedding. Why had she chosen a kingdom for her wedding? She’d always been a loner, a little girl lost in her books and the dreams and fantasies that came along with them. Dreams of kings and queens, fantasies of royal weddings and heirs born to rule. Oh, God, had she been subconsciously wishing for . . .

  “We’re going to sue the bastard,” came Mark’s voice from her left, sharp and almost excited, breaking her out of her daydream that was part fantasy, part nightmare. “We’re talking millions here, babe. Maybe tens of millions. Hell, we’ll try for a hundred million!”

  Lora turned to him, all her guilt disappearing into the dry desert air. She hated him in that moment, though part of her wasn’t sure if it was because she hated herself as well, hated herself for still thinking about that kiss, still feeling her nipples erect and firm beneath her bra, still sensing the wetness flow silently into her cotton panties beneath that yellow sundress. She didn’t know what to say to Mark. She didn’t know what she’d expected from him. Did she expect him to punch the Sheikh in the nose? No, but it bothered her that he didn’t seem to have even considered it!

  “Let’s just go,” she said quietly, her voice wavering a bit as she glanced at Mark and then looked away. “Now. Please. Can we just go?”

  “Yes,” said Carmen. “Come on, hon. I got you. Mark, can you call the car service that brought us here? Mark?”

  But Mark was already on his cell phone, and Lora frowned when she picked up a couple of words from the conversation. He wasn’t calling the car service. He wasn’t calling the police. He was calling his goddamn lawyer back in the United States.

  “Seriously, Mark,” Carmen snarled as she led Lora through the stunned wedding party and towards the staircase leading back down to the atrium. “At least pretend to give a shit about the woman you’re marrying.”

  But Mark had one finger in his ear and had already stepped away from the group, nodding and half-grinning as he talked numbers with his New Orleans corporate lawyer. And when Carmen and Lora got outside and into their car, Lora once again felt that strange sense of relief and guilt when she realized she could process this alone, without the support of the man she was supposedly in love with, the man she was about to marry.

  5

  “Well, of course we’re still getting married,” Lora said, sipping the sweet tea Carmen had poured for the two of them. They were in Lora’s hotel room—the Honeymoon Suite—and the air-conditioning was sending out a cool stream of air as the desert sun blazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “What kind of a question is that, Carmen? I mean, how can you even ask me that?!”

  “For the record, I’ve been asking you that ever since you said yes to Mark’s lame-ass marriage proposal,” Carmen replied, stirring her tea and looking directly into Lora’s eyes. Then she glanced down at the plush r
ed carpet and blinked twice. “Also, I saw that kiss. We all saw it. Hell, we all felt it!”

  “Carmen!” Lora shouted, standing up so fast she almost knocked the entire tea-set off the low table. She stormed towards the large windows and stood there, her image faintly reflected in the slightly tinted glass. She gazed out across the Capital City of Johaar, taking in the sight of its yellow sandstone bungalows, narrow streets, the wide modern roads outside the city center. There were domes and minarets peppered throughout the bustling city, little marketplaces nestled between ancient mosques and modern highrises. Beyond the city lay rolling sand dunes stretching to infinity, changing as the winds carried the golden sand to new places to form new dunes, new patterns, new lives.

  It all felt like a fantasy suddenly, that fantasy of a little girl who read too much. Kissed by a handsome king? Kissed?! Oh, God, she was about to be married and she’d kissed another man!

  Then the fantasy disappeared and the reality set in. She wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was a woman. An adult. And adult women with degrees in Library Science don’t act like . . .

  “Wait,” she said, almost to herself though she turned to Carmen, a frown twisting her round face. “I didn’t kiss him. He kissed me. You saw it. It was assault, Carmen.”

  “Well, of course. But at the same time, I saw what I saw, hon. A man kissing a woman.” She paused and took a breath, glancing meaningfully in that way only a best friend could. “A real man kissing a real woman. End it, Lora. Stop this before it’s too late.”

  “Stop what? The wedding? Are you insane? Are you my friend or the evil stepsister?! You’ve been against this marriage from the beginning, and it’s becoming too much to take, OK? All that talk about Mark being a cheater, that he was going to make me sign a pre-nup . . . and now you’re saying I’m the cheater?! Screw you, Carmen!”

  Carmen laughed and shook her head. She sipped her tea and took a breath. “I never said you were a cheater. You’re not a cheater, and you never will be—not to any man. Of course the Sheikh forced himself onto you. At the same time, I saw that kiss, Lora. There was something there.”