Haunted for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 15)

by Annabelle Winters

  7

  “Nothing lasts forever. But things can most certainly last longer than they currently do,” came the Sheikh’s voice from the laptop speaker as Liv watched an online video of a speech he’d delivered at the University of Chicago earlier that year.

  She’d been immersed in videos, photographs, and essays by and about Sheikh Hakeem for the past two days, and when she finally closed the laptop lid and got up off the couch, groaning as she felt a cramp in her thigh, Liv wondered what the hell she was getting into. Her conviction that Hakeem was a man of obsessions had only been reinforced by what she’d learned about him, and as she strolled through her one-bedroom apartment in her green pajama bottoms and blue bra, she wondered what she was signing up for with this crazy one-night-in-a-haunted-house deal.

  “Firstly,” she said, pointing at the mirror in the hallway, turning sideways and sucking in her belly and her cheeks as she addressed her reflection, “you aren’t signing up for anything. He didn’t really give you a choice. He may or may not have a case as far as voiding the transaction goes, but he most certainly has lawyers who can wipe you out financially if you try to fight him. You could go back to the trust that owned the house and gave you the listing, tell them that the buyer wanted out of the deal and they should have their lawyers fight the case. But of course you can’t do that, because you could get screwed even faster that way!”

  Liv’s fear was that since the house had been owned by a blind trust—which meant the original owner of the house was confidential—the financial firm that handled the matter would simply agree to cancel the transaction and give the Sheikh back his money. And that would mean Liv would have to cough up her commission—or at least a good chunk of it. Certainly she could make the case that the commission was non-refundable, but although she had some laws protecting her, the Sheikh could damn well still take her to court if he wanted.

  But why is he so adamant about reversing the transaction, she wondered as she finally couldn’t hold her breath any longer, gasping as she let her round stomach fill back out to its natural shape. She puffed out her cheeks, staring at herself and pouting for a moment. Then she sighed and turned back to her laptop, flipping it open and doing what she’d been trying not to do: Typing in the words “ghosts and spirit possession” and closing her eyes as she waited for the search results.

  Three hours of head-spinning research later, most of which she already knew, Liv had her answer:

  “Shit,” she muttered, pulling her hair back and closing her eyes. “If he believes in this stuff, then he thinks he needs to reverse the transaction completely in order to free himself of the spirit. But then why does he want me to spend a night there if he’s going to take his money back anyway? What does he want? What does he expect? What do I expect? What do I want?”

  Thoughts of the Sheikh in his underwear flashed through Liv’s mind, and she laughed out loud as she let her hair fall back over her shoulders, her long brown tresses tickling her like fingers as she shuddered. A strange excitement went through her even as a sense of danger made her buttocks tighten as she glanced back at her computer and asked herself the question she didn’t want to ask but knew she had to: What do I believe?

  What do I believe?

  8

  “I don’t know what I believe, to be honest,” Liv said as the Sheikh held the front door open for her. She’d seen that creepy gargoyle staring down at her when she arrived there in her red Mustang. The Sheikh had offered her a ride, but she’d insisted on bringing her own car. She might need it, she’d decided.

  She’d gotten there before the Sheikh, and had walked around the outside of the house once as she tried to fight that gnawing feeling of unease that had been building in her ever since she’d started her car back in the parking lot of her apartment. The engine had come to life immediately, its throaty roar making her body shudder in all the right places. But then the car had stalled when she tried to pull out, and although she’d laughed and shaken her head at the obvious thought that it was an omen of some sort, the feeling hadn’t gone away.

  “It’s just a house,” she said out loud as she finished her lap of the property and looked at her watch. “A house in which eight people died.”

  OK, stop, she told herself. Eight people sounds like a lot, but that’s over ninety years, and it wasn’t like they were massacred and buried in the goddamn basement. There was no foul play, no history of violence, no horrible illnesses or strange accidents. As far as she could tell, it was four old couples who’d died there over the years. Four married couples, husband and wife both passing peacefully within a few months of each other.

  Well, that’s a bit of a strange coincidence, isn’t it, she thought as she stopped outside the front door. Four married couples dying in the same house over a century. And now a new couple crossing its threshold. Was that why the Sheikh was insisting she join him there for one night? Was he already possessed by the deranged old spirit of some perverted dude from the early 1900s? Was she about to be possessed by the spirit of some lonely old woman who hadn’t left the house most of her life and didn’t want to leave after death either?

  OK stop, she thought again as she glanced at the massive brass stopper on the front door. This is exactly why people start believing in this stuff: They hear stories, and then their imagination does the rest. Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be—and hell, it’s complicated enough. You’re about to spend a night in an empty house with a guy you don’t know! What about the sleeping arrangements? Are we even going to sleep? Will we be up all night playing with flashlights and scaring each other with shadows? Or will we . . .

  OK stop, stop, stop!

  “Stop!” came his voice from the distance. He was almost drowned out by the sound of his limousine, and Liv turned and frowned as she watched the Sheikh lean his body halfway out the window of the jet-black car as it pulled up with a screech. “Do not enter.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” she said, raising an eyebrow as she watched the Sheikh push the door open and step out, his bespoke leather shoes crunching the bits of gravel that the car tires had spun up when it pulled in. “I don’t have a key, anyway.”

  “I do not either. I just had the door rebuilt, so it is open,” said the Sheikh, smiling as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. He wore a pure white linen shirt, fitted along his chest and stomach, the arms looking filled out to the point of bursting, his biceps and forearms were so large. Once again a chill ran up Liv’s spine and then down to her buttocks as she wondered what kind of game they were playing here. Wasn’t there an easier way to get her into bed, she thought without really thinking it.

  “Listen,” she said. “We haven’t really talked about this, but just so we’re clear, absolutely—”

  “Nothing will happen. You are safe from me, I assure you,” Hakeem said with a grin. “But when things start going bump in the night, then it is every human for themselves. My guarantee only extends to this world.”

  “Then I’m good,” Liv retorted, touching her hair and moving her hands down along her thighs briefly, smoothing down her blue jeans, which had a tendency to ride up. “Because I guarantee you’re the most dangerous thing in this harmless old house.”

  “Careful or I might get offended.”

  “I’m more worried about offending the old ghosts that stopped your watch,” she said with a smile. “I don’t want to buy a new watch, you know.”

  “Actually, my watch started ticking again,” the Sheikh said, holding up his wrist.

  “Um, that’s a different watch, I believe.”

  Hakeem frowned and shrugged. “So it is. Good eye.”

  “It’s hard to miss. That thing is the size of my head. And could you have a few more jewels shoved into it? Jesus Christ, we won’t need to turn on the lights with all the bling that thing gives out!”

  “This thing was hand-made for my grandfather, I will ha
ve you know.”

  “Aren’t all those fancy Swiss watches hand-made?” Liv said with a wry smile. “I think Grandpa got gypped by Hans in Zurich.”

  “Genève is where the best watches are made,” Hakeem said, matching her smile, his green eyes sparkling as he reached for the brass door handle. “And they are Swiss-French there, not Swiss-German.”

  “Pierre in Geneva, Hans in Zurich. Whatever. Can we get this over with, please?” Liv smiled as she felt a strange lightness from the playful flirting with the Sheikh. She marveled at how that feeling of unease when she was alone with the house had been chased away, and she reminded herself that all of this was in her head—just like every ghost story or spirit sighting in the history of . . . well, history. “And who leaves a half-million dollar house unlocked and unattended, by the way?” she added as Hakeem pulled the door open.

  The old door creaked in a way that would have seemed ominous if Liv had given a damn, but her mood was buoyant and she bounded up the stairs to the front porch, not caring how her ass and boobs bounced with each step. She did notice the Sheikh’s eyes move down along her curves, and she just smiled and shook her head as she wondered again what the hell the two of them were going to do all night.

  “Speaking of hand-made stuff,” she said, stepping into the foyer and turning towards him. “Who’s cooking tonight? Or are we ordering in?”

  But the foyer was empty, and so was the front porch, and when Liv frowned and peeked back out through the door, she realized the Sheikh’s limo was gone. She blinked as her frown cut deeper, a chill permeating her bones and making her shiver.

  “What the . . .” she started to say, but the words stuck in her throat. Because not only was the Sheikh’s limo nowhere in sight, neither was her bright red, shiny new Mustang!

  Then she realized she was alone. Alone, and suddenly scared.

  Scared out of her goddamn mind.

  9

  There’s always an explanation, Liv told herself as she spun around like a dancer, looking into the depths of the house and then back out through the open front door. She hadn’t heard the sound of a car—certainly not the throaty roar of her Mustang. Cars didn’t just disappear without a sound!

  Neither do tall, handsome Sheikhs in fitted linen shirts, she told herself, trying to force a smile as she stood frozen in the foyer, wondering what her next move would be.

  What’s the Sheikh’s next move, she asked herself. Clearly he’s engineered this little trick—and I gotta say, it’s a pretty freakin’ good one. Making two cars, one driver, and one king disappear? Yup, that’s pretty good.

  “All right,” she said out loud, turning around again and peering into the vast empty expanse of the house. “I give up. You win this round of hide and seek. Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

  She heard a floorboard creak somewhere above her head, and although the sound was faint and there weren’t any footsteps or any follow-up to it, Liv’s heart almost stopped.

  Stop. Breathe. Swallow. Breathe again.

  She thought back to everything that had happened since she’d met the Sheikh here. Had he touched her with a needle or some chemical that could be absorbed through the skin? Drugged her? What about hypnosis? The guy was a billionaire, with access to all kinds of experimental chemicals and God-knows-what-else. She searched her memories of that morning, but she couldn’t think of anything strange or out of the ordinary: No stranger brushing past her on the street; no odd smells that might indicate she’d been gassed by some hallucinogenic vapor; no weirdoes saying, “Look into my eyes!” while swinging a pendulum. The only weird thing was the Sheikh leaning out of his car and saying, “Do not enter!”

  “That was weird,” Liv said out loud, turning around again. “Why would he say that? Especially when he had me enter first anyway.”

  Now it occurred to her that the Sheikh had held the door open for her, ushering her into the foyer and then stepping back. She frowned as she glanced around the empty foyer. The walls were lined with oak panels, original wood, old and beautiful. But there was something weird about it. Liv squinted as she stared at one of the panels, and then she saw what was weird: The knots in the wood, the striations, the lines, the shading. They were identical to a few of the other panels, and when she reached out and touched one of the walls, she recoiled at how cold it was.

  “Holy shit,” she said, touching it again. “It’s glass, not wood! These are mirrors!”

  “Congratulations,” came his voice from what seemed like the ether. “You figured it out faster than I did. Though to be fair, I set you up just right so it would be obvious.”

  Liv took three steps to the left, and when she turned and looked out through the open front door, suddenly she could see Hakeem again, standing there in his rolled-up sleeves, his handsome face lit up with a grin that had a touch of admiration in it.

  “Unbelievable,” she said, her breath catching when she looked past him and saw the cars again, parked just where they’d been a few minutes earlier. Of course they were still there—they’d never left. It was all an optical illusion! Smoke and mirrors! Well, mirrors at least. “That’s genius!”

  “It is brilliant, yes? If you stand bang in the middle of the foyer, the mirrors reflect the oak panels perfectly, so you do not notice the mirrors at all. A marvel of design!”

  “But the front door was wide open! How did I not see the cars parked outside? And you disappeared too!” Liv said, stepping to the left and then the right.

  “The entryway is lined with mirrors too,” the Sheikh said. “You see?”

  Liv nodded, stepping towards the front door and noticing that the entryway was unusually long and was indeed lined with mirrors that were subtly angled to reflect opposite sides of the front porch and yard, making it look like the entryway was much narrower. It also obscured a view of what was directly in front of the open door, which was why Liv couldn’t see the Sheikh or the parked cars from that angle.

  “Remarkable,” she said, touching the mirrors again. “How did I not notice this earlier?”

  The Sheikh shrugged. “Perhaps because you did not even visit the property before showing it to me. Yes?”

  Liv snorted, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I don’t reveal my own smoke-and-mirrors sales techniques, sir.” She smiled when she saw him laugh, and then she turned back to the entryway. “The walls seem unusually thick here at the entryway, don’t they?”

  Hakeem nodded. “Yes. To hold mirrors of the right size and shape, and also to get the angles right. It appears this was part of the original design of the house. Fascinating, really. Do you have records showing who built this house?”

  Liv blinked. “No. The state records only show that it’s ninety years old. There isn’t a full record of all the owners.”

  “Didn’t you tell me eight people died in this house? So we know that, yes?”

  “That was part of the statutory disclosures provided to me as part of the listing. But it’s not like I get a list of names of people who died in here!”

  “Why not? That would give us a sense of who owned this house over the generations.”

  Liv frowned as she glanced at the mirrors and that strangely thick entryway one last time before stepping into the living room and looking around. More oak paneling, all of it original. But the knots and lines looked varied and natural here. No mirrors. So what was the next trick?

  “The listing was given to me by a financial firm that owned the house as part of a blind trust,” Liv said, looking up at the ceiling as she thought of that floorboard creaking earlier.

  “It was an exclusive listing?” the Sheikh asked, and then he nodded before Liv could answer. “Yes, it was. I know because I had my people check with a few other realtors to see if the property was listed anywhere else.”

  “You tried to go behind my back? Cheat on me with another broker? I’m offended, Your Hi
ghness!”

  The Sheikh laughed. “Only my mother likes to be called Your Highness. I prefer to be called—wait, what is that? Ya Allah, hold still!”

  Liv froze when she heard the urgency in the Sheikh’s tone. She watched from the corner of her eye as he reached for his wallet and took out a credit card that looked shiny and black, with gold edges that she suspected might be real gold. He brought the card up to the back of her shoulder, pressing it flat against the cloth of her top.

  “There we go. Easy now,” he said as Liv tried to turn far enough to see what the hell he was doing.

  Then she saw it: A spider, big and dark, with long legs and a shiny brown sac. She held her breath as the spider slowly crawled onto the credit-card the Sheikh was gently pushing beneath its legs, and she gasped when he finally got it away from her, holding the card up so they could both see the spider.

  “It’s just a spider,” she said, trying to sound calm even though her heart was pounding so loud she could barely hear her own voice. “What’s the big deal? It’s not a black widow, for heaven’s sake. Why all the fuss?”

  “No, it is not a black widow,” the Sheikh said, walking smoothly to the open door and sending the spider on its way. He turned, his eyes narrowed, his face still serious. “It is a brown recluse. Much deadlier, and possibly the only spider that can kill a human. It is not common in America. Neither is it particularly interested in crawling on a human, despite how nice of a top you are wearing.”

  Liv straightened her black top unconsciously, partly because of the Sheikh’s mention, and partly because she didn’t want any more killer spiders making their way down her neckline. “So what the hell was it doing on me?” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Maybe it fell on me from there. Perhaps I walked into a strand of its web as it was making its way to the floor.”

  “Probably,” the Sheikh said, rubbing his jaw. He seemed particularly disturbed by the spider, even though he’d been calm and in control when he got it off her. “But it is gone now. And brown recluses are loners, so we do not need to worry. We are unlikely to find a nest of them in a closet or in the attic.”