Cinderella and the Sheikh (Hot Contemporary Romance)

by Teresa Morgan

  The waiter blinked at her, frozen for an instant in pure disbelief. When he recovered, he bowed stiffly before moving to his next duty.

  Most of the conversations around the table had stopped to witness the odd event. It took a moment for Libby to notice that the table had gone quiet. When she did, she glanced at Rasyn with a puzzled look, her lips pursed in a confused bow.

  The Princess gazed at Libby. Rasyn might have been imagining it, but there didn't seem to be condemnation in her looks. Her drawn-together eyebrows seemed to show curiosity. "Who are your parents, Miss Fay?"

  Libby inhaled harshly, her lips parting. A long heartbeat went by before any words came out of her.

  "No one important," she said.

  He let it go. Of course he'd had a professional look into her background. The file was on his computer. Sadly, there were no skeletons in her family closet. Her father had died when she was young, like his own, but her family held no scandalous secrets. Which was a shame. A terrible family background, perhaps a brother with a criminal record or a thrice-divorced sister, would have made her even less suitable to be queen. And more suitable for his purposes.

  The Princess seemed to be interested, too. "They must be very proud that you're marrying so well."

  "You're very kind." Libby nodded, although Rasyn doubted that she'd missed the Princess's implication that she came from a low background. "What about you? How many children do you and His Highness have?"

  The temperature in the room dropped like a stone. The general's staid, grandmotherly wife actually gasped. It was well-known that the Prince had married the very young Sanurah five years ago in the hopes of getting an heir. It hadn't worked.

  The Princess's eyes went dead. "None." Her tone would have made frost shiver.

  Apparently, Libby didn't miss the ice. She put her hand to her chest as if trying to keep her heart from pounding.

  "Excuse me." Her voice cracked. "I have to go freshen up."

  Libby pushed out her chair, crashing into the waiter behind her. Rasyn watched in slow motion as the bowl of seafood bisque that the server had been about to set in front of the Princess plummeted into her lap.

  The Princess leapt up, followed by the Prince, red-faced and looking like he might explode in anger. Everyone at the table rose—the general's wife immediately reached for Rasyn's napkin and began to brush the slimy stain on the Princess' dress with it. The waiter dropped to his face on the floor, begging forgiveness as fast as he could.

  Libby’s face turned ashen.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped, reaching for her own napkin to help clean the Princess’s dress. But the group of women hovering around the Princess pushed Libby back and began to lead the Princess toward an exit.

  Libby's emerald eyes filled with glossy tears. Rasyn watched, his emotions warring between triumph and guilt, as she hiked up her skirts and ran from the room.

  Chapter Six

  Where in God's name was her suitcase? Rasyn's apartment blurred in front of her, the tears in her eyes glassing over Libby's vision. She wiped them away, probably smudging her thick mascara across her cheeks.

  She just needed her suitcase and her passport. Then she'd be on her way to the U.S. embassy to spend the night before heading to the airport in the morning. She had to get there before the angry mob got to her.

  Dammit, her luggage wasn't stowed away with the rows of designer suits in Rasyn's closet, suits that gave off a faint smell of his cologne.

  He must be kicking himself now, she thought, with a slight pang. He'd probably be happy to get rid of her. So much for love at first sight. Take a second look, buddy.

  Fatigue weighed her body down and she shook off the urge to collapse. She was too tired to find her suitcase. She needed help.

  Libby stuck her head out the door, half-expecting to see torches and pitchforks coming toward her. Instead, a petite older woman in a traditional floor-length skirt and a pink hijab headscarf stopped in mid-step and blinked at her. She carried a stack of fresh white towels—reminding Libby of some of her friends from Hotel Scheherazade.

  "Can you help me?" Libby fought to keep panic out of her voice. "Please?"

  The woman's eyes softened and deep crinkles appeared around her mouth. The kindness and concern Libby saw there made her want to burst into a fit of sobs.

  "—- —- —- Ingleesi." Her voice was just as soothing as her eyes, but Libby only caught the last word.

  "I don't care if you can't speak English." Libby motioned for the woman to enter. "Please just help me."

  Once inside, the woman put the towels on a table inlaid with mother of pearl and took Libby's hand. She felt the night's disasters piling up on her, wanting to come spilling out.

  "I’m Libby." She pointed to the other woman's chest. "What's your name?"

  "Umm Tariq."

  The mother of Tariq. Someone back in New York had told her Arabic parents often defined themselves by their children.

  Umm Tariq pointed down. Libby lifted her skirt, revealing one designer shoe and one bare foot.

  "Oh, that," she said. "I lost a shoe somewhere. That's not what I need. I can't find my suitcase."

  She mimed the actions of packing, finally getting through to Umm Tariq what she needed. Umm Tariq narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She obviously wasn't stupid, and had quickly realized that the sheikh's Western mistress was making an escape attempt.

  The maid began to search the rooms, or at least make a show of it, while Libby pulled her clothes from the closet. Some part of her exhausted brain wondered if maybe Umm Tariq was just conspiring to keep her busy until Rasyn came.

  She selected jeans and a T-shirt to change into. Soon, she'd be plain old Libby Fay again.

  She reached into the tousled pile of her hair to pull out the sapphire and diamond tiara. Pain wrenched her scalp as she nearly yanked out a fistful of her own hair.

  Umm Tariq came fluttering back, a question that Libby didn’t understand on her lips. Then she flitted to Libby's side and began efficiently pulling pins from her hair, chattering all the while.

  Hot blood rose into her cheeks. She couldn’t even do one simple thing without embarrassing herself. What had Rasyn seen in her anyway?

  Umm Tariq began to hum a song under her breath as she dismantled the disaster that was Libby's hair. The soothing melody worked like a lullaby. Her eyes were nearly closed when the creak of the apartment's wooden door made her sit up straight.

  Rasyn entered, looking sleek and elegant in his tux, and immediately filling the room with his commanding presence. Seasickness filled her stomach at the sight of him so perfect and regal.

  He spoke a single word, in Arabic, and Umm Tariq quickly bowed, turning to leave.

  "I'd appreciate it if you'd arrange a car to take me to the American Embassy," Libby said, when Umm Tariq was gone.

  Rasyn folded himself onto the ottoman at her feet and placed his hands on her knees as if he could lend her his strength. "Libby." His tone attempted to soothe her.

  He was going to try to talk her into something else. Obviously, his love for her completely blinded him to the dangers of letting her out in high society. "Don't. Just stop. Okay, your dream was nice, but the reality is that I'm not the woman you need."

  "You're exactly the woman I need," he said. "You are so tired. I blame myself for this. I never should have insisted that we go to the damned reception."

  She barely had the strength to shake her head. "No, it's my fault. I'm such an idiot. I thought I could impress you because I know all the cutlery." Her laughter had a bitter bite. "I guess there's a reason why I set the tables, not sit down at them."

  Rasyn shifted closer, looking at her with concern in his black eyes. "Seventy-two hours ago, you were a maid in a hotel. How much have you slept since then?"

  "Waitress. And it was a very nice hotel. A couple of hours, maybe?"

  "You must rest now."

  "I can't sleep," she said, but her eyelids drooped. "They're going to come murde
r me because I spilled soup on the princess."

  "No one will murder you."

  "I'm pretty sure they will. Did you see her face?"

  The corner of his lip quirked up.

  "It's not funny." But she fought a matching smirk.

  "I will permit no one to hurt you," he said. "Ever."

  Her heart ached at his words. After her performance tonight, she didn’t deserve his protection. Or his love. But Rasyn offered them anyway. "I think I caused an international incident. What if there's war? Over soup?"

  "If our countries had wanted to go to war, we would have done it long ago." His confident tone tamped down on her rising panic. "My cousin is very capable. I have great faith in him."

  "Why aren't you in the negotiations?"

  She thought she saw Rasyn's black brows draw together in a disturbing glare. But then she blinked, and his face was back to its normal, handsome and slightly amused state. She was too tired to know for certain if she'd imagined it.

  "I have no talent for diplomacy."

  "I think you underestimate your persuasiveness," she said. "I'm going to leave now. I can sleep on the plane."

  "We will take my private jet to New York in the morning."

  She searched his face for some kind of deception, but found only disappointment in the concerned crinkles around his eyes. After tomorrow, she'd never see him again—the one man who'd made her feel loved in her entire adult life. In a way, it was too bad.

  Her heart started to ache, drawn toward the kindness he showed her. Maybe she should give him a little more time. A few more days—

  Libby gave herself a mental shake. What was she thinking? She was supposed to be keeping her heart safe from him, not letting him in.

  "Yes." Her voice was sharp with the anger she felt at herself. "I'm going home tomorrow. One way or another."

  "Just stay the night. I will never ask anything more of you."

  Later, as Libby slipped into sleep, she recalled he had said those words to her before.

  ***

  "Get rid of her." The male voice struck a chill into Libby's veins. "I don't care what you feel for her."

  Without thinking, she flattened herself against the wall in the palace corridor and perked up her ears. Rasyn had asked her to join him and his cousin in the dining room to have breakfast before he took her back to New York.

  Was it Rasyn's cousin who had spoken? She hadn't liked the look in Imaran's eye at the reception—except that he had the same curving lips as Rasyn, and probably the same stubborn jaw under that black beard.

  "No." Rasyn's words were sharp.

  "Abbas comes first."

  There was a short pause. Libby would have given a week's tips to see the looks crossing their faces. "I think you have no idea how well I understand that. Has the news of my fiancée's blunder reached our uncle yet?"

  "Perhaps. Maybe that's why his condition is worsening," Imaran said. "She's a liability. She nearly killed the Princess."

  Libby clenched her fist, willing Rasyn to give in to his cousin's reasoning.

  "That is overstating things."

  The knot in her stomach grew to match the rising tension in the men's voices. Actually, she realized, Rasyn's tone was calm and cool. Only Imaran's voice pitched louder.

  "Perhaps you missed the siren of the ambulance."

  Libby blinked. Siren? How badly had she scalded Her Highness?

  "My fiancée could not know of Princess Sanurah's shellfish allergy if she did not know about it herself."

  Libby's throat closed, cutting off her air. She had almost killed the woman.

  "Prince Hani has called off the negotiations."

  "So." Rasyn's tone was even. "Now we do not have the valley that we did not have before?"

  The sound of glass shattering made Libby flinch.

  "When you're king," Imaran told his cousin. "You'll have to take things more seriously."

  The door slammed so hard it seemed to shake the floor under Libby's feet.

  ***

  Libby waited until her heart stopped pounding, then stepped into the breakfast room. Cool morning air breezed through the arches that opened onto a green garden, cooling her fiery cheeks.

  Rasyn sat at the end of the table, near a bouquet of the biggest yellow lilies she had ever seen. He ignored them, concentrating on the headline of one of the three newspapers at his elbow. Next to him was another place setting, but the goblet was in shards and water puddled over the highly polished table.

  As soon as he saw her, his face lit in a charming smile, one that almost erased everything she'd just heard. He rose and walked toward her, his arms open. His peppery scent mixed with the tempting smell of expensive coffee.

  "Good morning, Princess."

  The pet name was like a mockery, only serving to remind her of all her failures. "Don't call me that." It came out far more bitter than she intended, and she took a breath to calm herself. "Stop it. I know what happened to Princess Sanurah. Aren't you convinced that I need to leave yet?"

  "Love—" He lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. She batted it away.

  "No. No more delays. If you can't take me home today, then put me on a plane by myself. If you can't do that, give me the address of the U.S. embassy and call me a cab."

  Rasyn gently grasped her arms, forcing her to look into his black eyes. "I said I would take you home and I will. Do you doubt my word?"

  Libby didn't hesitate. "Yes. You're very good at getting what you want. And you want me to stay here."

  The corners of Rasyn's sensuous mouth curved up. "You are right. I was going to convince you to stay another day."

  "You mean you were going to try to convince me."

  He practically smirked. "Right."

  "And then a day after that, and a day after that..." She let the words trail off.

  He shrugged—practically an admission of guilt. "I was going to take those as they came."

  He was manipulative, for sure, but there was something about the way he did it. It didn’t feel like he was making you do something you didn't want to. He never said no, but he always got his way.

  Charming. That was the word for it. He was charming.

  He guided her to the seat across the breakfast table from him. For an instant, she thought she should resist, but her stomach growled. If she ate here, she wouldn’t have to buy something at the airport. He tucked the chair under her as she sat.

  He leaned in to her ear. "Just one more day, love. I will never ask anything more of you."

  "That's what you always say. And it's always a lie."

  Rasyn sighed and moved back to his place. "Seems a shame, though."

  A server appeared and filled her coffee cup. A dark, tempting aroma wafted up from it. She didn't drink coffee, though. Good coffee was an expensive habit, one an unemployed waitress couldn't afford. "I'm not going to ask, Rasyn, so you can just forget trying to manipulate me."

  Rasyn lifted his gold-rimmed coffee cup to his lips. "Oh, I was just referring to the fact that you have not left the palace. Abbas is a beautiful country and you have come so far. Now you will leave forever without seeing the beauty of the desert."

  "I'm a city girl anyway." The dark liquid swirled in the elegant little cup, making her mouth water.

  "Ah," he said. Libby wasn't fooled by the casual way he seemed to keep his attention on the newspaper. "Then it is unfortunate you were asleep when we drove in. You did not get to see the city—Waha. 'Waha' means 'oasis.' It is called so because this oasis has been a stop on the North African trading routes for three thousand years. Much older than New York, I think. That is why the souk—the marketplace..." He stopped himself. "But you will never see it, of course."

  Libby pursed her lips, knowing she shouldn't give in to his obvious attempts to convince her to stay. But maybe she would have some coffee. Just this once.

  Chapter Seven

  Rasyn watched as Libby nearly walked into the backside of a donkey. She hadn't quite gotten used
to her lack of peripheral vision in the headscarf that covered her auburn hair. It was supposed to make her blend in, just as his worn robe and knitted taguia hat made him into just another shopper, but the brown scarf emphasized the delicate lightness of her skin and made her green eyes gleam nearly turquoise. He maneuvered her through the maze of corridors crowded with beasts and bodies and gaudy soft drink signs, a place where the ancient and modern butted heads.

  He still needed her. Uncle Anwar hadn't made Imaran the heir yet, and his blood tests were getting worse, the doctor said. Things were becoming urgent. If Anwar didn’t name his successor soon, the country was at risk.

  It was unfortunate she hadn't agreed to accompany him into the desert. If he were away from the palace, no doubt someone would feel free to inform Anwar of Libby's accident and what it had cost Abbas.

  But his charm hadn't failed him yet. An opportunity would come. He wouldn't let it pass. For the good of Abbas, he could not.

  "What happened in that shop back there?" She pointed at the traditional robe he had just purchased for her and was carrying in a not-so-traditional plastic bag. "I wanted the green robe, but you let him sell you the purple one instead. It wasn't like you. You always get what you want."

  "Was your heart set on the green one?" He raised his voice slightly, to be heard over the buzz of shoppers and merchants who haggled all around them, theatrically pretending offence at the terrible high prices or the insulting low offers.

  "I’m a green-eyed redhead. It would have looked good on me."

  "Are there any green rooms at Hotel Scheherazade?" he asked.

  "Of course there are..." Her words trailed off. "Come to think of it, no."

  "Green is a sacred color to some Muslims."

  "Ah." She nodded. "And I'm a Westerner."

  "It is probably better if you do not wear green."

  A stray strand of hair had escaped her hijab and was curling prettily across her cheek. The law didn’t require her to wear the scarf, but that fire-tinged hair would have attracted attention Rasyn didn't want. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to tuck that lock of hair back under her scarf, not to hide it, but as an excuse to touch her soft cheek. Unfortunately, not even husbands and wives showed that much public affection in Abbas. Not in the middle of a crowded market.