12
“Sunday afternoon, and I’m in school,” Gracie muttered as she unlocked the large green door of the staff room on the third floor of Wilson Park Middle School in south Tulsa.
The main doors to the building had been open, like they were every weekend: the school had a great athletic program, and there were always optional coaching sessions for the teams on Saturdays and Sundays. Today looked like girls’ soccer and boys’ basketball, judging from the voices she could hear and where the cars had been parked in the lot. Some parents were here as well, it seemed, and Gracie had smiled as she caught a glimpse of a few over-enthusiastic moms and dads giving advice on the soccer field, much to the coach’s patient annoyance.
But the staff room was empty, and Gracie sighed as she went to her desk at the far end of the large open room. She had snagged a great spot in the back, right near the café area, and over the past year had slowly pushed her heavy desk closer and closer to the window along the nearest wall until she had quietly and surreptitiously taken over that window and its view of the front lawn and parking lots.
“Gracie the Ruler extends her empire,” Ms. Walters the principal had declared when she finally noticed how Gracie’s desk was now pushed up flush against the window, blocking anyone else from standing there. “An invasion under the cover of smiles and sweetness.”
Gracie had grimaced and forced an embarrassed smile when she caught the few other teachers glancing up from their desks, looks of vague satisfaction on most of their faces, like they had noticed but had been too polite to say anything—to her, at least.
“OK, who’s the undercover agent who ratted me out?” Gracie said loudly, drawing laughs and a few embarrassed smiles from her colleagues. “Come on. You know how Gracie the Ruler deals with spies, enemies of the state.”
“I am the State, I should remind you,” Ms. Walters had said in a mock-angry tone, crossing her arms over her chest as a few more chuckles rose up from the other teachers, some jovial whoops and playful applause, cries of Go to War and Have it Out and even a Who's your Mama from the peanut gallery.
Of course, everyone loved Gracie, and every kingdom bends the rules for rulers they love, and so Ms. Walters had waved her off when Gracie stood and turned her big bottom to the room and made a huge show of trying to move the heavy desk back away from the window. The staff had cheered and clapped as Ms. Walters backed down, and so now Gracie owned that spot. Might is right! The invasion had been successful! Queen Gracie rules again!
She exhaled hard as she tossed her bag into the empty plastic chair against the wall. Then she sighed and sank into her swivel chair with the battered red cushion. She didn’t feel in charge right now, she thought as she put her elbows on her desk and rested her chin in her hands and frumped and pouted, blowing out through closed lips like a sulky child.
“Well, at least you’ve learned something,” she said out loud as she watched the girls on the soccer field, where the coach had finally sent the parents to the sidelines. “You’ve learned what every girl with a double-chin and a fat ass already knows: That if a handsome stranger with the body of an underwear model and the bank account of an oil baron wants you, it sure as hell isn’t because he wants you to bear his children.”
The guy was probably snipped, Gracie thought as she tried again to rationalize why she hadn’t taken the plan-B pill that morning. That’s why he came inside me without a second thought. That made sense, didn’t it? After all, when she plucked up the fortitude to scan through the few non-Arabic articles about Sheikh Dhomaar and Queen Zareena, there was no mention of them having any kids. Strange, but whatever. Maybe they had decided not to have kids. Maybe the queen couldn’t conceive. Either way, perhaps Dhomaar had decided to get a vasectomy as a “risk management” procedure. After all, a billionaire king from a conservative Islamic kingdom probably didn’t want to take the chance of one of his escapades turning into eighteen years of child support and perhaps a very expensive, very public divorce.
Though as a king and queen, don’t they need an heir to continue their royal bloodline or whatever, Grace wondered as she absentmindedly watched a black limo stop at a traffic light a few blocks down the street. Isn’t that how royalty and kingdoms work? Or is that just in the old world? Maybe just in old England and Germany or whatever. Who knew how Sheikhs and Sheikdoms operated.
Perhaps you should bother to learn about Sheikhs and Sheikhdoms, the thought came as Gracie frowned at the sight of that black limousine slowly taking a left turn and winding its way down the driveway leading to the horseshoe-roundabout of the front entrance to Wilson Park Middle School.
And as that thought about Sheikhs and kings, learning and lessons, teaching and being taught swirled through Gracie’s rapidly spinning mind, she felt her body seize up with that sickening fear, that dizzying excitement, that spiraling exhilaration that came screaming in like an invading army.
“No way,” she muttered as she stood from her chair and leaned across her desk so she could see what was happening. The limo had stopped, and two men in black suits and sunglasses had stepped out from the front doors and were briskly walking around to the large rear doors.
“Oh, my lord,” she gasped when she saw him, the Sheikh himself, that towering beast of a man. He stepped out onto the paving and stretched himself like even the limo had been cramped. Tailored black suit, white shirt, no tie, no pretense, all business. All business, and all man!
Even from three floors up his heft and presence sent a blast of electricity through her so quick she almost swooned as she absentmindedly crawled onto the desk, her brown eyes wide, face draining of color before rapidly going red as she gasped again and then crawled back away from the window when the Sheikh stood there with his hands on his hips, looking up, scanning the windows of the school as if searching for her, his gaze moving up to her window astonishingly fast, like he knew where to look.
Of course, he couldn’t know where to look. How could he even know she’d be at school on a Sunday? More spies, Gracie wondered in an almost manic state of disbelief and excitement as she stepped back away from the window, not sure if the Sheikh had seen her fat face staring down at him!
Now she ran to the staff bathroom, frantically clawing at her hair, the long brown tresses hopelessly ravaged by the afternoon breeze in that pharmacy parking lot from earlier that day. Shit. No hairbrush. No makeup. Tightish v-neck white t-shirt that showed nice cleavage but made her look like the Pillsbury doughboy around her stomach. And mom jeans. Mom jeans!
“When will you learn to take all those silly chick-magazine’s advice and dress every day like you’re going to run into your ex, you stupid cow!” Gracie shouted at her reflection before walking out into the staff room and wondering if hell, should she meet him or hide? He had glanced up at her window just as she ducked back. But had he seen her? Maybe he saw movement at the window; but no way he could tell it was her, right? It was hard to see inside the school during the day, with the sky and clouds reflecting off the slightly coated windows.
Dress every day like you’re going to run into your ex, she told herself again, deciding there was no way she could let him see her like this, that after seeing her all radiant and red in the grand ballroom he’d only be disappointed, perhaps even disgusted!
“That’s bad advice,” she said out loud as she spun around in the empty room wondering if she should hide in the bathroom or in one of the classrooms. “What those magazines should say is to dress every day like you’re going to meet a billionaire Sheikh with whom you had wild, wonderful sex last night and who for some reason has tracked you down a day later to see if you’re still the alluring American woman in that red dress and heels, black panties and lipstick, perfect hair and flawless skin.
She stood there frozen and hyperventilating for what seemed like a long time, her eyes closed tight as she listened for the sound of that squeaky metal elevator arriving on her floor. She he
ld her breath as she listened for the click of his Italian leather shoes on the ugly blue tiles of the hallway. But nothing. Silence.
That feeling of despair began to tug at the corners of Gracie’s paranoia now, and she suddenly felt that emptiness from last night rush back in, a sick feeling that yet again he wasn’t going to show up, that he had come all the way here and changed his mind at the last minute. Perhaps he did see her face in the window, and perhaps he was disgusted at the sight of her without makeup, her hair all mussed. Maybe the reflective coating on those damn government-issued windows made her face look all blurry and ugly, and it repulsed him. Or maybe he wasn’t even here for her! Maybe he was fucking one of those single moms on the soccer field! Those whores! Those sluts! That bastard! Ohmygod, how did I suddenly turn into a psycho?!
She swallowed hard and then willed herself to take a step to the window. It had been long enough that he’d be up here by now. She looked, and sure enough, there was that long black limo still parked in the horseshoe roundabout. Still here. He hadn’t disappeared. He was real. He was here. And he was here for her.
Now slowly her natural confidence began to assert itself. She thought back to how aroused the Sheikh had been last night. She thought about how he had grasped her hips like he couldn’t stop himself, squeezed her bottom like he loved it, sucked her boobs like he wanted to devour her. And the way he came . . . oh, God, the way he came! Like a geyser blasting to the surface! An undersea volcano exploding in the depths of her ocean! That wasn’t just because of her makeup and her hair! That arousal was deeper, stronger, harder.
Harder, she thought again, her own arousal ratcheting up as the memory of being pushed against the wall came back with such vividness that she had to lean on her desk as a dizziness rushed in. She could feel her pussy tighten, her clit stiffen, her panties moisten with fresh wetness, a new yearning, as if it was anticipating something, anticipating someone, anticipating him.
Stop it, she thought as she stepped all the way to the window and boldly pulled the bottom pane up, deciding right then and there to send him back to his goddamn island. If he’s here, then he’s only here for one thing. He’s a married man from another country and he thinks he’s got an easy booty call. Sure, maybe I gave him reason to think that, the way I swooned and giggled and spread like a slut for him. But that was last night and this is today. I don’t know who that woman in the red dress was last night, but this is my turf now, and I decide what happens in my realm.
She snorted now as she leaned on the window sill and squinted down at the men in black suits and sunglasses. God, for a moment had she actually considered giving him what he no doubt was here for! In school? She was willing to risk getting fired, being pretty much blacklisted from every public teaching job in the state, if not the country? And for what? For this guy, who wasn’t even that . . . wait, where was he?
Now she saw him again. He stood alone in the middle of the manicured front lawn, right next to the sign that said “Stay on the Path.” He was on the phone, nodding, gesturing, clenching his fist, speaking loudly in Arabic, gesturing again.
And then, without warning, the Sheikh smashed the phone into the pavement, kicking away the debris as one of his bodyguards hurriedly cleared up the mess, being careful to stay out of the Sheikh’s way.
“Ya Allah, Zareena!” he roared into the air, and she could hear him clearly—shit, they could hear him on the soccer field too, it seemed; though they couldn’t see him.
Zareena? So his wife knows?! Did she just find out? And now he’s in deep shit? Who the hell knows. Either way, time to close this window and step back, Gracie, she told herself. Step away from the fire. Turn and walk away.
13
“Turn and walk away, Dhomaar,” Zareena had said into the phone. “You are lucky Habib’s people saw you drive up to the school in your big black car and thought to call me. If I had not been warned, with one thrust of your royal cock you would have undone six months of work. Perhaps undone a hundred years of work!”
“I do not see the problem,” the Sheikh had growled into the phone as he paced the driveway outside the school, finally stepping onto the off-limits grass and mentally cursing himself for even answering the goddamn phone. “So it will be two times instead of just once. Perhaps it is better to make sure.”
“I am already sure,” Zareena screamed, her voice so piercing that the Sheikh had to pull the phone back from his ear. “And if you go to her again, it could change everything! Do you not see, you goddamn beast? Do you not see I am trying to stop your animal instincts from leading us to disaster?”
“No, I do not see anything,” Dhomaar muttered, looking up at the school building and catching some movement at the far window of the third floor. “I do not see how just one more time will lead us to this disaster you speak of!”
“Oh, Dhomaar, my Sheikh, my king, my partner,” Zareena had rasped in an urgent whisper. “Oh, Dhom, I know you have denied that part of you for so long. I know you have denied yourself a deep connection with a woman and instead loyally served your kingdom and your people. I know you feel a connection with this woman—that was the entire point of this elaborate scheme! For you to conceive a child with innocent spontaneity, to let your need build up and then put you in a room with a fertile, vivacious woman who is peaking in her cycle. But do you not see how even that is a mirage? That we have knowingly and consciously manipulated your instincts and emotions to achieve our purpose? A purpose that will be greatly complicated if you give this woman reason to believe you might want more than just one night of release, that the encounter meant something.”
The Sheikh had stayed quiet as he turned away from that window. He grimaced as he listened. They had discussed this earlier, he knew. The most delicate part of this plan would not be the seduction itself but the nine months that followed. After all, this woman was a surrogate but she did not know it! There was no legal agreement. It was a deception. An illusion. A mirage. The only thing genuine was the sex!
“Dhomaar,” Zareena had said. “Think about what you will be doing to her if you see her again. You cannot marry her. And so if you give her reason to believe you care for her, then . . . then . . .”
“Then she may be so angry, hurt, indignant at the deception that she may never agree to give up custody when the time comes to lay the cards on the table,” the Sheikh said, nodding. “I know, Zareena. We have discussed it. I accepted your word for it, but one thing always bothered me: What makes you think she would give up custody anyway? What woman gives up her child? If she believes it was just a one-night stand, then she will sue me for child support and that will be it! I may not even be allowed visitation!”
“I told you I have it worked out,” Zareena snapped. “She will give up the child. Trust me. I know what I am doing, Dhom.”
“Do you?” the Sheikh growled into the phone, squeezing the little handset so hard he could feel the metal bend in protest. “Then tell me your plan. Right now, Zareena. Even secrecy has its limits, and I am at that limit. Speak now, my queen. I command you, dammit!”
Zareena had paused, and Dhom could hear her take a long breath and hold it. A strange uneasiness rose up in him as he waited for her to speak. When she did, her voice was calm, controlled . . . contrived?
“The plan is straightforward, Dhom,” she said quickly as she exhaled. “I told you we sought out women who were alone, in low paying jobs, no family money, not even any real family to lean on. This woman fits all those criteria. So now I have instructed Habib to wait until we know she is pregnant—more importantly, until she knows she is pregnant—and then to engineer a . . . a crisis, let us say.”
“Crisis? What in bloody hell does that mean, Zareena? Ya Allah, my Sheikha! I trust you more than I trust myself, but perhaps I have allowed you to keep me in the dark for too much of this. After all, it is I who is accountable to this woman! It is I—”
“You are not accou
ntable to anyone other than your nation and your duty!” Zareena roared into the phone like a lioness at dawn. “Do not forget why we are doing this! Do not forget why—”
“Remind me again, because I am having a hard time,” the Sheikh shouted back in rapid-fire Arabic. “Because the oases are turning to salt? And a blind old Sheikh is whispering to himself about ending our line and invading our island kingdom? That is it, correct? Ya Allah, it sounds bloody mad as I say it!”
“That is why you must leave it to me,” Zareena said. “Like you said, you must trust me more than you trust yourself right now. Because Dhom, you cannot trust yourself right now. Your judgment is deeply compromised . . . compromised because you are operating at a severe disadvantage, my great Sheikh.”
“Yes? And what is that disadvantage, Zareena?”
“Your royal cock,” Zareena spat into the phone. “And your heavy, swinging balls. Now if there is even one part of you that has not submitted to your arousal right now, then get back into that bloody car and walk away from this. Walk away from her. I never expected you to fully understand or even agree with me. I only expected you to remain true to your sense of duty, and to have faith that in the end I want nothing more than what is best for my nation. Now I am done talking. It is your decision. You are your own man, even though right now you are owned by your arousal. I just hope you can be damned sure that when the arousal is satisfied, you will not find yourself—”
Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7) Page 9
