Assassin for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 11)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Boo,” said Kathryn, looking down at the billowing robe in dismay. He was right. The cloth was sliding all over the place. She tried to pull the corners in, but a gust of hot desert wind pulled them back like those mischievous gods were trying to disrobe her right there.

  “Here,” said the Sheikh, stepping close and grabbing some of the parachute cord from the ground. “Come here. Stand still.”

  Without hesitation the Sheikh pulled Kathryn close, reaching around her and sliding the cord around her waist, pulling the makeshift robe in around her breasts. He glanced down at her cleavage as he tied the cord firmly around her waist, and Kathryn felt the heat pass between the two of them as they stood close for that moment.

  “Remember why we are both here,” said the Sheikh, the words coming out softly, almost under his breath, like he was speaking to himself as much as to her. He looked into her eyes, and that electricity flowed through her as he leaned in.

  Then, under the blazing desert sun, beneath the clear blue skies, amidst the sea of shining gold sand, he kissed her. Once again, he kissed her.

  14

  Remember why we are both here.

  The words spun through his mind as he kissed her warm, full lips. She tasted sweet like the nectar of a cactus-flower. She smelled clean like a fresh oasis amidst the burning sand. He wanted her so much it terrified him, and once again the words went through his mind as he pulled her body against his and kissed her sweet lips.

  Remember why we are both here.

  I am here because every year I embark on this twisted mission to find my princess, my queen, my wife. To find a woman who will do anything for me but yet remain her own person. A woman who will bend but not transform. A woman who will open herself up to me but still keep me guessing. A woman who will give me what I need but only if she needs it too. She was it. He was sure of it already. It could not be otherwise.

  “And why are you here, my sweet assassin?” he whispered aloud as he parted her robe and caressed her breasts, gently at first, carefully rubbing her nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

  “What?” she mumbled, her eyelids fluttering as she looked up at him. “What does that mean?”

  The Sheikh’s hands closed firmly on her breasts, and he squeezed her magnificent globes so hard she arched her back and moaned out loud, the question and the answer forgotten as he bent down and pushed his face between her cleavage. A moment later she was on her back on the firm sand, that billowing white robe spread out like a white wedding bed against the golden backdrop.

  “It means,” he gasped, pushing up her top and gasping again when he saw her full breasts spring into view, big red nipples perched atop creamy white globes. He could not finish the sentence, because all the blood had left his head to fill his cock that had hardened so fast he almost lost consciousness. “Ya Allah, you are tremendous. I want you. All of you.”

  “Well, you can’t have me,” she muttered, closing her eyes and spreading her arms out wide, arching her back again and pushing her globes up into his face as he sucked her nipples until they glistened in the sunlight.

  “It appears I do have you,” he growled, biting her right nipple gently before running his tongue between her cleavage, moving down along her curves, pulling at the waistband of her red harem pants, smoothly sliding them down past her wide hips.

  “You’re imagining it,” she gasped as he pulled her pants past her ankles and spread her wide beneath the blue desert skies. “It’s a mirage. You’ve been hypnotized.”

  “Which one is it? Mirage or hypnotism?” whispered the Sheikh, his eyes almost rolling up in his head at the sight of her naked and spread before him, her red slit beckoning to him through the dainty patch of soft brown curls between her thighs. Slowly he moved forward, taking in her scent before kissing her secret lips, teasing them open with his tongue as he held her thighs down and apart with his strong hands.

  But she could no longer speak, and as he pushed his tongue deep into her cunt, pressed his thumb against her stiff clit, making her come with a shudder and a groan, the Sheikh knew that it was both a mirage and hypnotism, an illusion and a spell, real and make-believe.

  That is what’s taking us to these heights, he realized as he curled his tongue up against her inner wall and reached up and pinched her nipple with his right hand, flicking her clit with his left thumb and bringing her to another climax almost immediately. It is because neither of us is sure what is real and what is not, and so we are both grasping at the only thing that is real, the only thing that cannot be faked, the only thing that cannot lie.

  And this cannot be a lie, the Sheikh knew as he rose up from between her legs and looked upon her pretty round face contorted with a grimace of pure ecstasy. No, it cannot be a lie, he thought as he slipped out of his pants, glancing down at himself as his thick cock sprung out, hard and heavy, swollen and ready.

  It is not a lie, he decided as he guided his masthead to her opening and pushed in, spreading her ready lips and driving deep, so goddamn deep, all the way deep. And as he thrust and grunted, pushed and roared, drove and then finally erupted in the farthest reaches of her secret valley, the sun beating down on his broad, glistening back, he knew that perhaps this was the only thing that was not a lie, was not make-believe, was not an illusion. Which meant they had to hold on to this, to the connection of their bodies, the connection that could not be corrupted by lies. It would be their compass. Their North Star. Their guide. Their truth.

  15

  “There is no truth to be found,” the Sheikh said to her, pulling her close and wrapping the white parachute-sheets around the two of them, shielding her from the sun as they waited for their taxi. “You should know that by now. The world we live in is built from lies, and those lies are built upon more lies.”

  Kathryn turned her head and gazed into his green eyes. “Why do you say ‘we’? What’s your connection to Benson and the CIA, Hyder?” She raised an eyebrow. “And I want the truth. Don’t you dare say . . .” she put on a serious expression and did her best imitation of his smooth accent, “. . . there is no truth to be found, dear Ms. Kathryn.”

  “You mock me again,” he said, throwing his head back and laughing as he pulled her closer into his broad, hard body.

  Kathryn laughed too, partly at the madness of it all. Here she was, a CIA assassin dressed like a whore, wrapped in parachute fabric, being embraced by a Sheikh whom she knew almost nothing about. In fact she knew less than nothing, because what she’d been told about him might well have been lies.

  But this feels real, she thought as she looked down at his thick, strong arms wrapped around her, just beneath her breasts. This feels real. He feels real. We feel real!

  Because it is real, came a whisper from somewhere inside her. There’s no faking what just happened. There’s no lies in the way your bodies reacted to one another. Lies are spoken and heard. What you experienced had no sound, no words, no logic or reason. It was pure feeling. Pure emotion. Pure . . . love?

  Ridiculous, Kathryn told herself, almost saying the word out loud. If there’s no such thing as absolute truth, then there’s no such thing as absolute love either.

  “Remember why we are both here,” the Sheikh had muttered just before he took her, and Kathryn frowned as the words came back to her. What did he mean? Why did this king, this beast of a man who clearly had a powerful, relentless sex drive, follow this weird-ass ritual of staying celibate all year except for ten days? What was he trying to accomplish in those ten days? What was he looking for?

  “You’re looking for your own truth, aren’t you?” she blurted out without thinking, rubbing his muscular forearms as she said it, locking her fingers with his.

  “What?” he said. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean with this ten-day thing you do. Whatever you call it. You’re looking for something. For someone.”

  The Sheikh grunted,
shifting his body against hers. “Is that a question?”

  “If it were, would you answer it?”

  “Probably not,” said the Sheikh. “Not even if I were hypnotized.”

  Kathryn laughed and squeezed his arm. “I’ll get you sooner or later. You know that.”

  “You will get me? Now that is a bit ominous, considering what you do for a living.”

  “I don’t just do this for a living. It’s about more than that. You know that, Hyder.”

  The Sheikh was silent for a moment. “How would I know that?”

  “You’re so damn frustrating! You make all these cryptic remarks, and then you don’t explain them! Clearly you have a connection to Benson and Mel. But you won’t tell me about it.”

  “Are you asking about it?”

  “Yes! Oh, my God!” Kathryn shrieked, and she would have pulled her hair out in annoyance if her hands hadn’t been locked with his. “Yes, I’m damned well asking!”

  The Sheikh stayed silent, shifting once more against her body, but Kathryn wasn’t letting him get away this time. She tightened her grip on his hands, looking down at their intertwined fingers as she did it. And then her eyes went wide when she noticed it.

  At first she thought it was just a couple of fingernails that had grown out weird or something. But she’d seen this before.

  “Oh, God,” she said, touching the rough nails of his right hand. “Hyder, this . . . you’ve . . . I mean . . . who?”

  The Sheikh pulled his hand away from hers, but she grabbed it and locked her fingers with his again. “No!” she shouted. “You goddamn better tell me what happened, Hyder! I’ve seen this before. On prisoners. Terror suspects. Men who’ve been interrogated in secret prisons and in countries which have no anti-torture laws. Someone did this to you. They pulled out your goddamn fingernails.”

  “You like the look?” the Sheikh said casually, holding his right hand in front of her face, fingers spread wide. “Did you know that the U.S. Government does nails?”

  Kathryn swallowed hard and shook her head. She knew what the men and women who worked in the shadows did. Hell, she was one of them.

  “I don’t understand,” she said hoarsely, her head spinning as she desperately tried to put the pieces together: Benson, Mel, Hyder, his step-sister Nisha . . . assassination attempts by Russians one moment, Americans the next . . . what the hell! “I don’t understand,” she said again. “The way you spoke of Benson . . . it sounded like you were friends. Like you worked together. But you’re saying that we . . . I mean the Americans . . . did this to you?”

  Hyder grunted, tightening his fingers into a fist. “They might as well have.” He took a breath, and Kathryn waited. She could tell he was not a man used to talking, or telling others his secrets. He was not a man given to trusting anyone. Maybe this was why. Maybe he’d trusted someone before, and they’d betrayed him.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, turning to look at him. She could see the pain in his eyes. She could see the uncertainty. But she could also see the need to trust someone. Could she be that person? How could she? She didn’t know enough about him to promise anything, could she? Could she? “Tell me,” she whispered again. “Please.”

  The Sheikh closed his eyes tight and then nodded. “All right,” he said. “All right.” He waited a moment and then nodded again before opening his eyes and looking into hers. “As you’ve guessed, I did work with Benson and the CIA. It was unofficial, and kept a secret even from top American officials. You see, I had close connections with many . . . unsavory characters and organizations across the Middle East, and I . . .”

  He trailed off, and Kathryn nodded. “You were an asset. You told the CIA about powerful men you knew who were involved with terror groups, either supporting or financing them.”

  The Sheikh snorted. “I did more than that. I arranged meetings. I gathered information. I organized underground fundraisers where I pretended to share in the hatred of the West. I brought these secret financiers of terrorism out of the shadows and into the light. I lured them in and then I gave them up to the CIA or MI6 or Mossad.” He looked at his fingernails again and smiled. “And then, when the time was right, I was given up.”

  Kathryn took a breath. “You were betrayed. By who? Benson? Mel?”

  The Sheikh’s eyes narrowed. “I will give you one more guess.”

  Kathryn thought a moment. Who were the other players in this twisted story? Then her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “Your sister?” she asked softly.

  The Sheikh shrugged. “I cannot say. All of them. In the end it was all of them.” He sighed and shook his head even as Kathryn noted he hadn't actually given a clear answer to any of her questions. “Ah, my sister. We share a father, but Nishaani’s mother was American.” He grinned again and shook his head. “The CIA wanted her to be what they now want you to be. The half-American queen of Sehaar.” He paused a moment and shrugged. “Though in fairness, I am quite certain it was my dear sister’s idea to begin with. John Benson trusted me. He knew I was a man of principle, a man of peace, a man of justice. He believed I would be a strong ally to the United States, and he opposed the idea of replacing me with my sister. But this was years ago, and John was still young, without the power and influence he has now.”

  “So he was overruled. The CIA decided that it would be a safer bet to put an American citizen on the throne, and so they ratted you out.”

  The Sheikh half-nodded. “It is justice, in a way, I suppose.”

  “Well, you’re awfully forgiving,” Kathryn said, trying to make light of things as she breathed deep and took his rough hands in hers again, leaning in against him. He felt good against her. Right against her. This felt like justice in a way, too, didn’t it? The two of them.

  “What makes you think I have forgiven anyone?” the Sheikh whispered into her hair as he pulled her close, and the way he said the words scared her for a moment. “We are long past the point of forgiveness. Too much has been done. Too much.”

  Kathryn nodded against his broad chest. She could hear his powerful heart beat within him, and she listened and nodded again. She didn’t want to hear any more. Not now. Already she could put some of the pieces together: Since Hyder was alive, he clearly gave his captors something valuable—information, loyalty . . . something. Or someone.

  “Who?” she finally said, nuzzling into him as she felt the warm desert breeze blow grains of sand against her bare ankles. “Who did you give up to buy your freedom?”

  The Sheikh’s body tightened against hers. “What makes you ask me that?”

  “Well,” said Kathryn. “You said the people you’d betrayed to the CIA were wealthy and powerful, which means you couldn’t offer them money. You could offer them loyalty, but they couldn’t possibly trust you. Which means—”

  “Do you trust me?” the Sheikh asked, interrupting her. “Tell me now. Without thinking. Without allowing reason, logic, or common sense to dictate the answer. What does your instinct say? What does your intuition say? What does your heart say?”

  Kathryn’s heart almost stopped when she saw the urgency in his devastatingly green eyes. Already she could feel those triplets of reason, logic, and common sense pounding at the door and screaming for her to stop, to say no, to back off. You’re being played, manipulated, seduced by the man you were sent to seduce. He’s a professional liar, just like you are! There is no truth here! There is no trust here! There’s just . . . there’s just . . .

  There’s just you and him, came the thought, and it came straight from her heart. Just you and him. There’s no other truth right now. Perhaps there never will be any other truth. Hold on to this, Kathryn. Hold on.

  But reason and logic still came on hard, and finally Kathryn looked up into his eyes and sighed. “If it were just the two of us, then yes. I feel like I can trust you, Hyder. But it’s not just the two of us. There
are so many others with stakes in this game that’s unfolding. If it were just the two of us, then—”

  “Then it will be just the two of us,” growled the Sheikh, grasping her hands and looking down at her. “We are dead, as far as the world is concerned. Those F-16s did not fly down to take us out, which means they did not see us eject. The smoke from the exploding chopper must have given us initial cover, and once we were below a certain altitude, the pilots would not have been able to see our parachutes from above. We are dead, Kathryn. Which means we can be reborn. New lives. You and I.”

  Kathryn stared at him like either he was mad or she was mad. Then she decided they were both mad. Completely insane. A day ago she hadn’t even been in the same room as him. Now she was looking into his eyes, thinking about having babies and living like Arab gypsies in the goddamn desert.

  She couldn’t speak. Even those voices of logic and reason were struck mute at first. But then they started to whisper from the background of her mind. After all, those inside voices muttered, if the people trying to kill you think you’re dead, it does make sense to stay dead for at least a while, doesn’t it? Until you figure out what’s going on? Yes? Sure, said those voices. It makes sense. Say yes, Kathryn. You can say yes. It’s not insane at all. It makes total sense. Go on, girl!

  She started to nod like in a trance, and as if the desert was acknowledging her choice, she caught movement against the dunes to her left. She turned, and it was a train of four enormous camels, majestically moving in slow motion, two with riders and two with empty saddles.

  “Ah, excellent!” said the Sheikh. “Our taxis have arrived.”

  16

  “Who are they?” Kathryn asked. “And why haven’t they said a word?”