UNTOUCHED FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Sheikh
Flames for the Sheikh
Hostage for the Sheikh
Single for the Sheikh
Stockings for the Sheikh
Untouched for the Sheikh
Surrogate for the Sheikh
Stars for the Sheikh
Shelter for the Sheikh
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Sheikh (UK)
Flames for the Sheikh (UK)
Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)
Single for the Sheikh (UK)
Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)
Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)
Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)
Stars for the Sheikh (UK)
Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (USA)
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (UK)
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright © 2017 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.
Cover Design by S. Lee
Cover Image Copyright © by DepositPhotos
UNTOUCHED FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
“So this is witness protection, John? You are putting me into witness protection? I am to be confined to some hotel room with soldiers outside my door for the next twenty years? Ya Allah, I would rather be condemned to death!”
John Benson, head of the CIA’s Dubai field office, smiled at the tall, dark man who towered above him even though they were both seated in the cramped quarters of Benson’s favorite Arab tea house on the outskirts of Abu Dhabi. Benson sipped his sweet tea from the little metal cup, now putting the cup down on the wooden table that was really just a teakwood stool with a sandpapered seat. Then he cleared his throat and shifted on the rickety chair covered in camel-hide, wincing at the harsh light from the swinging lanterns that moved every time someone entered the crowded tea shop and loudly asked for a pot of the sickeningly sweet tea that Benson had regrettably grown quite addicted to in his years in the Arabian peninsula.
“Sheikh Zaal, we both know that exiled or not, you could simply hire a private army if you truly believed you were in imminent danger,” Benson said quietly, studying the Sheikh’s characteristically upbeat, couldn't-give-a-shit expression, his smooth brown face showing no signs of stress even though the man’s life had been turned upside down simply because he had chosen to step up and do the right thing—the right thing from America’s perspective, at least. Certainly the Regents Committee of the kingdom of Kirwaan had a different point of view, which was why Benson was sitting here with the Sheikh, telling this dignified man of royal blood, this man who was on the path to be a king, that he was now going to be just a regular Joe (or Mohammed) in the good ol’ U.S. of A! Hell, Benson almost felt like he was in that Superman movie where the Man of Steel gives up his powers and just becomes pussy-ass Clark Kent!
The Sheikh smiled, his green eyes narrowing, smooth brown forehead crinkling up for a moment before he flashed a half-smile. “And we both know that I would rather swim naked in a shark-tank than surround myself with armed men who know exactly where I am at all times. If I were truly in danger, then someone just has to get to one of my bodyguards to get to me. Bribery, threats, a kidnapped member of his family . . . so many things can make a bodyguard put a bullet in my head while I am eating breakfast in my kitchen!” Now the Sheikh’s green eyes widened, and the man’s lean, muscular body tensed up as his jaw tightened before relaxing again. “Besides, I need my personal space. I cannot be at peace when there are people around me all the bloody time. But still, John, although as an exile I am in no current danger, there is a chance that the Regents Committee of Kirwaan will eventually issue a religious fatwa against me, which means that any Muslim in the world will be authorized to kill me and collect a bounty. In fact, if a fatwa is issued, it will be the duty of a good Muslim to kill me! You do understand how fatwas work, John. Yes? They teach you that in spy school?”
Benson grimaced as he poured out the dregs of the tea from the silver metal pot and quickly drank it down. “Yeah, I know how a fatwa works, Zaal.” He looked up now. “And you know how the United States works. A fatwa doesn’t mean shit in America. We actually have pretty straightforward laws about not murdering people. Fanatic or not, nobody in America is under any illusion that the law’s gonna protect them if they kill someone, whether it’s for a bounty or religious duty. And even if your Regents Committee does issue a fatwa, they aren’t stupid enough to chase you down in America. You won’t even need to be in hiding, and you damn well know that. An Islamic nation as small as Kirwaan sure as hell isn’t going to order a hit on someone within U.S. borders. So your protection in America is just that—America itself!”
The Sheikh raised an eyebrow, his right hand briefly moving up and touching the stubble on his chin before he folded his arms tight across his broad chest and straightened his back, forcing Benson to crane his neck up just to make eye contact with the tall man.
“The United States?” said the Sheikh. “You are offering to move me to the United States?”
Benson shrugged. “It’s the safest place for you, Zaal. You could live safely anywhere as an exile with your billions. But if this fatwa does come, it’ll actually become legal for a Muslim to kill you in a lot of Arab countries.”
The Sheikh smiled, his perfectly aligned white teeth shining in the dim interior of their little corner of the tea shop. “That is what used to happen to outlaws in the old days in Europe and Asia,” he said. “An outlaw was technically someone who was no longer protected by the law, and so it was legal for any man to kill an outlaw. Did you know that, John?”
Benson smiled, shaking his head at how cool and collected this man was, sipping his tea and dropping out little factoids in that smooth Arabian accent that had a British polish to it from his time at Oxford, where the man had studied the sciences—chemistry and biology, mostly. Benson was intimately familiar with Zaal’s history and background, thoroughly researching the man before deciding that he was legitimate enough to be taken seriously, that he wasn’t just another Sheikh who was playing games to get the CIA to do his dirty work in the endless battles for power in those small oil-rich kingdoms of the Middle East. No, Zaal was legit, and in fact the man was in line to be supreme Sheikh of Kirwaan when he came to Benson with a warning . . . a warning for which Benson was still grateful, would always be grateful, grateful enough that he had called in several favors in the State Department to get Zaal a no-questions-asked permanent residency status in the United States.
“Well, you’re not an outlaw. You’re going to be protected by U.S. law, just like any other U.S. citizen,” Benson said, folding his hands into a little tent and looking up at the Sheikh.
Zaal frowned, a half-smile coming to his face as he
cocked his head. “You have made me a United States citizen just like that? I did not know you were so powerful! Can you get me a date with Beyonce as well?”
Benson laughed, rocking back on that camel-leather chair. “Actually, I’ve only gotten you a green card, which basically means you can live and work anywhere in the United States and you have all the rights of a citizen except for the right to vote. In five years you will be eligible to become an American citizen, if you so choose. As for Beyonce . . .” He gave the Sheikh a knowing glance, thinking back to that early research into the Sheikh’s history . . . history that was punctuated by some very interesting trysts with rich and famous women, most of them married, some of them very famously married. Highly classified information. “Yes, as for your request, great Sheikh, my research assistants tell me that you may have actually gone on a date with Beyonce over a decade ago.” He narrowed his gaze, holding a straight face and lowering his voice. “Of course, she wasn’t married back then. So perhaps she’s more interesting to you now that she’s ringed up and spoken for? You always liked the taken women, didn’t you? Other men’s women? No fresh young virgins for you. Not your thing. The more experienced the better.”
Now the Sheikh laughed—a deep, booming laugh that seemed to make those damned lanterns swing wildly. “Ya Allah, you and your research assistants know me better than anyone, John! Ah, the irony of it!” He relaxed into a smile now, shaking his head and narrowing those green eyes, his expression one of genuine warmth, Benson thought. “Yes, John. I do have a strange fascination for women who are in sexless marriages, women who have perhaps given up hope of enjoying those pleasures, women who have forgotten what it feels like to be taken like a woman, forgotten how to even come at a man’s touch.”
Benson almost choked on the fresh cup of tea that a silent waiter had poured for him. “Sorry, what?”
Now the Sheikh leaned forward, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “John, my friend! Do you know how many women simply do not orgasm during sex? Ya Allah, there are some women who do not orgasm at all, not even by their own hand, let alone another’s!”
Benson just stared dumbfounded at the Sheikh. Was this the time and place, Benson wondered. “No, I did not know that,” Benson said weakly.
“Of course, there is a special joy in showing a woman that she is indeed capable of achieving orgasm during intercourse, but . . .” the Sheikh said, stretching his arms out wide for a moment, long, thick arms that seemed to reach almost wall-to-wall in the small tea-shop. Now his eyes misted over, like he was thinking back to something, perhaps to someone. Then he quickly folded his arms back across his chest and shook his head, like he was reminding himself that this wasn’t the time nor place.
“But what?” Benson said, almost interested now, feeling the irony of the situation himself, that this almost felt like two friends chilling over a beer somewhere, even though officially they had never met, and in fact might never meet again even unofficially.
“Never mind,” the Sheikh grunted, those green eyes cold and all-business suddenly. “Back to the matter at hand. Yes, a lot of the smaller Arab kingdoms do in fact recognize a fatwa, and so I am safest in a Western country. But I do not know America so well. I have traveled there before, and of course I have investments there . . .”
“Of course,” Benson said under his breath, reminding himself that this man might be exiled and soon to be fatwa’d, but hell, he still had access to over three billion dollars in his American and European accounts. Yes, it was just a fraction of the wealth that was locked up in his Kirwaan holdings, but shit, this guy wasn’t going to be no average Joe or Mohammed or whatever in the US. Hell, in a way he was going to be American royalty. After all, like they say: Cash is King!
“I am very familiar with England,” the Sheikh said now, almost asking the question as he looked back at Benson. “I have always loved Scotland as well. And Paris is nice too. I spent some time there after university.”
“Do I sound like a goddamn Brit? Have you heard me speak French?” Benson spoke sharply now. “You know how many goddamn strings I had to pull to get this residency permit done clean and quiet?”
The Sheikh didn’t flinch. “I do know it, John. But do not act like it was not worth it. My information led you to a terrorist safehouse on the Syrian border, a place not even on your CIA maps.”
Benson sighed and nodded, looking down at the wooden stool that doubled as a table. Sheikh Zaal’s involvement had probably saved a lot of lives, and it had certainly made Benson look damned good in the eyes of his superiors back in Washington. Hell yeah, it was worth it. Still, there was only so much he could do for the man.
“This is it, Zaal,” Benson said now, eyes narrowing for a moment. “This is all I got.”
The Sheikh looked into his metal cup and frowned like he was trying to read the tea leaves. Then he nodded and sighed, looking back at Benson, a half-smile on his face. “So America or bust, as they say. Yes?”
Benson smiled, that feeling of warmth sneaking back in as he nodded at the Sheikh. “America or bust, my exiled friend. You in?”
“I am in,” the Sheikh said, giving him an exaggerated thumbs-up. “The Land of the Free and Brave. A decent place to be in exile, I suppose.”
“Decent place to be a billionaire in exile too. But here, let the CIA pay for your tea,” Benson said, placing a fifty-dollar bill on the little table and preparing to stand up as he saw the tea-shop owner’s eyes light up at the sight of American currency. “So what’s it gonna be, Sheikh? Penthouse in Manhattan? Mansion in Florida? Beach bungalow in Malibu? Hell, we even got some nice desert out west if you want sand dunes in your backyard.”
The Sheikh smiled with a hint of sadness as he stood up and patted down his traditional white tunic and glanced at his custom, nine-diamond Patek-Phillipe watch. “I think I will stay away from the sand for some time.” He looked past Benson now, like he was thinking. Then he blinked and looked back at the seasoned CIA man. “I have always liked the rolling hills of Scotland. Is there a place like that in America?”
Benson frowned. “Sure. I mean . . . Northern California has some rolling hills that—”
The Sheikh waved his arms and shook his head. “No, if I am going to live in America, then I also want a full taste of the seasons. Snow in the winters. Rain in the spring. Green, rolling hills in the summertime. Perhaps a lake or two. Come on, John. Surely the land of milk and honey has that to offer?”
“Vermont,” Benson said, the word coming out before he even really thought it. In fact Benson hadn’t even been to Vermont except for a childhood visit to Burlington. He did remember seeing some rolling green hills on the way in. And there was certainly at least one lake there. And Vermont had golf courses, didn’t it? There you go. Scotland in the American Northeast! “Vermont,” he said again, firmly nodding his head as he followed the Sheikh out into the throbbing heat of the Abu Dhabi evening.
Vermont.
2
“Um, you don’t need a gun in Vermont, Fran. Trust me. There isn’t a more peaceful spot in North America than right here. Tell her, Thomas.”
“Well, technically anyplace in Canada is more peaceful than even the most peaceful spot in the US, thanks to their gun laws. But Macy’s right, Fran. You don’t need a gun in Vermont. Are you seriously buying a gun, Fran?”
Francine Fullerton looked askance at Macy and Thomas, her two closest friends—her two only friends really, if you didn’t count the animals. Of course, Fran always counted the animals, even the ones who were grumpy or downright hostile. Because even the hostile animals were at the root of it without malice. Their motives were always simple and pure. They could be understood. They could be trusted. They could be loved.
“Listen, you guys are leaving tomorrow, and then it’s gonna be me against the animals out here in the wilderness,” Fran said, looking first at Macy’s long, tanned face twisting into a frown and then into Thomas’s beady blue eyes that always made her think of him as a chubby Pe
ter Pan even though he was well into his thirties.
“I thought you moved here for the animals,” Thomas said, showing a frown of his own as his light brown beard caught the sun in a very Peter Pan-like way. “What was that analysis you did? Not enough vets for each pet or something? How many vets do you need for one pet anyway?”
Macy touched her lip and pointed at Thomas, shaking her head as she corrected him. “A lower-than-average vets-per-capita combined with a higher-than-average pets-per-capita.”
“The pets-to-vets ratio,” Fran said excitedly, beaming as she pushed open the green-painted wooden front door to her new veterinarian’s clinic nestled into a very nice strip mall just outside Burlington city limits, rolling green hills in the background, the smell of pine and birch and perhaps even eucalyptus (probably not) in the air. “Vermont doesn’t have a lot of people, but a lot of the people who do live here have pets, and so there’s an opportunity for a new vet’s clinic in the area.” She looked around at the mostly empty parking lot, wondering if there was a Subaru dealership in the area or if Vermonters just liked to drive Subarus. “In this area, specifically.”
“Because there’s a vacancy,” whispered Macy, making eyes at Thomas, who tittered and faked a gasp.
“That’s right,” he whispered, looking around with wide eyes. “Because a local vet got taken by the bears. OMG!”
Fran snorted and shook her head, sighing as she stepped into her new digs, which were clean but woefully sparse. “He was robbed by meth-heads and he freaked out and closed his clinic and moved forty miles away. Hardly taken by bears. More like scared off by the rabbits.”
“So what’s the gun for, Fran? Rabbits or bears?”
“Wolves,” Fran said, walking carefully over the thick-but-firm blue carpet she had just had installed. “It’s for the wolves, Thomas.”
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 1
