“I don’t give a shit whose fault it is,” the woman snapped, rubbing her neck as she looked up from her seat. “I just need to know who’s gonna pay for this, because I don’t want my goddamn insurance premiums to rise, and so—”
Now Fran took a breath and looked down at herself in that old denim skirt that she knew should have been tossed away in the previous century. She rarely even wore skirts these days, thanks to the faint ripples of cellulite she had noticed on her thighs a couple of years ago. But here she was in a skirt that seemed to be riding up as she moved her bottom again and felt the dampness that had soaked through her cotton panties and into the denim. At least it wouldn’t show as a wet patch through the thick cloth of that skirt, and so perhaps she could step out of the car now and face the unpleasantness of figuring out this shit.
She slowly stepped out, carefully shutting the door as her mind raced with thoughts of her own car insurance, about what the laws were like up here in Vermont, about whether she should call the police immediately and file a report so the two insurance companies could handle it like they were supposed to when no one was hurt. But ohgod, was anyone hurt?!
“You are not hurt,” the man was saying as Fran turned towards the Subaru and took a step. “You are not hurt, and the damage to your car is minimal,” he said now, his voice still calm but with an air of authority, like he was simply telling this woman what the situation was and that there could be no doubt about it, no question about it, that he was in control and if anything was broken he would fix it. “This will cover the damages to your car, as well as pay for a neck massage if that is required. You may count it if you wish, but then please pull forward so we can pull out. Thank you.”
No apology, no argument, no inflection in his voice. Like a king stating his will, it seemed to Fran for a moment as she stopped and stared at this man from behind, blinking at his broad back, thick black hair, perfectly manicured stubble that lined his strong jaw as he turned his head halfway and spoke in that regal accent that sounded so faraway and unique but also familiar and intimate, like the vibration of his voice was making her body react in this strange, unusual way that mortified her, terrified her, stupefied her.
Fran watched as the woman went silent and began to count out hundred dollar bills . . . hundred dollar bills that this strange man had just handed to her! She counted for what seemed like a long time, and then without a word the woman looked up at the man with wide eyes, her expression all but saying she had won the lottery. Then she quietly put the Subaru into gear and drove off, Fran getting the distinct impression that the woman was doing her best to drive slow even though she wanted to get the hell out of there before this weirdo with the accent changed his mind and took back what appeared to be several thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.
“Forgive me,” the man said now, that voice still deep, still resonant, still familiar, still making Fran’s tummy twist up and her bottom tense up and her hands curl into little fists and then open up again as the tension flowed through her . . . not the sort of tension that comes with fear or apprehension, but the other sort of tension, the kind you feel in your body and not your mind, the kind that perhaps can only be resolved by the body, by two bodies, man and woman, bodies pressed up against one another, the dark trees watching in their shimmering silence, animals grunting and shaking their manes as they circle the man and woman, this man and this woman, this man . . .
“Sorry, do I know you?” Fran said hesitantly, even though she certainly did not know him. Hell yes, she would have remembered meeting him before, if only because he looked so damned unusual.
“You do now,” said the man. “Zaal Al-Kirwaan. I am an immigrant.”
Fran giggled at the playfully innocent way the man said “immigrant.” She reached out and shook his outstretched hand, almost gasping as she felt a warmth rush into her from the contact, from the touch, from his touch. “Francine Fullerton. I’m sorta an immigrant too up here. By the way, you seem to have figured out how things are handled in America, Zaal Al-Kirwaan. Money talks.”
“Money talks everywhere in the world. It is the second universal language,” said Zaal Al-Kirwaan, smiling full, showing off his delightfully aligned, sparkling white teeth that Fran was all too aware was the surest sign that this man had grown up with money or at least a very good dentist.
She smiled without showing her own teeth that desperately needed a round of Invisalign to make up for her parents scoffing at the need for braces when she was that awkward teenager back in Phoenix. No braces had seemed like a wonderful thing to Fran at the time—indeed, she certainly flashed the metal-free smile at the boys . . . for a while, at least—until she realized that you needed to be careful how you smile at a boy, because . . .
“The second universal language,” she asked without thinking. “So what’s the first universal language?”
The man just stayed quiet, his eyes narrowing for a moment, full lips slightly upturned in a sly, mischievous smile that made Fran feel like she didn’t want him to answer because she wouldn’t be able to hold the eye contact without revealing how uncharacteristically tense she was around him, how her body was off and running on its own, no longer in her control, it seemed.
“Where are you from?” she asked, shifting on her feet, smiling without realizing it.
“The desert,” the man said, straightening his back and taking a deep breath and looking over towards those green hills with a playfully wistful expression. “That way,” he said pointing towards the hidden horizon beyond those hills, perhaps pointing at the white clouds floating above the green mounds.
“That’s east,” said Fran, nodding as she turned and then pointed southwest. “And my desert is thataway.”
Zaal’s eyes widened for a moment. “You are a desert creature too? Death Valley?”
Fran laughed. “Do I look that evil?” Or dead, she thought.
“There is no such thing as evil,” said Zaal, green eyes narrowing for a moment before he blinked and looked back at her. “And if there were, you would be the farthest thing from it. Anyone who cares for animals has not a blemish upon them, in my opinion.”
Fran blinked and bit her lip, cocking her head to one side as she wondered if she had blacked out and had a conversation with this man earlier, a conversation where she told him things about herself.
“The stickers on your car,” he said. “I bwake for dwucks. Dogs are people too. And my favorite: My other ride is a camel.”
Fran laughed, tossing her head back and running her fingers through her open hair as the warm summer breeze swirled around her bare neck, tickling those tiny hairs, teasing its way down the back of her shapeless red t-shirt, little eddies of summer air swirling and curling against her bare skin, fingers of the wind against the curve of her lower back, her smooth round belly, her breasts that were feeling awfully tight in that bra suddenly. “I don’t even remember when I got that camel one,” she said through the smile as she felt color rush to her face, warmth flow through her body. “I think maybe someone slapped it on my car.”
“Ah, you do not like camels?”
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever met a camel.”
“Not even in a zoo?”
Fran’s jaw tightened. “I don’t go to zoos. Why, do you go to prisons to see the people in cages?”
Zaal’s green eyes darkened for a moment, but his smile stayed full and unflinching. “You do not need to go to a prison to see people in cages,” he said quietly, his voice low and deep, strangely at odds with the controlled smile on his handsome brown face. But those eyes, those green eyes, they spoke to Fran in a way that felt like direct communication to her body, bypassing her brain and its barricades, slipping right past her defenses, circumventing her traps, the tricks of her clamped-down mind. “Half the people you pass on the street are living in cages, cages made from the belief systems that have trapped them, prejudices and fears that have boxed them into lives not unlike those of animals who are forced to pace back and
forth in cages the size of my shoe closet.”
“You have a shoe closet?” Fran blurted out even as his words struck her at that same, deeply unconscious level, like that look in his eyes had forded a path into her fortress and his words were following along that secret pathway, slipping into her subconscious even as her brain tried desperately to close that leak, to stop what was starting, what had already started.
“There is nothing more important than a good pair of shoes,” Zaal said, taking a step closer, his voice dropping to a deep murmur, soft and comforting, warm and captivating, like it was drawing her in. “And I have always believed that when you find that one perfect pair of shoes, then you must immediately get three hundred more pairs made.”
Fran laughed as he took another step towards her, and now she took a step towards him, and she was smiling hard, that warmth flowing so free inside her, her hair feeling alive and wild, her body feeling carefree and open, joyful and pure, her nipples feeling stiff and tight as the air got under her bra-cups. “Only three hundred pairs?” she said. “Why not just go all the way and get one pair for each day of the year?”
“I did. There are only three hundred days in the calendar of Kirwaan. I ordered the calendar be changed to make the mathematics easier,” Zaal said, and he was so close she could smell him now, a deep, clean, masculine musk that hinted of eucalyptus oil and walnut bark, the spice of tobacco leaf cutting through in a subtle, almost exhilarating way. Fran had never smelled anything like it. Was his cologne custom-made too, like those three hundred pairs of shoes he “had gotten made?” Was this man himself custom made, designed by some magical creatures who lived in the eastern clouds towards which he had pointed, heavenly artisans who had crafted this mystical desert beast with the green eyes that so effortlessly penetrated her, the deep voice that so profoundly affected her, the sheer physical presence that had made her want to run at first but was now drawing her to take another step towards him.
Of course, Fran couldn’t take another step, because she was almost right up against his chest, and in fact she had to look up just to see his face! God, he was tall! And broad! And thick! And . . .
“Speaking of mathematics,” she said quickly, taking a step back and swallowing. “How much do I owe you?”
“For what?” he said.
“Um, for taking care of that Subaru owner that I just t-boned with my Toyota?”
“It was my fault and you do not owe me anything,” said Zaal. He stepped back and leaned over and glanced at the back of her car. “In fact there is some minor damage to your car as well, and I must pay you for that. So—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It was totally my fault! I was driving, and it was my fault. Now tell me how much you gave her, and although I’m pretty sure you overpaid, I’m going to pay you back as soon as I get my checkbook from my bag.”
“I disagree, and I will not accept any payment,” said Zaal, folding his arms over his broad chest and looking down at her with a half smile like he was almost amused, like he had already decided what was going to happen in this situation and was simply waiting for Fran to accept his decision. “I scared you, and—”
“You certainly did not scare me!” Fran said, frowning hard and now crossing her arms over her body, under her breasts, pushing her boobs up without realizing she was doing it until she caught him glance at her chest and then quickly back into her eyes.
And that briefest of glances made something shift inside Fran, and now that arousal surged back in with such force she almost gasped in surprise, surprise at how her body was reacting to this man who had clearly just looked at the swell of her breasts in that oversized red t-shirt, its thin cotton unable to hide the outline of her bra, the contours of her curves. She wanted to feel the disgust she usually felt at an uninvited look from a stranger, but what she felt was this warmth, this excitement, this feeling of freshness, of innocent play, of delightful mischief, a lightness in a part of her that had been dark and heavy for so long.
“Good,” he was saying when she lost the frown and glanced back into those green eyes that were dancing with mischief now, the same playfulness that was making her feel like little Frannie again, like fifteen-year-old Frannie, before that night ever happened, when she still smiled full, danced with abandon, laughed without a care, when guilt was just something you felt after eating an extra cookie, when shame was still just a word and not a way of life. “Because it was not my intention to scare you but to charm you.”
“Sorry, what?” Fran said, blinking as she stared up at this tall man who had walked out of a cloud and seemed about to . . . what, ask her out? Her? In this denim skirt that showed off her cellulite and was riding up in a way that made her ass look like two pumpkins, this awful, oversized red t-shirt that looked like she had stolen a wind-sock from the local airport? “Charm what now?” she said, the words coming out in a harsh whisper.
And this tall, handsome desert creature just tilted his head back and laughed, now stepping forward and taking her hand in his, looking deep into her eyes as his face eased into a warm smile, green eyes narrowing into focus, a focus that was trained on her, activating something in her, something that was exhilarating one moment and goddamn terrifying the next.
He was saying something, she thought, because certainly his lips were moving and surely that was his voice she could hear. But for the life of her Fran couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t understand the syllables, couldn’t comprehend the sentences, and things were spinning around, too many things, and she felt sick for a moment, like she couldn’t breathe, like something inside her was choking her, pulling her back, overruling what her dumb, stupid body wanted her to do.
And now that sharp, cold, calculating part of her brain, that center of logic and order, that keeper of the key, holder of the reins, owner of the chains . . . it butted in and put the words in her mouth, words that she didn’t know she was saying until she heard herself speak.
“I’m sorry, but I’m married,” she heard herself say, pulling her hand away from his and turning back to her car even as the most awful sinking feeling rushed into her, like she was turning away from something she shouldn’t be turning from. And yes, it was the broken, damaged woman inside that was making her turn away just like it had made her turn away from so many in the past, and yes, she knew that about herself and she accepted that about herself and she always said that someday it would change and even if it didn’t it was OK, it was all right, it was a part of her and perhaps it was all of her.
But then she wondered if this sickness she felt now, this wrenching pit in her stomach, this choking, stifling sickness . . . perhaps it didn’t come from the part of her that was broken but the other part, the part of her that was still innocent, still optimistic, still untouched, a part of her that was fighting for her happily-ever-after, that was begging Fran to turn around and face this man because hell, everyone needs an ally in battle, especially in that battle that goes on inside, takes place within, that battle for freedom, freedom from those cages of the mind, the fortresses of memory, the chains of the past.
But Fran couldn’t turn, she just couldn’t turn, and then she realized she didn’t need to turn, because he was there now, and he reached out and touched her arm, gently and carefully, the touch so subtle but somehow carrying all the power of the universe, a touch that was making her turn, that was turning her body, turning her mind, turning her inside out, upside down, turning the world itself perhaps . . .
“So bring him,” he said through the twisting, turning summer breeze that was making Fran unsure if she was still here or not, if he was still there or not, if either of them had ever been here, if either of them had ever been elsewhere, if there even was some other place that existed besides the here and the now, the moment and the motion, the man and the woman.
“What?” she mumbled, her own voice sounding like the breeze now. “Sorry, what?”
“Your husband. Bring him.”
“Where?”
“
Dinner. At my house. I am still decorating, but there is enough furniture for three. My kitchen is not ready yet, and so I will order in food, of course, and—”
“I’m sorry,” she said, that sinking feeling winning out and pulling her back into those depths as Fran backed away against her car and opened the door and clumsily slipped into the front seat. “Thank you very much for what you did back there. It was very nice meeting you, and—”
“Why?” he said, his voice calm and pleasant, not the least bit of sharpness, not a hint of confrontation, like he was asking a serious question.
“Why what?” she said putting her hands on the steering wheel and blinking at him through the open window.
“Why are you sorry?”
“Well . . . I . . . um,” she started to say, frowning as she turned from him and looked at her white hands clamped tight around the black steering wheel.
“You are sorry that you cannot join me for dinner? You are sorry that your husband would not approve of you being invited by a strange man to his house for dinner, even if the invitation includes your husband—which it most certainly does?” Zaal’s green eyes seemed to be dancing in time with the swaying evergreens that lined the edge of the sunlit wood beyond the strip mall, and his voice was still calm and playful, teasing but respectful, facetious but at the same time dead serious.
“Um, how many women’s husbands are in fact comfortable with their wives being asked to dinner at a strange man’s house?” she asked, willing herself to stop clutching the steering wheel so damned tight and just chill for a moment.
“I am not a man who kisses and tells,” he said now, leaning on the car window and bringing his face close, so close she could smell his unique aroma again, feel his physical presence tugging at something inside her, loosening up knots, opening up channels, knocking down walls perhaps . . .
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 4
