“I am here on behalf of my brother,” said the man, still smiling as he folded his arms over his broad chest and looked her up and down, his eyes shamelessly taking in the contours of her body once again, making it clear that this was a man who didn’t apologize to people, a man who looked where he wanted, perhaps did what he wanted. “He is gullible and easy to deceive, and—”
“Oh, perfect!” Hilda said loudly, raising her arms and smiling, now turning and hurrying back to her desk, to the long, somewhat unstable shelf against the dark red wall. She pulled an incredibly large, thick paper envelope from the middle shelf. “That’ll save me the trouble of mailing this out to Mr. Alim! I don’t use FedEx or UPS as a matter of principle, and for some reason we’ve had so much trouble with the mails. Here you go.”
She confidently handed the envelope to the man, smiling and holding eye contact as she watched his expression change. Surprise in his eyes. Now he was thinking. Finally a glimmer of something, like he had figured out exactly what Hilda had done, what she was doing, how she was playing this con-game like a goddamn pro.
Because I am a goddamn pro, she reminded herself as she thought back to how she always had an unnecessarily complex, hand-drawn star-chart ready to go for every customer she scammed, just in case something like this happened. It had never happened before, because usually she only charged ninety-nine dollars and she was careful to pick folks who would just say screw it and let the hundred bucks go or even just forget about it when she pulled the oh-it-was-lost-in-the-mail bit. Of course, she’d never caught a fifteen-thousand-dollar fish like Alim before, and never pushed it to three rounds either, and so she’d been extra careful to make his bullshit-ass chart look good enough to earn a place in the Swindler’s Museum of Fine Scams.
The man’s green eyes twinkled as he took the envelope from Hilda, and he held the gaze as he tore it open and pulled out the chart. Slowly he glanced down at the hand-drawn nonsense, with star-maps and correspondence-numbers intricately put together in what Hilda knew was an indecipherable masterpiece. The man took a long look at the chart before shaking his head in wonder and looking back into her eyes.
“Ya Allah,” he muttered, and she saw him flinch, like she had actually gotten to him in a way that surprised both of them. “By God, you are good, yes? Damn good.”
“The best,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes and holding his gaze, feeling a strange sense of familiarity, perhaps an unspoken recognition between one con-artist and another. “That’ll be five thousand dollars, please. I take American Express.”
3
The Sheikh couldn’t stop smiling as he placed his heavy leather wallet on the dresser of his bedroom in the Presidential Suite of the Albuquerque Hilton. He flipped it open and stared at the American Express card, his grin widening as he pushed the wallet away and clapped his hands once, shaking his head as he thought of that curious, curvy, devilishly smart woman who he was certain could give any fast-talking gypsy a run for their money.
Ya Allah, she got me, did she not, Rahaan thought as he undressed and headed for the shower, his smile still wide as the hot steam rose up around him, enveloping him in white mist, adding to the surreal, mystical sense that had enveloped his goddamn brain all day.
The meeting with the CEO seemed faraway and meaningless to the Sheikh as the warm water ran down his hard, naked body. Usually a deal like the one he had just made would have gotten him wired and focused, giving him that feeling of power, of being a titan in his chosen field, a goddamn winner! But all of it barely registered, and all he could think of was that curvaceous, bodacious, vivacious fake-gypsy woman in her harem-pants and that tight black top that highlighted the swell of her bosom in a way that made him weak.
Was I staring, he wondered as he felt himself get hard almost immediately at the vividness of the memory. Usually Rahaan didn’t stare—indeed, he’d always considered it a sign of weakness to stare at a woman’s assets like a depraved, sex-starved animal. But by Allah, he did feel like a depraved animal right now!
For a moment he wondered if he should go back there, to the woman’s store. He could charm that curvy little con-artist back to his hotel room, couldn’t he? She may have had dollar signs in her eyes when she saw him, but there was most certainly attraction in those baby-browns of hers as well.
So why did you not charm her when you had her right in front of you, great Sheikh, he wondered as he reached for a thick white towel and walked to his bed, water rolling in heavy beads down his broad back, his cock bouncing gently as he took a breath and glanced down at his thick, filled-out shaft, reminding himself that it was also a sign of weakness for a man to pleasure himself like a pubescent little boy. A man takes his pleasure from a woman, not his own hand, and there were plenty of women on the menu back in New York City. Women who knew the rules. Women who knew his rules.
Still, it would be fun to have that curvy little cutie between his sheets, would it not? Certainly she would not be at the store at this time of the evening, but he could easily get her home address.
And then what, you fool, he asked himself as he glanced once more at his erection and then shook his head and got into bed. You will show up at this woman’s house with a smile and a hard-on? It is too late, dear Rahaan. You should have pulled out the charm when you had the chance. But she turned the tables on you, surprised you with the level of her game, and now you are five-thousand dollars lighter, and stuck in New Mexico with heavy balls and no goddamn release.
I could stroll down to the hotel bar and be back here in twenty minutes with some businesswoman with a toned ass and perky boobs, the Sheikh thought as both he and his cock stared up at the ceiling. Or maybe one of those young New-Age types who had overrun the hotel, with their blue beads and blonde dreadlocks and no bras. It would not even take twenty minutes, he thought as he imagined one of those modern flower-children bouncing on his mighty cock.
But for some reason the thought made the Sheikh feel sick inside, the feeling confusing him as he furrowed his brow and tried to interpret its source. Now again that overwhelming, dreamlike sensation came back to him, that cloudy feeling that had him moving trancelike all day, the only clear memory being that of Hilda Hogarth in her harem-pants, her pretty round face so clear in his mind . . . those light red lips all full and clean, big brown eyes exuding both innocence and intelligence, sharpness and softness, fierceness and . . . familiarity?
His frown deepened as he turned off the light and lay there in the darkness, that dreamlike cloud descending on him as the leftover steam lazily drifted around the room. It occurred to him now that the feeling inside was something resembling . . . resembling guilt of all things! Like the thought of walking down and bringing up some unknown woman to share his bed would be somehow wrong! Ya Allah, perhaps it had been too long since he had breathed some clean desert air! The smog of the city had clogged his brain as well as his lungs! Since when was Sheikh Rahaan concerned about the moral implications of consensual sex with a stranger?!
He pushed away the image of Hilda that seemed to be getting even clearer as his confusion deepened, and he tried his best to ignore that rising sense of familiarity, that he had seen her before, looked into her baby browns before . . . before this day, before this time, before this . . . life?
4
Hilda grunted as she pulled out the cork and tried to read the label on the bottle. She could make out the logo, but the text looked blurry. Shit, she thought as she looked over at the two empty bottles on the counter near the sink. Was she already at the “Shut one eye to see straight” phase?
Screw it, she thought as she poured herself a glass and sat back in the wooden chair. She grinned like a madwoman when she realized she was sitting at her kitchen table, hair all mussed, drunk off her ass on red wine, a chubby, annoyingly smug cat staring at her.
“Yup,” she said to Sabbath, taking a sip and shrugging. “I’m now that woman. Who woulda thu
nk? At least I don’t smoke cigarettes!”
She had smoked cigarettes through most of her twenties, of course. Then when thirty came around, she got this crazy idea that maybe she was going to be a mom in the not-so-distant future, and she needed to quit so she’d be ready.
“Talk about putting the cart before the horse,” she muttered out loud as she drained her glass and hastily poured another. “Putting the baby before the bathwater. Or somethin’ like that.”
God, that guy was hot, wasn’t he, she thought as the image of him rolled through her mind. I’d totally have been up for it if he’d made a move. Maybe. I dunno. Yeah. No. Whatever. Doesn’t matter whether I would’ve or not, because he’s gone.
Gone without making a move, even though he’d absolutely checked out her boobs. Should she have been a bit more open? More inviting? Would that have sent things down a different path? Maybe she’d be in a ballroom gown right now, footmen and butlers quietly standing against the walls of her dream-date as she danced the night away with this mysterious man.
“He’d swing me, dip me, twirl me!” she cried, rising and stepping away from the table, loping left and then right, wine sloshing in her glass as she smiled at the fantasy. “Then he’d whisk me away to his carriage and we’d ride through the night, the horses trotting in perfect rhythm as he kisses me in the privacy of the backseat, grabs my boobs like he can’t stop himself!”
“Of course,” Hilda said, her expression going stern as she pointed right at Sabbath, who seemed only mildly impressed. “I’d stop him right there! No more, Mister Man! I’m not that sort of woman! And who do you think you are, anyway?”
She hiccuped and cocked her head as it occurred to her that she didn’t even know the guy’s name, and here she was fantasizing about . . . wait, what was she fantasizing about? What the hell was this lame-ass, old-fashioned fantasy that made her feel like she was in a different place, a different time, a different . . . life?
The fantasy kept building, and as she drained the last of the wine and collapsed into bed, Hilda Hogarth felt herself slip closer to that different place, that different time, that different life.
Only it didn’t seem like a different life, came the thought as the man kissed her again in her dream, smiling down at her as he spoke through the mists of her fantasy.
“Did you know that I am a king?” said he, leaning close as those horses cantered through the night. “I am a king and you are my queen, Lady Hogarth.”
“I thought you were not yet king. And so how am I your queen?” Hilda replied, and she was in that half-asleep half-awake stupor, not sure if she was talking aloud or if it was all dream.
Dream or not, he kissed her again, and she swore she felt the kiss, warm and wonderful, raw and real.
“I have always been a king,” he said as the dream sucked her in whole, pulling her down to that place where reality and fantasy are one, where everything is real in the same way nothing is real. “And you have always been my queen.”
5
HIS DREAM
“You have always been my queen,” said the Sheikh in his dream, and he smiled down at her as he kissed her again.
Her lips tasted like strawberries. Her tongue felt sweet and warm. Her skin was smooth like cream, like untouched snowfall. In her big brown eyes he saw himself, the reflection clear and unwavering, just like the love he felt for her in that dream.
“Kiss me, my king,” she said to him. “If I am your queen, then kiss me like a queen. Kiss me like a king kisses his queen.”
Rahaan felt himself smile in his dream, and Hilda smiled with him, her face lighting up like the sun as he leaned in and kissed her gently, carefully, every sense focused on her, on how it felt to hold her, kiss her, touch her, love her.
“I love you,” he said to her, feeling his heat rise as he undid her bodice and caught a glimpse of her cleavage. “Oh, God, I love you.”
“Is that what you say to every lady you bring in your carriage?” she said, her breath catching as he undid her all her way and touched her naked breast, pinching her plump red nipple until it stiffened between his strong fingers. He grasped her other nipple as he descended on her, taking her right breast into his mouth, sucking hard on the pert nub as Hilda squealed in surprise.
“I have never said it to anyone,” the Sheikh growled as he looked up briefly into her eyes. “This is the first time. You are the first time. The first woman. The first love. The only love.”
She gasped as he ripped through the last threads of her bodice, and he was on her now, kissing her breasts, sucking her nipples, his hands working their way around her smooth stomach, her lower back, into her skirts, grabbing fistfuls of her buttocks, pushing her onto her back as the carriage rollicked down the country roads of that dream.
“The only love,” she moaned as he pulled her knickers down past her knees, grunting as he pulled off her boots so he could get her underwear all the way off. “That sounds nice. Though I swear you’ve said that before to someone.”
“I have indeed said it before,” said the Sheikh as he pushed the lady’s skirts up over her wide hips and looked into her eyes. “I have said it before to you. Many times. Again and again.”
6
HER DREAM
“Again,” Hilda said to the young man in her dream. “Oh, do that again.”
He kissed her again and she giggled, moving her little round bottom against the hard old mattress they had found in the attic. It smelled old and musty up here, but it felt clean. All of it felt clean. Even though she knew what she was doing was dirty. So dirty.
“If Pa hears you he’ll be up here with his shotgun so fast we ain’t gonna have time to—” she began to say as she felt him touch her small breasts through her thick nightclothes, the oversized shirt which was a hand-me-down through four sisters. His hands caressed her sides, her hips, her thighs, strong fingers that she could feel through the long-johns that were thankfully new but felt awfully wet right there, like she’d peed herself or something—though she knew she hadn’t. She was too old for that.
“Then we’d better get on with it, yea?” said he, grinning wide as he found the buttons to the front of her nightshirt and began to feverishly undo them.
“Oh, you are horrible,” she giggled. “You promise you’ll marry me, yes?” she said as she felt the cool air swirl around her bare chest as her young lover took her shirt off and gasped at the sight of her breasts, little pink nipples all stiff and ready . . . ready like she was, ready to do something she knew was wrong but somehow didn’t feel wrong. Not with him. Him.
He looked down at her, his green eyes shining in the dim moonlight coming in through the tiny attic window. “We’re already married. I told ya. We don’t need no minister or judge to say it’s true. Didn’t I ask you to marry me three months ago, when we was picking strawberries and we saw that rainbow even though there weren’t no rain?”
“Yes,” she whispered as she looked up at him. He was only three years older, but he looked like a man in the dim light of the secret night. His black hair was thick and wild, those green eyes shining something fierce. There was no lie in those eyes. There was no betrayal in that voice. There was no doubt in the moment. “Yes,” she said again.
“And if your Pa don’t like it, then we’ll run away together. I told ya. I ain’t gonna live without you. You’re my wife now. Nobody can say you aren’t!”
She felt a warmth rise up in her as he kissed her breasts, gently sucking her nipples in a way that made her want to squeal in pleasure. But she held her tongue because she knew the walls were thin. She held her tongue and bit down on her lip as she felt him pull her long johns down past her bottom, all the way off, and she could smell herself now as he touched her down there, carefully, gently, like he truly did love her, like he truly was married to her. This was what married people did, yea? And so there was no reason to feel guilty. She c
ould enjoy it, couldn’t she?
“Tell me again how you’re going to be a king and I’m gonna be your queen,” she whispered as she felt him touch her there with his fingers like he had done before, sending her into that half-dream state where she truly was a queen and not a farmer’s daughter, where he was a king and not a tailor’s son.
“I already am a king,” he said to her in the darkness, his voice sounding deeper, older, different. “And you already are my queen. The rest of the world just don’t know it yet.”
7
HIS DREAM
“The rest of the world does not need to know,” she said to the Sheikh through the mist of the dream. “We can wait until—”
“We will keep it secret until the child is born, but then the world will know it. I will make damned sure the world knows it!”
“A child out of wedlock,” she said, her big brown eyes looking up at him, like they were searching him for something. “On top of what we are already doing. There will be no righting this! Your father would—”
“It is not my father’s life. And it is not my father’s child. It is my child! Our child.” He smiled down at her, marveling at how beautiful she looked even though they’d been riding for days, through rain and sun, dust and wind. It was the two of them, the prince and his commoner-bride, with a small group of loyal servants, setting out on a self-imposed exile, a choice that seemed mad on the face of it but had been so easy to make. Indeed, it felt like he had made the choice before, would perhaps make it again: The choice to put his woman and child before anything else, before everything else.
A week ago he had met his arranged bride for the first time, the golden-haired Princess Diamante, the only royal child of a small but powerful kingdom in the foothills of the Pyrenees mountains. The girl was sharp and ambitious, beautiful and gracious, and would certainly make any prince proud. Any prince but him.
Stars for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 8) Page 3
