Stars for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 8)

by Annabelle Winters

  Most importantly, what was to become of the one who was most innocent but yet irrevocably stamped with the mark of sin? What was to become of the child? The child of sin born two years ago, born to her, born in secret.

  A secret whose time has come, she thought as the carriage stopped outside the walls of the largest manor in a hamlet just outside of London, this foreign king’s temporary residence in England.

  “Claim the throne,” she said as she watched the footmen step down from the carriage and steady the horses, which seemed a bit nervous, like they could pick up the tension in the air. “But are you not of royal blood? Does that not make the throne your right?”

  He smiled as he glanced at his gold pocket watch and then up into her eyes. “In my homeland birthright is not enough to claim the throne, my lady. A bloodline is not enough. Sometimes it takes blood as well.”

  She paused and looked out the small window of their gold-trimmed wooden carriage. The men were still working on the horses as the manor staff lined up outside and awaited their new master and his lady. She scanned the faces of the staff, squinting to see clearly in the fading light of the day. For a moment she thought she might be safe: there was no one who might recognize her. But then she saw a thick, matronly woman, second-from-last in the line, and she knew she was done for.

  She turned back to the Sheikh. Yes, I schemed my way into this carriage, back into his arms. But it started when I saw him at the Wildemeres’s Spring Gala, to which I had no invitation! What possessed me to put on my gown and waltz in through the front door, I will never know. But there he was. What a miracle! If that is not fate, then strike me dead, she thought with an inward smile, looking up at his handsome, dark features, the bold line of his jaw, the sharp peak of his nose. She could see the resemblance, and she was certain anyone who’d seen her child would see it too. Dark hair, high cheekbones, green eyes set against olive skin. How could there be any doubt?

  Three years it had been. Three years since she’d run back to her village before she began to show. She had the child in secret, her sisters helping her through the birth. She stayed home for almost a year, rarely venturing outside the small grounds of their modest family home, her sisters hiding her and the child as well as they could. But she couldn’t stay there forever. Sooner or later the townsfolk would find out, and then she’d be branded a whore, the child labeled a bastard. No, she needed to run, for the child’s sake. She needed a new life. A new story.

  “My late sister’s child,” she told the head-of-staff at her first job in over a year. She’d been unable to find work in London proper, finally taking a position at a manor in a small hamlet outside of London. “She died of the pox, and the child is my charge now.”

  People talked, but the story held, as did her honor and reputation, and a year later she was married to a sweet man of good class and moderate wealth, owner of a modest country estate outside of London. She’d left her job in the hamlet and married him, taking her child and her story with her. The wedding was small and beautiful, and she cried when he kissed her at the altar—tears more of guilt than joy, though certainly she had no doubt what she was doing was best for her and the child. She hoped she might love this man in time, even though the deepest part of her belonged to that mysterious guest of her former employer, that tall, muscular, well-spoken stranger who looked like a pirate but talked like a king, who invited her into his chambers, asked about her life, told her about his land, made her smile, made her laugh, made her blush, made her blink. Soon his deep, exotic voice pulled her in, and before she knew it he was touching her, making her hot, making her wet, making her shiver, making her sigh . . . making her his.

  His.

  34

  “You are mine, Hilda,” he whispered as he kissed her neck, his strong hands sliding down along her sides, running down the curves of her hips, fingers pressing into her buttocks as he clawed at the thin cloth of her long, flowing skirt.

  She could feel her skirt rising up as he kissed her, and she blinked when she realized she was back in her store. Oh, God, she thought as she recalled the flashes of imagery that had flooded her mind just now. Did I pass out? Was I dreaming? How could I have been awake and still transported in a way that seemed so real?

  She breathed deep of his smell as she kissed him back, that now-familiar smell of tobacco leaf and dark sage. Yes, this was the real world, wasn’t it? She was in her store, in New Mexico. She was here, with him, up against the red wall, his hands already sliding beneath her skirt, his hardness already pressing against her front. Her body felt loose and open, warm and secure, light and free. But she could feel her mind screaming stop, her common sense shouting cease, her intelligence whispering wait. She could feel the fight between body and mind, sense the struggle between dream and reality, taste the conflict between yes and no.

  “Rahaan,” she whispered as she felt her skirt rise up over her rear, his fingers pulling at the tight waistband of her panties. “Rahaan, please, I . . . I can’t right now. I mean, I want to, but I can’t. I’m too turned around, Rahaan. I need to step back and—”

  “No,” he growled. “This is the way, Hilda. It is the only way.”

  “The only way to what?” she said, turning her head as he tried to kiss her again. “Rahaan, please. Please!”

  He pulled back and looked at her, his body still pressed against hers, hands still on her bottoms, inside her panties, holding her firm. He was hard and hot, she could tell. But he held back, stopping but not retreating. “The only way to find our way out of this without going mad, Hilda,” he said. “Di is correct—there is something in those three dreams that has a hold on you, that is the center of this, that has an emotional depth so powerful that it is pulling all of us through time, through space, merging those past and parallel lives into the present. But for some reason the emotional power is concentrated most in you, Hilda. All three of us have experienced physical changes, but not like you. I mean, by Allah, Hilda, you have . . . you are . . .” He paused, momentary disbelief passing through his eyes as he swallowed hard and took a breath, like he himself was fighting to not lose his mind over what was happening. “You are pregnant, are you not? And it happened after we first met, after we had the first dream, before we ever touched each other, yes? And it is not some other man’s child, is it? You believe it is my child, do you not? It is my child, is it not? Impossible or not, it is my child! Answer me, Hilda.”

  She took a breath, a shiver going through her body when she realized she’d never said it to anyone yet, had held it inside for two months, perhaps even denied it—just like Di had said, like how people try to ignore and deny even the most glaring, inexplicable changes in their cozy, private worlds.

  “Yes,” she said finally, and as she said it she felt a crushing relief, a soaring release, a staggering sensation of something falling into place. She looked into his eyes, those hard green eyes that seemed to say he was with her, that it was him, the same one, the first one, the only one. “Yes, Rahaan,” she whispered as the tears rolled. “Yes.”

  He swallowed hard, making visible effort to keep his voice steady as he nodded. “And so there is something about this child, something about our child. Yours and mine. Ours together.”

  And she saw the same relief flash in his eyes, the same release rip through him, and he smiled as he said it, bringing forth a smile of her own. Oh, God, something has changed again, she thought as he kissed her gently through their shared joy, a joy that seemed so pure and innocent, light and perfect, simple and direct.

  Perhaps because we both said it aloud, she thought as she felt the room swirl around her slowly, pleasantly, lovingly. Perhaps just admitting that the impossible has occurred, that I’m somehow two months pregnant with his child even though our first kiss was just last week, has triggered something. Perhaps that sensible, reasonable, rational part of our brains has just given up, said to hell with logic and reason and stepped away
, clearing the path for our emotions to lead the way, lead us out of this maze.

  “I know it’s impossible,” she said, touching his face. “But I also know it’s real. Now that I heard myself say it, now that I heard you say it . . . God, Rahaan, what’s happening to us?”

  “I do not know, Hilda,” he said. “But the answer is out there, in those dreams, those parallel worlds, past lives . . . whatever in Allah’s name you want to call it. And I think you are the only one who can reach for that answer. I think you are the center of this. You and our child.”

  “What about you? If it’s our child then you’re at the center of it too,” she said.

  “Yes. Of course it is our child, and of course I am in it with you, all the way, to death and beyond,” he said firmly. “But do you see what I mean?”

  “No,” she said stubbornly, even though her intuition tugged at the corners of her consciousness, like it had something to say, something about a gift, a gift she’d always denied, just like she’d tried to deny this child.

  “Just now,” the Sheikh said, gently kissing her cheek, moving closer to her warm lips. “Just now, when I was kissing you, when I had you against the wall and the animal in me was bringing out the huntress in you . . . yes, just now, Hilda, your eyes were closed and your eyelids were moving rapidly, like you were dreaming while still awake, lost to the world but still kissing me back, your fingernails digging into my neck, pulling at my hair with a wildness I did not know you had.”

  Hilda blinked and tried to look away from his strong gaze, but he was too close, his lips already murmuring at hers, sending tingles of raw heat through her body as she felt his fingers squeeze her bottoms beneath her panties.

  “Where were you when I was on you like this not ten minutes ago?” he whispered, slowly rolling her panties down over the rounds of her ass. “You were lost, far away from here, with me but somehow also someplace else.”

  “I . . .” she muttered as she felt her panties move down to mid-thigh as his hands spread her buttcheeks, thick thumbs parting her rear globes as he got hard against her front. “I don’t . . . I don’t know, Rahaan. I’m not—”

  “You do know,” he growled as he pushed his hand between her legs from the front, thumb resting on her clit, two long fingers poised lengthwise along her slit, slowly teasing her open as he warmed her with his clean breath against her trembling lips. “You were back there, were you not? Back in those lives, those worlds, those times, those places. Answer me.”

  “Yes,” she muttered as she felt his fingers curl and slowly enter her hot opening. “Oh, God, yes, Rahaan. I was, and—”

  “I was lost in the moment too,” he whispered as he slowly traced his fingertips around the entry to her slit, bringing forth a wetness that was making her shudder in his arms. “But I was lost in you, Hilda, not my own mind. I could not see those dreams, those images, those lives. I could see only you. Which means I was right. I can take you there and I can bring you back, but I cannot go with you. I do not have the gift you do. I may have hints of it: my childhood dream of the explosion was real, I know, just like the visions I shared with you two months ago. But my intuition tells me that my consciousness only opened up enough to lead me to you, so I could bring us both here, so I could make it clear that I am the one, the only one. You were my destination, Hilda. And I have arrived. I am here. Here to be the foundation on which you must stand to access the full power of your gift.”

  Her arousal was so strong Hilda wasn’t sure if he was speaking out loud or if it was all in her head, and she gaped at him as she felt him stroke her beneath her skirt. Her gift? What . . . how . . .

  “There is a photograph on your shelf,” he whispered. “Black and white and faded, a boy telling fortunes on the streets of an old city. And now here you are, a woman telling fortunes, seeing the future, reading the past. Perhaps your choice of profession seemed like coincidence before, but does it have meaning now? Does it make you believe now?”

  She shuddered as he kissed her neck. “Believe what, Rahaan. God, I’m so lost . . . so . . .”

  “Believe in yourself, Hilda,” he whispered. “That you have something, a gift that can bring us the clarity we need. You have to go back there, into the depths of your consciousness, find out how those stories end, find out why the ripples through time are so strong, so powerful, so meaningful. Perhaps we need to do this to make sure those stories do have an ending! Perhaps the resolution to all these stories can only happen in this world! In this life!”

  She moaned as she felt her arousal soar to heights unimaginable, now sink to depths that took her breath, and she could see her own subconscious, a goddess with no eyes, like it was Hilda who needed to give that goddess the gift of sight, Hilda who needed to be the one to see, see herself, her entire self, gifted and glorious, a goddess in her own right, the goddess of second sight.

  But I also need the strength and power of my god to get all the way there, she realized. Only he can get me to those heights where my eyes will open and that goddess inside will see across the realm of my consciousness, the map of my soul, the landscape of time.

  “OK,” she muttered, nodding as he kissed her neck again, feeling herself slip into that waking dream, fear and excitement mixing with the arousal, creating an intoxication that was spiraling her upwards as her man, her king, her lover, her god slowly prepared her secret space. “Take me there. Take me there and bring me back, Rahaan. Take me there.”

  35

  “Take me!” Di screamed, jumping him before he even had a chance to look up from his laptop. “Fuck me, Norm! Goddammit, fuck me!”

  Di had stripped topless before she even entered the hotel room, flinging her top and bra down the carpeted hallway, kicking off her shoes at the door, ripping off her jeans and panties as she stumbled towards the bewildered Norm, who was sitting on the bed, squinting at his computer.

  “Di? What the . . . Jesus, Di! What’s going on? Did you just take your clothes off in the hallway? Did anyone see—”

  “Shut up and fuck me!” she howled, slapping him across the face so hard he would have rolled off the bed if Di wasn’t straddling him with her strong legs, unbuckling him with her left hand as she pushed three fingers of her right hand into his surprised mouth.

  It had taken every ounce of will for Di to get back to the hotel without losing her mind. Something had exploded in her when she realized Hilda was pregnant, and even though the scientist in her knew what it was, the emotions were too strong to hold back.

  That dream had been clear in her head even as she fought with her thoughts on the way back to the hotel. She could feel the anger in Princess Diamante, powerful and raw, unresolved and malignant, rippling across dimensions as surely as the fire-light of a star burns its way across the black abyss of space. Di had felt it during the dream three days ago, sensed the emotional imprint when she awoke. It was strong then, yes, but she could control it. It had excited her more than scared her then, excited the scientist in her: after all, now she could literally observe herself to test out the hypotheses of the book! What an opportunity! Yes, she knew her own theories warned of the danger, foretold the risks of opening up the consciousness before she might be ready. But she had to open herself further, take the risk, ready or not.

  But now she felt that intoxicating mix of anger and spite, despair and longing, betrayal and humiliation rip through her just as surely as it had torn Princess Diamante apart. And she tried in desperation to fight back that torrent of emotional energy as she remembered her own words from the book:

  . . . the only way to handle emotions of such depth is by reaching an altered state of consciousness . . . people through the ages have been driven to reach for that state with a sometimes uncontrollable desperation, using alcohol, drugs, searching their dreams, inducing hallucinations . . . pursuing transcendent sex . . . even descending into uncontrolled violence when all else falls short . . .<
br />
  Di screamed again as she felt a chasm open up in her psyche, and out of that crevasse peeked the horned twin-heads of sex and violence, fighting each other for primacy in the squirming coil of her mind. She could hear herself sobbing and laughing as Diamante reached across time and pulled her into the abyss, telling her to let go of the person she was pretending to be, coaxing her to come down to that dark cavern with her, that shadowy place where the princess was trapped by her own emotions, where heaven and hell and space and time all danced together in an orgy of sex and violence, birth and death, love and hate, desire and destruction.

  Through her manic haze she saw Norm staring at her with fear in his eyes, the man cowering beneath her like a child, a scared animal, a whimpering dog. He does not deserve you, and you do not deserve him, whispered Diamante. You are a princess and you deserve a king, not a dog. Fate may try again and again to saddle us with a lesser man, but destiny is not written in stone. That is the great secret, the dark princess whispered to Di. That we can fix what is broken, change what is written, claim what is forbidden, take what is denied to us again and again. Take it. Take it. Take it!

  She looked into the face of the man fate kept putting her together with, and she saw the fear and unworthiness in him like it was reflecting back on her, laughing at her like fate had laughed at her, reminding her that she might be a princess but she never gets to be queen. Di sneered at him and called him a coward as she pulled open his pants and looked down in rage, desperate rage when she saw he wasn’t ready for her, wasn’t man enough for her, strong enough for her, king enough for her!

  “Man up, you loser!” she sobbed as she grabbed him and watched him recoil, his body rejecting her, his eyes closed as he cowered before her. “Oh, no you don’t,” she spat out through clenched teeth, a sliver of her madness whispering that his insult could not be forgiven, that this lesser man did not have the right to reject her, did not have the option to falter when the princess demanded his strength, demanded proof that she was indeed a queen.