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

by Annabelle Winters

  The Sheikh nodded as an awful thought passed through Hilda’s mind. God, what if deep down I don’t want them to end as a fairy tale! What if some part of me believes that I don’t deserve the happy ending? What if something inside me feels guilty, unworthy, unsure of myself to the point where I can’t summon up the emotional strength to counter Diamante? Is it right for me to go on? Or do I tell him I’m scared and we need to call this off and get the hell off this oil rig! Oh, shit, I don’t know. I don’t know!

  But then it hit her, and just like that Hilda could feel a blanket of serenity drop down over her. It hit her that this is it, isn’t it? This is where the battle is truly fought: within myself. Parallel worlds, angry princesses, vengeful engineers . . . all of it might as well be illusion, props and backdrop in the grand play. The problem isn’t solved “out there” somewhere. It’s handled in here. In me.

  She pulled him to her as he smiled and pressed his weight upon her. She looked into his eyes and nodded as if to say yes. She opened her mouth and waited for his kiss.

  And it came, swift as the waves upon the silent sea, it came. His kiss. His strength. His faith. His love.

  50

  “But I love him!” screamed the girl from the attic, tearing herself away from her mother and rushing toward the darkness of the wood where the townsfolk had dragged her man, her boy-king, her secret husband.

  “You know nothing about love,” roared her mother, who watched as the women of the town grabbed her daughter and held her firm. “You’re just a silly, sinful, awful girl.”

  “I’m a queen!” she spat, her eyes narrow like twin daggers. “And you’ll all burn for this.”

  “No, you’ll burn for what you’re carrying within ya,” shouted her father. “You’ll burn in hell. You know what, give her to me. Let me take her back there. Let her watch her n*gger pay for her sins. Maybe then—”

  “Don’t call him that. He’s a king!” she shrieked as her father grabbed her hair and arm and dragged her toward the wood. “He said he was!”

  Her father ignored her screams and he pulled her past the line of trees, to where the men would be stringing the boy up already. But when they got to the clearing beneath the hangman’s tree, the noose was empty and the townsmen were gathered around and talking loudly, arguing with each other and an older couple.

  Hilda could feel Rahaan’s kisses in the “real” world, and she could sense his touch starting to give her the power she needed to truly enter this parallel world. She could feel the emotions of this girl, but she still felt like an observer, like she was still in the audience and not yet on the stage.

  “More,” she heard herself whisper as she felt the Sheikh undress her, his strong hands clasping her naked breasts, thick thumbs pressing down on her nipples, causing them to stiffen like a cold breeze had blown upon them. “More,” she groaned as she felt her passion soar, the sense of danger in the little girl’s world mixing with her arousal in an intoxicating blend. “Oh, yes, like that!”

  Now she felt him lift her gown, and she could smell her own arousal along with the freshly crushed twigs and leaves of the forest floor beneath her father’s feet. She could hear her own cries of ecstasy as she listened to the defiant sniffles of the little girl. And then, almost without realizing it, Hilda sensed that those sniffles were coming from within, and just like that she was there, in the scene, no longer an observer but a participant.

  The change almost took her breath away, and the sudden in-rush of the most visceral anger, peaked fear, and heightened awareness of the young pregnant girl was almost too overwhelming to handle.

  She is me, Hilda found herself saying. I need to trust that she is me, and I must let go of Hilda Hogarth for now. Trust that your Sheikh’s strength will sustain you, and go ahead and let go of that world so all your power can awaken in this girl’s world. Step fully into your dream and make her dream come true! Make this little girl’s dream come true!

  And what is her dream, Hilda wondered as she felt the Sheikh melt away into the background even as she felt his skin against her nakedness. What does a poor farmgirl in Middle America dream about?

  “I’m a queen!” squealed the girl once more, but no one gave any notice. They were all focused on the older couple in the middle of the gathering.

  Those are the boy’s parents, Hilda realized as the girl’s words rippled through her consciousness. I’m a queen! I’m a queen! I’m a queen! Of course that’s what a poor farmgirl in Middle America dreams about! How else does an uneducated girl translate her powerlessness into a dream of supreme power? A queen has the power to make everything right, doesn’t she? Doesn’t she?

  Hilda felt a shiver somewhere deep within her, like something was shifting, moving into place, the carousel of time turning, events moving around as the gods and goddesses watched in glee. Hilda watched as the parents of the boy held up a long sheaf of leather-mounted paper. And she watched as the townsfolk listened to the schoolteacher (the only one who could read) speak as he furrowed his brow and scratched his bald-spot and slowly explained what was written.

  “The boy is from the Ojaanawe tribe,” said the schoolteacher as he held up a lantern to the leathery scroll. “His newborn hand-prints are placed in elk’s blood as proof. His name is Dancing Thunder, and he is from the royal line of the vanquished Ojaanawe Indians, a child given to the white man for safekeeping, destined to lead the survivors of the Ojaanawe tribe in the new world of America.”

  There was confused silence as the illiterate townsfolk looked at one another and then at the schoolteacher. “Wha . . . whas that mean?” asked one of them finally, his voice shaking.

  The schoolteacher was quiet for a moment, his pasty face orange and saggy in the lamplight. Then he sighed and looked at the boy’s parents, handing the document back to them before turning to the crowd. “Royal line. It means . . . well, I think . . . I guess . . . yea, I guess it means he’s a king or something. A king.”

  Hilda felt herself merge fully with the little girl, and she felt her heart leap as the townsfolk began to argue again, some of them saying it didn’t matter, that nothing excused what he’d done, that he’d hang for what he’d done and who gave a crap about some Indian tribe. But others shook their heads, doubt in their simple eyes, hesitation in their expressions. Soon the tide appeared to turn, and slowly the townsfolk began to back away as some of the older men decided they’d need to at least talk about things with clearer heads in the morning, that perhaps it was best if they backed off for now, that no one was getting lynched tonight. Certainly not a . . . king?!

  Did I do that? Hilda wondered as she felt the delight and relief in the little girl, sensed her crushing joy in seeing her boy-king released. Did I do that or was it always going to play out that way? Did I change this couple’s timeline? Did I pull them into a new parallel world where somehow this brown-skinned adopted boy was really a king of some kind?

  “I really am a queen,” the little girl whispered, as if only to herself and those that might be listening. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”

  Who knows, Hilda thought as she felt herself drifting away from that world. Who knows if I did anything, if any of this is real, if it’s even a dream or just a fantasy.

  But she did know, and she’d always known, it seemed, Hilda thought as images of the Sheikh began to push their way into her vision as she felt his body against hers again. She allowed herself to bask in the soaring emotions of that little girl one last time, smiling as she felt the girl resolve to leave this town with her king and their child, to start her new family on her terms, to leave her parents who no longer meant anything to her, who were no longer relevant in her timeline, in her life. The girl was a woman now. The girl was a queen now.

  51

  “Am I queen now?” rasped Di as she trampled on a patch of desert ragweed, stomping and spitting as she paced in manic circles. She’d been throwing up
and choking on the bitter peyote for at least an hour now, it seemed, and after an initial period where she was sure she was about to die, she’d found herself spiraling up and up and up and then crashing down and down and down in a maddening roller-coaster of visions and flashes, uncontrollable and indecipherable sights and sounds, smells and signs.

  She had no idea where she was, no clue who she was. There were vague memories of . . . of something . . . something she needed to do, someplace she needed to go.

  “Am I queen now?” she gurgled as bits and pieces joined together in her fractured mind before pulling apart and spinning away. “Am I queen now!?”

  She stumbled beneath the fading evening light of the New Mexico desert, clueless and hoarse, until slowly Di felt something shift within her, like a steadying force had grabbed her hand, helping her see straight, think straight, fight straight.

  You are me, whispered Diamante through the peyote haze as Di gagged and went to her knees, her eyes rolling up in her head as a burst of overwhelming clarity racked her body. Focus with me. Join with me. Come with me. If we get there before she does, we can control our story. We must get there before she does.

  52

  “Did you get there?” the Sheikh was saying when Hilda blinked through what seemed like a hundred different worlds before she found herself back in her king’s strong arms, the two of them naked and warm in bed, the clean salty smell of the ocean rolling in through the portholes of the rig’s royal bedroom.

  “I . . . I think so,” Hilda whispered as she looked up breathless, feeling a smile plastered on her face. The joy of that young girl had come back with her, and Hilda somehow felt more complete, more composed, more confident, more real. “Oh, Rahaan, if only you were there to see it, to feel it!”

  “I was,” he whispered, kissing her gently as he moved his body over hers. “I know I was. I do not have the memory, but Hilda, I feel the energy. By Allah, I feel it! What happened with Princess Diamante? How did that story end? Did—”

  The Sheikh’s expression grew grim when Hilda shook her head and told him no, she’d only gone back to one of those worlds. “Rahaan, I think there’s a sequence to this. I had to go there first. There didn’t seem to be a choice. I think it’s because in my last dream you were already so close to death in that world, so I was pulled there first because of the urgency.”

  “There is no first and last,” said the Sheikh, his voice betraying his own sense of urgency. “We must get to the world in which Diamante exists. That is where you’ll have to face her. You understand, don’t you?”

  Hilda nodded, smiling as she reached up and touched his face. “I understand more than I thought I ever could, Rahaan. And I understand that although you’re right and there is no first and last, there is indeed an order, a method, a sequence of some kind. God, Rahaan, I think I gained something from stepping into that girl’s world. Some kind of strength or emotional energy that I think I’ll need to finish the job. I don’t know how to explain it, but—”

  “Then don’t explain it,” said the Sheikh. “Just do it. Just be it. Come on. What do you need for me to send you back, my love. Are you ready to—”

  “Not yet,” Hilda whispered, suddenly aware of how aroused she was, how wet she was, how ready she was. But a part of her said hold on, let it build and build, let her king control her arousal, sustain her need, give her that foundation of divine energy from which she could launch herself once more into the stars, merge with starlight, dance in stardust. “Take me there and hold me there, but don’t let me go over the edge. Not yet. Can you do that?”

  The Sheikh raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Now we are talking about things within my power, my queen.”

  And he kissed her ferociously as he pressed his hardness against her warm, wet mound, making her moan. She arched her neck back as she felt the ecstasy take her back to that place beyond, and with her newfound strength, her seemingly enhanced vision, she surveyed the multicolored rings circling the cosmos, the realms of consciousness, the lands of dream and fantasy, searching for that woman from the carriage, the second of the trio, the next world where a secret child threatened to destroy everything.

  53

  “What do you mean by they’ll destroy you?” she asked him in the privacy of her chambers. “Who? Your enemies?”

  He sighed as he looked upon her, smiled as he took her soft white hand in his rough, meaty paws. She looked down and gasped when she saw the scars on his forearms. Long, ugly scars. Some of them old and dark, some newer, like not long ago those lines were red and bloody, raw and ripped open.

  “What . . .” she stammered, running her finger along a scar too straight to be from anything other than a knife—a really big knife!

  “A duel,” he said quietly, his expression hardening as he looked away and past her, his dark face clouding over. Then he blinked and forced a smile. “But I am here and my challenger is not. A happy ending, yes?”

  “Heavens,” she whispered, touching his scar again. “Challenger for what?” she asked, the thought of two men fighting over some exotic woman coming to mind and making her jealous in a way that almost embarrassed her.

  He grinned that devilish grin, like he’d seen her thoughts written on her expression. “Rest easy, my lady. A challenge to my claim of succession. My third cousin, young and overconfident. I warned him to back down. In fact I refused to fight him at first. But the laws of my land are . . . well, let us say they have not been updated for centuries.”

  “Old laws,” she said. “Oh, God. How horrible! So you . . . you . . .”

  “Ah, we are not to talk of such things. Especially not when I am in my lady’s private chambers after dark. Come. Come to me.”

  Hilda felt the Sheikh’s hot breath against her neck, his hardness grinding against her soaked panties as Rahaan kissed her feverishly, his lips and mouth exploring every inch of her skin, moving down to her chest, her naked breasts, ravaging those tight red nipples as she moaned out loud.

  “More,” she groaned as she watched the scene unfold in this second world. “I’m too far away. Still just watching. I need to get closer. More, my king.”

  “More,” whispered that dark rogue as he watched his lady slowly reveal her naked shoulders, the corset beneath her gown still tight around her. “I want it all.”

  “It is all yours to have,” she whispered, and now Hilda was close, getting closer, almost there. “All yours,” she heard herself say as Rahaan pulled her panties off in his world and pressed his hand full against her naked heat.

  Now Hilda was pushed into this woman’s mind and body in a way that felt so physical she almost choked. Everything came flying at her at once: memories and emotions, fears and fantasies, mind-games and machinations. The feeling was shockingly different from the innocence of that teenage girl, and it almost sickened Hilda for a moment when she realized how convoluted this woman was inside, that this was not a light and happy woman, not innocent by any means—at least not in the way Hilda wanted to believe she was. Who is this woman?

  She is me, Hilda reminded herself. She is me in another time and place, doing what she had to do to survive, doing what was in her power to advance. But she does love him, and there is an innocence to her somewhere inside, is there not? She was just a girl too when she allowed this man to take her virginity. Yes, she manipulated her way back into his arms, but certainly this man was no fool. Even if he did not recognize her, it still—

  “I knew it was you the moment our eyes met across that ballroom floor,” he muttered as he undid her corset, and Hilda felt her heart flutter and she knew this woman loved him even though she barely knew him. Hilda settled in and tried to focus her energy, to advance the story, to figure out what the hell was going on in the first place. She could feel the woman’s need in this world, but Hilda also carried with her the Sheikh’s sense of urgency, that she needed to take care of business and move
on, as oddly efficient as that sounded. This wasn’t the time to revel in a cosmic lovemaking session in nineteenth-century England, however romantic that might be!

  “You knew? You know?” she whispered as she grasped his hands to slow the rate at which she was being undressed. “Why did you not say it then?”

  “Why did you not say it? Why did you present me with a different name?” He grinned again, white teeth shining in the candle-flames as panic raced through her system, like she was horrified that her deception was in the open.

  “You do not even remember the name I gave you when we first met,” she stammered, touching her hair and looking away. “So how would you even—”

  He laughed. “It is true. I do not.” His expression softened, but with a seriousness that betrayed a depth of emotion that made her skip a breath. “But, my lady, I remember everything else about you. Everything. Every word you said. Every moment we shared.” He kissed her and she let him. “Every kiss. Every touch. The beginning to the end. Again and again.” He kissed her again and she let go of his hands as the need weakened her resolve. “Why do you think I returned to England?”

  “What?” she muttered as she forced herself to draw back from the kiss. “I do not understand.”

  “I do not either, in some way,” he said, taking a breath and suddenly standing up. He straightened to full height, undoing his heavy white henley at the collar and beginning to pace as if in the grip of some force.

  Oh, God, is it . . . could it be . . . is Rahaan somehow forcing his way into this world with me, Hilda thought in both worlds at once. I mean, yeah, this is Rahaan, but his consciousness isn’t focused in this world in the same way mine is. But that was really strange how this man suddenly backed away and stood up, as if Rahaan really is trying to push his way in and take control!