Handcuffed to the Sheikh (Hot Contemporary Romance Novella)

by Teresa Morgan

  Handcuffed to the Sheikh

  Teresa Morgan

  Smashwords edition

  This edition includes a preview of Cinderella and the Sheikh, available now.

  Copyright 2011

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Incidents, Names, characters, and places are either a product of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ***

  For Agnes and Chris, who loved the sheikh first.

  Big thank you to Lucy Farago and Debbie Mazzuca, critiquers of awesomeness, and to Shelley Mullins, for finding my typos.

  Special thanks to Detective Stephen Johnston, who has handcuff experience and knows that sheikhs ride 2010 Benelli 1130 Cafe Racers, and to Dr. Sheri Roszell, for the medical attention.

  ***

  Chapter One

  If she hadn't been so bone-deep jetlagged, Max Foss might have paid more attention to the ominous profile on the other side of her front door. She might have reasoned that it was pretty late for a natural gas scam artist to prowl around her Newark, Delaware neighborhood, looking for someone to fall for the old "I can save you so much money if you'll just give me your credit card number" trick.

  As it was, she was too exhausted to realize how stupid it was to open her door to a stranger so late at night—even if the stranger had a clipboard. She'd just come home to find the contents of her fridge seemed to have aged months in the week she'd been at a five star all inclusive in the Dominican Republic. All her plants had died... not just died, but mummified. She'd never had a green thumb, but she'd tried so hard to keep this batch alive. It wasn't fair to a bunch of plants that didn't have much of a chance under her care in the first place. Dust swirled up out of the carpet whenever she took a step, sending her into sneezing spasms. She'd won the ticket in a radio contest and had gone away to relax. Now all she could see was the work ahead of her.

  Her irritation and her overdeveloped sense of justice sent her crashing down the stairs to her sunken foyer as soon as the bell rang, determined to take a chunk out of anyone who tried to take advantage of her or her friends who lived in the neighborhood.

  As soon as she had the door open, and he turned to face her, caution came crashing back. The guy lounging against the door frame like he owned it had sixty pounds on her, and all that was solid muscle. He also wore a fierce expression, as if she'd pissed him off just by opening the door. The way he looked down at her without lowering his set jaw spoke of a controlled rage that made her stomach clench.

  All of this was probably good, since he also radiated a mysterious sexuality that might just have gotten a credit card out of her if those sensual Michelangelo lips hadn't been turned down at the corners. And those eyes. If they had contained a shred of decency in them instead of angry fire, would have been as tempting as any dark chocolate truffle.

  Some instinct made her grab at the throat of her hoodie and zip it up another couple inches.

  His hand tightened on the clipboard as his smoky, narrow-eyed gaze scraped over her body, bunching as if trying to make a fist. That was all it took to set her temper ablaze. Unreasoning fury sparked behind her eyes.

  "Nobody wants you here." She lifted her nose in the air. "Take your con game someplace else."

  "Con. Game," he repeated, a not-quite-British accent tingeing his deep caramel voice. Disbelief and rage dripped from those two words.

  She slammed the door on him. Or at least meant to. Really meant to. But the clipboard was in the way, jammed in the doorframe. Then, without warning, he was inside, filling up her little foyer. His big form was just inches away, and coming closer.

  An instant of shock passed over her. Had that just happened? He'd forced his way inside? He paused, seeming almost as stunned as her.

  "Well, that was easy," he said, sounding confused.

  Her surprise broke, replaced by terror. Oh God, this was a nightmare. A surge of adrenaline sent her scrambling up the stairs... Her phone was on the table. Could she keep him off until she dialed 911? Probably not. What else could she do? Her heart thudded an insane beat as she raced up the steps.

  She didn't get far. A merciless arm banded her waist, pulling her back against a chest built like a brick wall. She inhaled to scream, but the fabric he held to her mouth muffled the sound. When she tried to breathe, the air tasted like bitter chemicals and she almost retched. Oh God, she was being drugged. He was going to drug her and kill her. And who knew what else.

  Panicked blood hammered in her ears. She had to think. What could she do? Kicking and flailing seemed hopeless, but it was her only option—Or maybe... She forced herself to calm. She held her breath and let all her muscles go limp. Maybe he would relax his iron grip too early and let her go. Then she could kick him in the 'nads.

  Fighting every defensive instinct, she let her eyelids flicker shut. She willed her heartbeat to slow, praying she wasn't succumbing too quickly.

  His breath tickled her ear. "Ah." If his voice hadn't been terrifying, his exotic accent would have sent her to her knees. "She's not so strong as I imagined. I'd hoped you'd put up more of a fight."

  You'll find out how strong I am as soon as you let me go, she promised silently. Brave words, but doubts crept in. Starved of oxygen, her lungs began to burn.

  He didn't loosen his grip one inch. Through her shirt, she felt a deep bass chuckle reverberate in his chest. "What a terrible liar you are. Did you think I would fall for that one, Max?"

  He knew her name? She gasped in surprise, and took in a lungful of chemical air that stung going down. What stung more was how stupid she'd just been.

  Idiot, she cursed herself, as the drugs leeched into her system.

  Before she passed out, the last thing she saw was those wicked lips, smiling in triumph as he locked her left wrist in one side of a pair of handcuffs.

  ***

  In her dream, Max was falling. Wind rushed past her ears at a crazed speed. She was panicked, out of control, plunging down a tunnel that closed in on all sides. Her world was a rush of sounds and colors that seemed to be a cryptic message she couldn't decipher.

  Out of the madness came a single point of calm. A spot of shining gold, a ball the diameter of a silver dollar. It grew and glowed in front of her eyes. She reached out and closed her hand around it.

  Everything stopped. She stood on her feet again, the earth beneath her. The rays of the moon bathed her in a glowing light as she walked along the high ridge of a shifting sand dune. A deep sense of peace and serenity enveloped her soul. The sand was cool between her toes.

  A man stepped out from nowhere, and yet it seemed as if he'd always been there. She knew him for what he was. Her lover. Her other self. But she couldn't see his face. When she tried to concentrate on him, she saw only blank space. When he spoke, she heard garbled static.

  Or... wait... There was a voice in her ear, pulling her out of the dream. She looked down at the golden sphere in her palm. It faded and she was falling again.

  "-ke up, hayati. Come, open those pretty blue eyes for me."

  She saw a wall of black. She blinked a few times, wishing she could wipe the fuzz from her vision, but her hands wouldn't seem to move for her. The black wall cleared up. She was looking at a... leather jacket? She was falling, sitting up, with her arms around a leather jacket? And her head seemed to be encased in plastic.

  "I feel you moving back there," a caramel voice dripped in her ear.

  She whipped her head around to see the speaker who
seemed to be whispering directly in her ear. The plastic moved with her, like it was molded to her skull.

  Wait. She wasn't falling... She looked down. The dotted centre line of a highway buzzed by, a foot from her toes. She gasped in shock and clung to... whatever it was she was clinging to more tightly. The driver, she guessed.

  A motorcycle. She'd been kidnapped and taken on a motorcycle. Every second was taking her away from her home, from safety.

  She couldn’t see much of the bike with the helmet blocking her, but tried to memorize what she could. Instead of being sleek, it was made of choppy angles and had all the aerodynamics of a praying mantis. She couldn’t see the brand from where she sat, but there couldn't be many bikes like that, right? Maybe if she could learn to hum the particular note of the engine, the CSI people could identify it from that.

  Ah, hell, who was she kidding? There was no way she could point out the bike. It was too dark to even see the color. What was she going to say? Detective, it looked like it would morph into an armed robot at any second? She sighed, letting her frustration out.

  "Awake now, then?" her abductor asked, seemingly inside her head. The driver of the motorcycle looked at her over his shoulder.

  She put two and two together. "You have microphones in your helmets?"

  "So that I may have the pleasure of speaking to you, hayati."

  "My name's not Hayati," she said, with venom, despite—or maybe because of—feeling so freaked out about the situation. She pulled on her hands, but they refused to budge. Something seemed to shackle them together. She felt around with her fingers to figure out what was holding her.

  "I suggest you not do that, hayati," her captor said.

  "Why not?" Will I find out how to escape? She rooted around blindly, and felt something hard under her fingers. She poked it. It seemed to get a bit harder.

  Fire rose in her cheeks as she realized she'd just been groping a strange man in his crotch. She pulled her hands back into the sleeves of her hoodie.

  "That," he told her. "Is why not."

  For an instant, she thought about squeezing his man parts as hard as she could and forcing him off the road. As much as she liked the idea, he might crash the bike. Even if she managed to get him to pull over, what would she do then? Her arms seemed stuck around him. Plus she hadn't seen a car on this stretch of road, just thick stands of pine swishing past. She had no clue how to drive a motorcycle, so the only other way back was to walk, which wouldn't work because he would just come after her on the bike.

  He was in control here. For now. Until she found her opportunity.

  With her hands in her sleeves, she felt the cold steel around her wrists. The memory of the handcuffs he put on her came dashing back into her mind. He'd cuffed her hands together, but shackled them around his waist like a belt, forcing her to embrace him from behind. Clever. It held her to him and let him keep her on the bike at the same time. How was she supposed to get out of it?

  "Would you mind not doing that either?" he asked.

  "Doing—"

  Before she could complete the question, he broke in. "Bashing your head against my back. It's very distracting."

  She realized he was right. She'd been hitting her head against him in frustration. Of course the helmet meant she didn't feel it. But did he? Hope swelled inside her. Could she use it to escape?

  "Ah," he said, before she finished the thought. "We're at our destination."

  ***

  She felt the bike slow just before they turned into a thin laneway anyone would miss if they weren't looking for it. Her gut clenched as he maneuvered the bike down a track that seemed more like a rut than an actual road. Twenty-foot tall trees bracketed them on either side, looming over her like nasty sentinels protecting the criminal who'd just taken her from her home. No one would ever find her here, she knew on instinct. Even the moon's light was hidden behind clouds. She'd probably never see it again. He'd brought her here to rape and murder her and bury her corpse in the woods where she would lie alone under the dirt forever.

  She felt a single drop of moisture seep from one of her eyes. More than anything, she wanted to wipe it away, to hide her weakness from her torturer. But her arms were bound around his waist, keeping her from masking her humiliating emotion. She could only hope, as they bumped along the track, that the tear would dry before he took off her helmet.

  "You are very quiet," he said, in a casual tone, steering the bike even more casually. "Have you thought about apologizing to me? Offering an explanation? Perhaps some begging? I do enjoy your begging, under other circumstances."

  She seesawed between rage and disbelief. Why should she apologize to him? He was the one who'd just committed a crime and he wanted to blame her for it? Acid growled in her gut at the injustice of it. But his words made her brain skip in confusion, like a CD with a scratch. He spoke like he knew her.

  Well, of course he did. If he knew exactly when she was coming home from her vacation, he must have been stalking her for months. Didn't stalkers create elaborate fictitious relationships with their victims in their deluded minds? She knew she should probably play along, try to get him to relax his guard, but she couldn't. The injustice of the whole thing dug under her skin, even worse because he was blaming his victim for his own actions, like a man who raped a woman and then said she wanted it because of her low-cut shirt.

  "I will never apologize to you," she spewed at him, as if the words were poisonous.

  He slammed the brakes so hard the bike jerked. On instinct, she grabbed him for support.

  With her hands clamped to his chest, she felt his heart beating a furious tempo, even through his jacket. He'd handled the bike... hell, he'd committed the act of abduction with such calm, but underneath the outward signs, he hid some great emotion. Excitement at his upcoming torture session? Or maybe something else?

  She felt him slow his breaths as if measuring them out. He removed his helmet leisurely, with a controlled deliberateness.

  He no longer seemed like a psychopath, but a very confused man. A confused man with hair that would have fallen to his shoulders if it hadn't been tied back. The moon, emerging from behind its cloudy screen for an instant, made his hair gleam blue-black. His profile, all strong chin and harsh lines, made her suck in a breath. His all-male gorgeousness seemed designed to melt women in their tracks. Combined with his powerful body, he didn't seem like the kind of guy who needed to abduct any girl. In fact, she could picture women lining up to be kidnapped by him.

  If he wasn't pure crazy, she might have considered joining the queue.

  He dismounted the bike, dragging her off against her will, since her arms were shackled around him. Without stopping, as if she was just a fly stuck to his back, he strode across the pine needle-strewn yard. His long steps forced her to scramble to keep from tripping.

  "Hey," she protested, but he clearly couldn't hear her muffled voice without the helmet speaker. So she took the opportunity to curse him out in privacy. Each creative swear word strengthened her courage.

  Her helmet blocked her peripheral vision, so she couldn't see much of what looked like a three or four-room cabin with walls of raw wood and tiles falling off the roof. The bike was probably worth twice what the cabin was. It didn't add up.

  He twisted a key in the lock, and she zoned in on him putting the key away in his inside pocket, in case that info came in handy later. She paid such close attention that she nearly missed him place his thumb on a knot in the wood next to the door—and the subtle green light that swept over his thumbprint. She heard the distinct click of metal locks unbolting.

  Really? A high tech security system for this tumble-down place? Her throat nearly closed. Maybe he intended on assaulting her and disposing of the body after all. If so, he could definitely give Dexter a run for his money.

  The kitchen they stepped into was no less high tech. He turned on the light to reveal gleaming black appliances, polished granite countertops, and restaurant-quality gadgets. The
outside of the 'cabin' might seem like it was about to fall over, but the inside? Pure luxury. The whole place was built to deceive someone into dismissing the exterior while the inhabitants lived in lavish comfort.

  With one abrupt motion, he turned in place. Instead of being held against his back, Max faced him, getting a close-up view of the stiff curling hairs escaping the slight V of his dark shirt. He snapped the strap under her chin and lifted the helmet away, setting it on the counter next to his own.

  Her mouth dried up. There had never been a man more handsome than this one. Flawless dark Arabian skin and eyes greyer than the granite that surrounded her. Lips—God above, those lips would seduce her all by themselves. It wasn't fair that he also had a strong column of neck and shoulders like rock cliffs. Not an ounce of fat on him. Carbs probably ran from this man in sheer terror.

  She tried to lean away from him so he couldn't feel her heart pounding a crazy beat under her ribs. Her entire body had turned traitor. How could her hormones go into overdrive for the guy who'd just drugged and abducted her? It wasn’t fair. She looked at the floor, praying the blush incinerating her cheeks wouldn't betray her.

  No hope. He caught her chin in one hand and forced her to look into his. For an instant, she thought she saw a spark of amusement there, before he narrowed his gaze to grey slits.

  "On your knees, Maxine Rosalie Foss," he ordered.

  Kneel? But that would put her at eye level with his... What did he want her to do?

  Incensed by the unfairness of it, she wanted to scream 'never,' but she didn't trust her voice with that many syllables. "No."

  "Do you prefer to be locked together like this forever? I don't mind if you don't." His seducer's lips quirked up at one corner.