Sold to the Sheikh

by Chloe Cox

  Or guilt.

  But Stella didn’t have time to ponder. The old woman pointed a crooked finger directly at her, and said, “Who is she?”

  Slowly, Sheikh Bashir turned his head, as though he knew what he would see, and wanted to delay the inevitable as long as possible. His face, when he finally showed it, was twisted in fury. No, an attempt to conceal his fury. And betrayal. Shock. His face made it perfectly clear that this was much more of a violation than Stella knew. This was something she was never supposed to see.

  Oh God, Stella thought. This was not what she wanted. She wanted to help; she knew, specifically, in this situation, that she could help. She wanted to help both Ms. Kincaid and Sheikh Bashir. She wanted him to be happy to see her.

  And now she wanted to know what he had done. What the man she felt she had grown to know, somehow, was capable of doing. What the man who had just been so deeply inside her could do to a person.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, his voice cold. He was only keeping calm for the benefit of Ms. Kincaid—Stella was sure of it.

  “I came to help,” Stella said firmly.

  Stella had never walked away from a frightened, hurting person in her entire life, and she wasn’t going to start now. She’d do her best to help this poor woman, because that was what she did. After that, Sheikh Bashir could do whatever he wanted to her.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Who are you?” Grandma Kincaid sounded desperate. Bashir had never stopped thinking of her that way, even if he’d learned to stop addressing her as ‘Grandma Kincaid’ because it upset her so. It pained him now to see her look back and forth between Stella and himself with such obvious fear in her watery blue eyes. She cried, “Where am I? Why can’t I talk to Mark?”

  Bashir never knew how to answer that particular question. “Mark’s dead” would be unspeakably cruel, but he found lying to Grandma Kincaid impossible. He never felt as inadequate, as helpless, as he did in the face of Grandma Kincaid’s illness. All the money in the world at his disposal, and it did nothing to help him comfort this poor woman when she needed it most.

  But apparently Stella Spencer knew what to do.

  “Mark’s wonderful, isn’t he?” she said brightly, and picked up an afghan from the foot of the bed. She was so confident that Bashir himself almost believed that she had known his friend. He could only watch as Stella sat by Grandma Kincaid’s side and wrapped her snugly in the afghan, holding the old woman close as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Even more incredibly, it seemed to work. Grandma Kincaid began to relax into Stella’s arms, swaddled tightly in the blanket.

  “You’re a friend of Mark’s?” the old woman said hopefully, turning her face up to Stella’s.

  “Best looking boy at Cambridge,” Stella smiled back at her, gently rubbing her back.

  It’s not a lie, Sheikh Bashir realized. But already Grandma Kincaid looked happier, as though she were relieved to find that she was among friends. Not knowing where you were or how you’d gotten there would be slightly less terrifying if you trusted the people you were with. Bashir himself knew that almost anything was tolerable if you had people you could trust.

  It tore at his heart now to wonder if he could trust Stella. He had told her to stay in the car. It had obviously been a private matter, a serious matter, and then he’d looked up to find her spying on him.

  Well, perhaps not spying. Perhaps that was a premature judgment. But no matter the outcome, Bashir had to face the fact that he wanted to be able to trust Stella Spencer, when, as a rule, he trusted no one.

  And was that in any way a reasonable expectation, even for someone who was not in his position? To trust a woman he’d only just met, and under the most unorthodox of circumstances? Yet it was undeniably what his heart wanted. And now, watching Stella tend to someone she didn’t know at all, watching her care for another human being in distress, simply because she could, Bashir felt comforted, too, just to know that Stella existed. Just to know that people like her truly, truly existed in this otherwise calculating, selfish, deceptive world.

  If she were being truthful with him, that is. If this was who she truly was. It would break his heart, he realized, to discover that Stella Spencer had any other kind of motive.

  Bashir recoiled from the hospital bed, clenching his fists with the effort to maintain control. It would break my heart. The phrase had entered his mind unbidden, because it was fundamentally, undeniably true.

  This was a disaster.

  Luckily—or not, depending upon how you looked at it—Bashir had spent a number of years learning how to tell when a woman was lying to him. He’d vowed it would never happen again, not after what it had cost him the last time.

  He would have to rely on those skills now more than ever.

  “Don’t let him get fresh with you,” Grandma Kincaid was saying to Stella in confidence. “He does have a way with the ladies.”

  “Who, Sheikh Bashir?”

  Grandma Kincaid frowned. “No, dear. You stay away from him altogether.”

  Bashir grimaced, and then gritted his teeth when Stella looked up and saw his expression. He was supposed to be observing her, reading the micro expressions on her face, divining her intentions and desires, not the other way around. Even so, in the space of just a few minutes, he was sure Stella Spencer had learned more about him than any woman in his recent memory.

  And Grandma Kincaid, as much as Bashir was ever devoted to her, was not helping.

  Still, he had his responsibilities. This was clearly going to be one of those nights when his presence caused more harm for the old woman than good. He would do what he could for her elsewhere. Bashir bowed his head slightly and went in search of a doctor.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stella didn’t know what to say. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been left speechless in the twenty-nine years she’d lived prior to meeting Sheikh Bashir, and yet, in the two days that she’d known him, she’d lost count of how often she’d been totally flummoxed.

  They sat together again in the back of the Sheikh’s car—driving, she presumed, back to the hotel—only now, the distance between them felt immense. Insurmountable. She hadn’t thought of it until now, but this was the first time they’d sat close enough to touch and…didn’t.

  Stella knew now that the boundary she’d crossed by poking her stupid nose into that hospital room had been much starker, much more inviolate, than she’d thought. And it wasn’t hard to guess why, either: Sheikh Bashir had done something wrong. He’d hurt people he supposedly cared about.

  Maybe that’s what he didn’t want her to know about. That wasn’t such a terrible thing, Stella knew. It was only human. But that didn’t make her feel any better about knowing there was something, while not knowing exactly how bad that something was.

  But the very worst part was that she cared at all.

  You lunatic, she thought, turning to glare out of the rain-splattered window. He hasn’t promised you anything beyond sex. Stella cringed. And money.

  She had completely and totally forgotten about the money. How powerful did her attraction to Sheikh Bashir have to be to make her forget about fifty thousand freaking dollars? No wonder he didn’t trust her. He was paying her.

  And yet she’d seen his face, watching her with Ms. Kincaid. That hadn’t been the face of a man who regarded her with detachment. It hadn’t been the face of someone who expected to say goodbye to her in just a few days’ time.

  Just thinking of it made her desire for him flare, igniting the memory of his touch on her body. In her body. She squirmed in her seat, wanting to feel her soreness, wanting to put pressure back on the beating pulse she felt between her legs.

  Stella tried to figure out what to say the entire ride back to the hotel. She noted the growing height of the buildings outside with a kind of dread, knowing it meant they were closer to their destination, knowing, with some sort of gut certainty, that when they were no longer tr
apped in the small private world of the car, she would lose her chance to speak. She’d lose her chance to ask questions, to understand, to turn Sheikh Bashir back into the kind of man she wanted to be with.

  Oh, hell, Stella. What does it matter if you want to be with him?

  The fact was her head was swimming. Her vagina still throbbed with the feeling of him inside her, with the way he’d nearly turned her inside out and showed her a new side to herself, and now her mind was abuzz with anxiety and uncertainty about what kind of man he really was. And by the time she’d worked up the courage to open her mouth, the car had slowed to a halt.

  “Sheikh—” she tried.

  “Quiet,” he said. He got out of the car, and held open the door for her.

  Stella pursed her lips and promised herself that she wouldn’t tear up, if only because she refused to appear ridiculous.

  Sheikh Bashir led her through the lobby, deserted at this time of night, in total silence. He stayed silent all the way to the door of the suite he had booked for her, and then suddenly stopped. He put his hands on both her shoulders and turned her toward him, regarding her with an appraiser’s eye. Then he quite suddenly pushed her back a few paces, until she stood fully in the soft light of a wall sconce.

  “What—”

  “I said quiet,” he growled, and pushed her flat against the wall. The usual intensity of his stare was enhanced by a ferocity that Stella found genuinely frightening. “You will answer my questions, and only my questions, until I tell you otherwise.”

  His large hands burned into her shoulders. Stella couldn’t help her physical response, even if her mind was afraid of disappointing the Sheikh, afraid of what he might say. She wanted to feel his hands everywhere.

  She nodded.

  “Why did you disobey my order to stay in the car?”

  Oh crap. How to answer that without sounding like a crazy person? ‘I thought I might be falling for you, and I had to check it out?’ ‘I wanted to know more about you?’

  “I was curious,” Stella said lamely.

  Sheikh Bashir held her pinned against the wall with one hand, and thrust his other hand between her legs. The shock of his grip pulled a cry from her throat, and heat from her body.

  “Let me remind you of our agreement,” he said, his voice low. “You are mine, to do with as I will. You have disobeyed me. You will answer my questions now, fully and honestly, to the best of your ability, or by God, Stella, there will be consequences.”

  He held her frozen in his gaze, and it felt like there was nothing she could even think that would escape his notice. She could never lie to him. She hadn’t meant to. Her only trouble was that his hand was making it difficult for her to think.

  What is wrong with me that I want this? she thought. That it feels so right.

  “Yes, Sheikh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  But words failed her as he moved his hand. He finished her sentence for her: “To obfuscate.”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Then answer the question fully. Do not close your eyes. Look directly at me.”

  She did, and his dark eyes glittered. Again his intensity was…overwhelming. There was the definite sense that she was being studied, analyzed, x-rayed. In some sense it was comforting: she only had good intentions, and maybe he would see that.

  “I wanted to know you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It felt like you’d been so deep in me, so intimate, and I didn’t know anything about you. I wanted to know what upset you, because I wanted to help. Like you’ve helped me. I wanted…I wanted to be closer to you.”

  There was a long pause. Finally the Sheikh swallowed, and spoke.

  “And now?” he said. “After what you saw and heard?”

  “I want to know more,” she admitted. “I want to know why you feel so guilty. I want to know why you care for an old woman who hates you. I want…I want to know you, because I need to know…”

  Oh God. Tell the truth.

  “I’ve fallen for the wrong man before. I don’t think I can handle doing it again.”

  There. She’d said it.

  The muscles of the Sheikh’s face froze. It didn’t even seem like he was breathing. He studied her face for another impossibly long second, and then he took her mouth with his. His lips were swift, and hungry, and passionate, and it felt as though he kissed her with the strength of his own relief. As though he forgave her. And he pulled away before she’d had enough, leaving her dazed. It might never be enough. She was breathing hard.

  He leaned his forehead against hers, and she heard him breathing, just as hard as she was. He sighed, then pulled away suddenly.

  “Mark Kincaid was my greatest friend,” he said. His voice was artificially calm and studied, as though this was a speech that required special effort to say. He continued, “I trusted the wrong person, and Mark tried to warn me. But I was foolish, and ended our friendship instead. And then Mark died in a car accident, and I learned I’d been wrong. I also learned that there was no one to care for his grandmother. Since then I have assumed all responsibility for her care, even though she despises me, when she remembers me at all. I hope to find people who can make her happy, but even with unlimited resources, it is difficult. You helped her tonight, and for that, I am grateful.”

  He let her touch his face, tenderly, for just a short moment. Just a moment, in which she recognized that he felt it, too.

  Then he grabbed Stella’s arm and turned her around, pushing her face-first against the wall. Before she could speak or even gasp, he swatted her ass three times, hard.

  “You disobeyed an order, Stella,” he said into her ear. “And for that you must be punished, no matter how good your intentions. Your punishment will begin tomorrow morning. For tonight, you will have to suffer without my company. And with the knowledge that tomorrow is coming.”

  Stella’s whole body clenched, her heart hammered in her chest, and all of the blood in her body seemed to head downward.

  Tomorrow was coming.

  CHAPTER 13

  Sheikh Bashir had been suffering an uncharacteristic bout of ambivalence since the previous night, when he’d given Stella the barest details of what had happened with Mark Kincaid. Why had he done that? He never revealed that sort of personal information, and he’d certainly been under no obligation to do so. But he’d read her face: she had been telling the truth. Every involuntary muscle twitch, every expression she didn’t even know that she’d made, told him that she was truthful. Earnest. That she’d disobeyed him only with the best of intentions; that she hadn’t done it out of malice, or some scheme to further her own interests at his expense, but that she’d done it out of…

  No. Don’t call it love. She’s known you two days, Bashir.

  Yet all of his training told him that she was the genuine article. He couldn’t help but wonder: if he’d learned these skills earlier, if he’d known them then, would Vanessa still have fooled him? Would he have been blinded by love, and been just as capable of being deceived? Had he been deceiving himself, thinking that with access to the best security firms and the latest research into micro expressions and body language, he could turn himself into a human lie detector? Was it a wasted effort, if he would still, in the end, have to operate on faith?

  And yet he felt he had read Stella like a book. But not necessarily because of his skills: because she simply was genuine.

  She’d been so vulnerable, admitting her motivations, and implicitly, her feelings for him, that he could not resist her. No, it wasn’t even that; it’s not as though she’d asked him for an explanation. He’d just known it would make her happy, in some small way, and he’d wanted to do that.

  Get control of yourself, Bashir. Remember: she is here because you are paying her. That was the whole point, to keep things very separate, very clear…

  And yet, he’d called his security firm as soon as he’d left her, the one he kept on retainer, and had requested a rush profile on one Stel
la Spencer. That was not the action of a man who was staying detached. Who was in control.

  The dossier that had arrived by courier early that morning didn’t tell him everything, especially not on such short notice. But perhaps enough to help him even the playing field. He’d revealed one of his most painful secrets the previous night, or at least most of it, and Stella Spencer, who was so instinctively genuine, was still hiding her most intimate, and possibly most painful, secrets from him. He could deduce most of what had happened with her ex-husband, but not the context that clearly made it so painful for her. And he needed to hear it from her. He wanted her to want to tell him everything.

  He wanted her to truly, utterly submit.

  Bashir turned the corner, and walked to the door of Stella’s suite. He’d arranged for a wake-up call, and a delivery with specific instructions. He might not know everything about her, but he certainly knew enough to design a worthy punishment for her disobedience. He allowed himself a smile before becoming stern and foreboding.

  And then he punched in the code, and opened the door.

  Stella was perched on the edge of a three thousand dollar couch, dressed only in the slip dress he’d chosen for her. He nodded in approval; he could see every single on of her luscious curves, and even the suggestion of her nipples, through the thin fabric. She stood up quickly as he entered the room, and tried to smooth the dress, her expression apprehensive. Good. She should be nervous. He was going to take that exhibitionist streak she hid so well and bend it to his will.

  “You are wearing nothing underneath?” he asked her. It was obvious that she wasn’t, but he wanted to remind her of that fact.

  She blushed. “Nothing, Sheikh.”

  “Show me.”

  A little hesitant, a little unsure. But obedient: she pulled up the hem of her dress, showing him her nakedness.

  “Very good. Follow me.”

  He did not wait for her, but simply turned and walked out of the room, gratified to hear her stumbling steps trail after him.