Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1)

by Annabelle Winters

  But Zahain was reading something on his phone, and now his frown deepened for a moment before disappearing, and he looked up and gazed right into Wendy’s eyes. His look was dispassionate, almost cold, and he took a breath and said, “Samir has filed a report already. The police have taken statements from my men, and they are on their way to the diner to speak to the other staff.” He glanced over at Betty. “They will need your statement as well, of course.”

  Betty was livid, but she held her tongue and nodded quietly. Wendy felt a chill pass through her now as she realized that this could get complicated.

  Zahain went on, his voice calm but ruthlessly cold. “I know what you are thinking. But you must now realize that this isn’t about whether you are right or wrong—it is about what you can prove and what you cannot. And what about lawyers’ fees? In a criminal case, I believe you can get a court-appointed lawyer, however mismatched they might be against the our crack legal team. But what about a civil case? What if my brother decides to sue both you and Artie’s Diner? You will be fired the moment the case is filed, yes? And then what? The state will not pay your legal bills in a civil case. And if you cannot afford a lawyer, you will have to either plead “No Contest”—which would be financial suicide—or you will have to settle with me and my family out of court. Yes, this will have to be settled out of court. Settled in my Sheikdom of Farrar. It is the only option for you.”

  “The only option . . .” Wendy said slowly, the words catching in her throat. “So what is this, blackmail? Coercion?”

  “Call it what you want,” he said, turning to leave. “But it is nothing more than my decision.” He turned back halfway and glanced at her one last time before heading for the door. “I have made my decision, and now you must make your decision, Wendy Williams. My private jet starts boarding at 17:00 hours tomorrow. If you are not there, my brother will call his lawyers and tell them to go ahead and file criminal and civil charges. So you have until five o’ clock tomorrow. That is when the clock runs out for you, Wendy Williams. That’s when the clock runs out.”

  8

  Wendy stared at the hamburger-shaped clock that sat on the window of her studio apartment. The clock had been a Christmas gift from Artie—all the staff had received one. It didn’t keep time particularly well—indeed, the hands showed just past midnight even though Wendy knew it was almost 3 a.m.—but it was cute and Wendy liked it. She liked working at the diner too—certainly one of the more relaxed environments she had waited tables at, even though the pay wasn’t great.

  Paychecks, jobs, money . . . none of those had ever been plentiful, but for the past five years all three had come to her easy enough that she could finish high school (finally!) and enroll in a business management diploma course that could get her foot in the door at a bigger corporation with some room for her to rise. Wendy knew she had the smarts, the discipline, the drive—she just didn’t have the qualifications. In some sense that was the easiest to take care of, she had realized about five years ago. And ever since then, ever since she placed that fixed goal in mind, she enjoyed every moment she worked, because it brought her closer to freedom.

  But now . . . now what? In some sense she still didn’t have a clear idea about what was going on, and those feelings from somewhere deeper kept bubbling up in the most annoying way.

  You’re just scared, she tried to tell herself. But somehow that didn’t resonate. Why not, she asked herself. Why AREN’T you scared? This Sheikh and his brother could destroy everything you’ve worked for, set you back years. And that’s just if they sue you here in the United States! What if you somehow end up giving in to this Sheikh’s weird-ass threat and actually GOING to his Arab country! That should be terrifying, shouldn’t it?

  Shouldn’t it be terrifying, Wendy?

  Isn’t it terrifying, Wendy?

  Why isn’t it terrifying, Wendy? Why not?

  She thought back to those catering gigs in Chicago, where she had gotten to see Arab families up close, gotten to see past the negative stereotypes, gotten to see that the quiet and conservative Arab women were loud and energetic and even domineering when placed in their own element, around their own families, away from the eyes of the media and the general American public.

  And along with that Wendy had seen how Arab men—perhaps in response to the women they had to deal with—were a strange mix of possessive and dominant as well as sensitive and flexible, with the ability to take control and give orders in one moment while standing back and allowing their wives and girlfriends to take the lead when appropriate. It was a delicate dance, Wendy always thought—the way these men balanced the old-world traditions, which heavily favored the men, against the reality of their modern lives.

  There had always been a strange formality that Wendy had noticed between Arab husbands and wives, a formality that was steeped in tradition and a sense of “this is how we conduct ourselves” but was without any negative tension. Indeed, Wendy had often sensed a deep, unspoken respect between an Arab man and his woman, and she had always suspected that their intimate lives were wildly passionate.

  Or at least they were in her fantasies at the time, she thought with some embarrassment as she stretched out on the couch, her Packers sweatshirt bunching up around her hips as that hamburger-shaped clock continued its countdown.

  “The clock is ticking, Wendy Williams,” she said out loud as she wriggled on the couch, not sure whether to laugh or cry, howl or whimper, scream or sob. “What will you DO?”

  What will you do . . .

  9

  “I knew I could trust you, brother! Yes! This is better. It was an insult to us, and so the decision on justice must be taken by us, by our people. You and me, brother.”

  Samir looked like a pudgy Batman with the nose bandage and the dark rings around his eyes, but the painkillers had put him in a upbeat mood, and he was almost bouncing as he spoke.

  Sheikh Zahain crossed his legs and leaned back into his leather chair, carefully plucking what appeared to be a single strand of white cat-hair from his dark trousers. A cat? Here, in the Presidential Suite of the Milwaukee Hilton? Or did the hair travel with him from Farrar? There were many cats that roamed the Sheikh’s palace so it could very well be from back home, but Zahain didn’t remember this hair being there a few hours ago. Did Wendy the Waitress have a cat? No. It was just a one room apartment, and he would have seen the cat.

  Zahain finally turned his attention to his brother. They didn’t share the same mother, but they were still brothers, still family. Samir had been raised by his mother’s favored attendant, a woman called Aya, who had coddled him and catered to his every whim, and Zahain had not spent much time with Samir as the child grew up. Still, he is family, and family is everything, Zahain told himself as he uncrossed his legs and took a breath.

  “What happened to your hip-hop accent, brother?” Zahain asked, trying to lighten his own demeanor. “I kind of liked the swagger. It was . . . what . . . ghetto-cool? Yes?”

  Samir snorted. “Don’t even try it, Zahain. It just sounds offensive coming from your mouth. Just stick with the fake British accent, yes?”

  Zahain inhaled and exhaled, looking at his hands for a moment. The accent had perhaps once been fake, but he had spent six years in England, and it was a part of who he was now. Just like the United States was a part of who Samir was. We are all composites of our experiences, the things we do, and the people we do them with . . . or to.

  “So where is she, this waitress?” Samir asked. “The men have her in the hotel? I wouldn’t mind having a word with her, you know?”

  “She is at her home, Samir. This is America. We do not take people captive here.”

  “So . . . what . . . you’ve got eyes on her? Make sure she doesn’t run?”

  Zahain sighed. “She will not run, Samir.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t know shit about this chick, Zahain!”

  “I know enough.”
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  Samir touched the plaster on his nose and then winced as he shook his head. “But you’ve still got eyes on her, yes?”

  Zahain was calm as he lied. “Yes,” he said.

  Samir nodded and walked over to the mirror, scowling as he inspected his face. The swelling was going down, but the bruises were still prominent. He muttered under his breath—something about having her flogged in the Farrar Town Square at noon on Sunday. Then he walked towards the back rooms of the suite, leaving Zahain with his thoughts.

  But Zahain’s thoughts were not alone, and as he sighed and allowed himself to picture Wendy, that strong beauty in her soft round face, those contours that made him yearn to slip his arm around her waist and draw her to him, those curves that seemed made in heaven, made for him, for him alone.

  Wendy Williams, the Waitress from Wisconsin.

  Wendy Williams.

  Wendy.

  10

  Wendy was ready when the Sheikh’s car came for her. She hadn’t slept yet, and although she knew better than to make monumental decisions on no sleep, in some ways this didn’t feel like a decision at all. It felt like the natural flow of events, the simple path of a river as it twists and turns on its way to the ocean, its destiny.

  So is that what this is, Wendy had asked herself countless times over the course of the night. Destiny? Fate? What’s meant to be?

  She had never been that sort of person, but now she wondered if she had simply never ALLOWED herself to be that sort of person. After all, most of her life had been spent taking care of Cindy. Everything for Cindy. Wendy had protected Cindy from not just the harshness of everyday life in shelters and soup kitchens, but from the emotional impacts of a life that seemed without hope. Wendy had made sure Cindy believed that there was always hope, that dreams could come true, that dreams WOULD come true. And it worked, didn’t it? Cindy dreamed of a life of ease and luxury, and she found it with whatsizname. Fair enough. Good for her.

  So maybe now it’s your turn, Wendy had found herself thinking several times during the night. Maybe the dream you never allowed yourself to dream is going to come true anyway. Maybe the dream you never DARED to dream is happening anyway.

  The thought worried her, scared her, TERRIFIED her. After all, if you have modest dreams, tiny hopes, simple desires, then chances are you won’t be disappointed, yes? Which is why Wendy dreamed of a stable job, a regular life with friends and movies and dinners at mid-level restaurants. A fun boyfriend, hopefully followed by marriage. She didn’t particularly want kids—Cindy had taken some of the glamour out of raising a child—but in truth Wendy had never really thought that far ahead. Too many years of just wondering where your next meal is going to come from. Now just that goal of completing her degree and getting that “real” job was all-consuming. Or it was, until now.

  So what are you doing, Wendy, she asked herself as she looked at the ridiculous little roller bag she had carefully packed that night. You must really be losing it. Do you think you’re going on a vacation?

  Did you seriously pack a bathing suit? Do you think you’re going to be lounging by the pool, eating dates and drinking chilled camel-milk? Are you INSANE, Wendy? You could be in an Arabian jail cell in twenty-four hours, for all you know. And really, the facts suggest that you WILL be in an Arabian jail cell in twenty-four hours! You are heading to an obscure Arab country to answer for a CRIME that you committed against basically the PRINCE of that country!

  What happens when you get there, when you are at the mercy of some local court in a land whose culture isn’t exactly conducive to women’s rights? What happens if things go bad? What happens WHEN things go bad? Is there even an American embassy in this God-forsaken little kingdom? Do you even know the NAME of the country you’re about to disappear into? What are you doing, Wendy. What the HELL are you doing?

  But the same instinct that had come to Wendy’s aid in all those years on the street, that sixth sense that always seemed to guide her and Cindy through the most dangerous of situations . . . yes, that same gut-level faith was burning bright inside her now, she knew. It was leading her somewhere, she knew. Perhaps she had never truly acknowledged that sixth sense, but it was there, and it was pointing the way, pointing the way to . . . to . . Zahain?

  Oh, God, that was it, wasn’t it? Zahain. Sheikh Zahain. There was something about him, wasn’t there? Something about the way Zahain had calmly watched as she took that first swing at his brother. Something about the way it felt to see him sitting at the foot of her bed. Something about the strange blackmail that seemed more like an invitation than a threat.

  Yes, an invitation . . .

  Come, take a chance, he seemed to be saying with his eyes. Come, Wendy the Waitress. Come take a chance with me. Perhaps I am the fairytale that you never imagined for yourself. Maybe I am the prince that you never dreamed of being with. Only one way to find out, isn’t there? So come, Wendy the Waitress. Come with me.

  11

  “Ya, Allah, she has come!” Zahain whispered to himself as he felt his stomach seize, his gut wrench, his head spin. Only now as he watched the limo pull up close to the private runway at General Mitchell International Airport did he realize how wound up he had been not knowing if she’d come.

  It had been a raw, sleepless night for the Sheikh, and he had tossed and turned, his body on fire, his mind in turmoil. The sheets were soaked with sweat when he finally gave up trying to sleep and went to the window, standing there for almost five hours, watching the lights of the city as his thoughts almost drove him insane.

  No woman had ever gotten under his skin this way, the way this Wendy had. And he barely knew the woman! The attraction was primal, raw, fundamental—that much was clear. It was more than physical, more than lust—that much was clear too. Five years of being alone couldn’t erase the memories of what lust felt like—and this was so much more, SO much more! How could it be? After so many women, how can I be feeling something I have NEVER felt before?!

  It does not matter, Zahain told himself as he took a deep breath and waited for the limo to stop. The HOW of it does not matter. Perhaps my five-year penance has driven me further into my madness. Or perhaps it has made me sane for the first time. Either way, we are here, Zahain. SHE is here, Zahain. Wendy. Wendy the Waitress. The waitress from Wisconsin.

  The door opened and she stepped out, the fragrance of lavender emerging with her. She wore blue jeans and a black turtleneck, sensible shoes and no make-up that Zahain could discern. Her clothes hugged her curves tastefully, and Zahain felt his knees go weak as he allowed himself just one quick glance at the woman before him, the strong contours of her wide hips, the beautiful swell of her breasts, the fullness of her lips, the gentle strength shining in her soft, round face, those brown eyes that seemed to exude wisdom, perception, and the courage that comes from pushing forward even when you are scared.

  “I get cold on planes,” Wendy said, breaking him out of his trance.

  “Excuse me?” said Zahain, blinking in the sunlight.

  “The turtleneck? It’s summer here, and we’re traveling to the desert, yeah? The turtleneck is for the plane ride.”

  “Yes, of course. I see. And here I thought it was because you were afraid I was a vampire.” Zahain paused and swallowed, feeling some uncharacteristic nervousness creep into him. He touched his collar. “Covering your neck, I mean. It is a joke.”

  Wendy laughed, a nervous laugh, it seemed to him, but still a laugh that affected Zahain in that disconcerting way. “Yeah,” she said. “Not bad.”

  And they stood there for a moment, the Sheikh and the waitress, with the Wisconsin sun shining above them, black limousines and bodyguards all around, a private jet in the background. Zahain felt like he was in a dream as he smiled and reached for Wendy’s carry-on-size roller-bag even as a bodyguard swooped in and grabbed it before the Sheikh got there.

  Zahain blinked and smiled again as he motioned towards the door of the shining silver jet, shaking his head when he remem
bered that he had THREATENED this woman, BLACKMAILED her into showing up here, COERCED her into traveling with him to a country she had probably never heard of, a nation where Zahain had ABSOLUTE power over everything—everything and everyone!

  But yet this woman is controlling her fear, handling the uncertainty, summoning the courage to take this RIDICULOUS leap of faith. Did she already see this as what it is: An invitation and not a threat?

  And indeed this is what it is, yes, Zahain? An invitation, not a threat? Perhaps you did not recognize it as such at first, but she did. She is smarter than you, Zahain. Wiser than you. Perhaps even more powerful than you.

  A sudden feeling of pure exhilaration ripped through Zahain as he followed Wendy up the stairs into the plush red interior of his jet. This was his destiny, he suddenly decided. SHE was his destiny. And as the doors slowly closed, blocking out the sunlight, casting a soft glow to the world inside the Sheikh’s private quarters, Zahain knew he could not wait.

  He WOULD not wait.

  12

  “Who is Cindy, and where is she?”

  “What?”

  “Cindy. You asked for her several times. Actually, asked is an understatement. You demanded to see this person called Cindy.”

  Wendy froze for a moment before slowly reaching for her ginger ale and sipping carefully as she turned to the window. But they were high above the clouds and there was nothing but blue to look at. She turned back to the Sheikh, who was seated across from her in what Wendy could only describe as a red velvet loveseat . . . with seatbelts. It was a bit over-the-top—like most of the lavish interior—but she couldn’t deny that she was very comfortable, relaxed even. It certainly didn’t seem like she was headed to a Middle-Eastern prison cell.

  “Am I being interrogated already?” she asked now, sipping her ginger ale and smiling at the Sheikh. “Don’t I get a lawyer?”