And the heavy wooden dresser rocked back on two legs as she SCREAMED, and Zahain was shouting too, and she could feel him in her as he came, and she was howling now as he roared in her ear, and the dresser was creaking and rocking, banging against the wall as the heavy mirror threatened to topple and shatter, slicing them to pieces, but it did not shatter, and their climaxes RIPPED through the dry desert air as they finished, Wendy’s face pressed against the mirror, and then she was done, and then he was done, they were done, it was all done.
Zahain carried her to the bed, his tall frame supporting her heavy body with ease, and she held on to him, the last of her clothes falling off her as he carried her like a child, like a woman, like a queen, carried her to the bed and got in with her.
And she felt at peace again, secure again, in that dream again, and it was all right, everything was all right, everything was perfect. It was the two of them and they were going to have a child and maybe it had never been her dream but it was a dream and now she was living it.
“This is real,” she heard herself say in that dream and Zahain nodded and touched her belly again. “We’re going to have a child, Zahain. Oh, God. I never would have thought—”
“Don’t think,” the Sheikh whispered to her now, his face against her neck, his soft beard warm against her skin. “If we think, it might drive us insane. Just know that it is real, Wendy. It is real, and I am real, and we are real. Everything else will work out. It will work out.”
“Well, there’s a lot to work out, isn’t there?” Wendy said, giggling at first but then feeling a catch in her throat as she let in just a bit of the reality of how many questions still lay unanswered, were perhaps even unanswerable. “I mean—”
“I said don’t think, Wendy,” the Sheikh said. “We will work it out. All of it.”
And as the gentle breeze carried the Sheikhs words out past that golden curtain, the hunched figure of Aya straightened up a bit as if new life had been breathed into her shattered old frame.
Yes, she thought as she hurried back to her private quarters. There is a lot to work out, isn’t there . . .
27
“I think the scar will be permanent, Master Samir.”
Samir went up close to the mirror and stared at the mark on his cheekbone, just below his eye socket. His face had healed very well, but sure enough, just like Aya said, there was a mark on the skin which had not filled itself in, leaving a tiny crater that was slightly discolored. Of course, it was only visible if one were looking for it, but now Samir would always be looking for it, thanks to Aya.
Samir had just come back from Las Vegas, where he had treated some of his UWM friends to eleven days of mind-blowing excess at the Bellagio (and two nights at the Venetian, after they were kicked out of the Bellagio for wrecking four suites in one evening), and the truth was, he couldn’t be sure if the scar was left over from a violent encounter with a bouncer at that club or if it was that Vegas stripper who had screamed and kicked at him until he finally let her leave his room.
Truth was, it didn’t matter. Samir was wasted, spent, wiped out. Even at twenty-one the excesses of his lifestyle were catching up to him, and although he was more volatile and irascible than ever, he was so unfit that he simply could not sustain any heightened state of alertness or activity for too long. Cocaine felt like talcum powder to him. Aderall was not much more than a mild caffeine pill. And now Aya was getting on his case about something very boring when he just wanted to pass out for about a week.
“She is still in the royal bedroom, you know,” Aya said as she stirred a warm cup of overly sweet tea and walked over to where Samir was sprawled in front of his television.
“Who?” he said absentmindedly, taking the tea from Aya and sniffing it before making a face.
“The American woman,” Aya said.
“Oh, yeah. The one my pure and healthy brother is boning. She is still here, eh? Well, good for him. Who cares.”
“She is the one who has scarred you, Samir. Has she not been brought here to answer to the Council for the insult?”
Samir lazily sipped his tea. Like many things in his life, Wendy the Waitress had faded into the background for Samir simply because it wasn’t that interesting to him anymore. His anger and hatred had been real at the time, but when his efforts to “destroy” her had been stymied at the get-go, he slowly lost the fire, and it all got swept up in the flurry of drug binges and lap dances and limo-ride blowjobs and eventually forgotten. Yes, it had been an insult. And yes, it damn well hurt. But Samir had been hit by women before, and he knew it would happen again. Maybe it even got him off—it was hard to tell these days. He just felt hungover and worn out right now.
“Aya, she has been brought here because Zahain wants her here,” Samir said. “Perhaps if she had resisted him he would have pulled her up in front of the Council and made her beg for mercy, which he would then grant, but at a price. I have heard about how my brother has brought women here under all sorts of pretexts. He has always liked these overly complicated games. Let him have his fun, Aya. What is it to you? You are in my service, not his.”
Aya stood still, watching the bleary-eyed young prince sip his tea. “It does not trouble you that this woman who dared lay her hand on royalty, who insulted you, injured you, is parading through these hallways like a queen?”
Samir laughed, eyes glued to the television, which was showing a rerun of Ren and Stimpy. “Let the woman feel like a queen, Aya. It’ll make it all the worse when Zahain ships her back to her dump in Milwaukee. She’s a waitress, Aya. She’s not going to be Zahain’s queen anytime soon, that much I can assure you.”
“Three weeks she has been here, Samir. Every day the Sheikh visits her. Sometimes many times a day,” said Aya. She paused, as if for effect. “Visits her in bed, Samir.”
Samir let out an exasperated snort and turned to Aya for a moment before settling back down into his double-chin. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that, Aya. And I don’t—”
“I have checked with the women who clean the American’s bedroom, Samir. The women who clear out the waste baskets,” Aya said, interrupting Samir as she stepped closer to the reclining prince. “Three weeks the Sheikh has visited, and he does not use any preventative measures.”
Samir snickered. “Preventative measures? You mean condoms, Aya?”
Aya ignored him, taking another step, now standing so close that Samir could not help but turn to her, eyebrows raised.
“And yesterday this was in the waste, Samir. Look.” Aya triumphantly held up one of the used pregnancy test sticks, offering it to Samir like it was a gift.
“Ya, Allah, keep it away!” he shouted, recoiling from the stick and rolling off the other side of the bed. “Oh, God, Aya! That’s probably covered with her pee, yeah? What the hell?”
He shivered involuntarily for a moment, letting the convulsion run through his entire body, his thick head shaking last, tongue wagging like a dog as he attempted to shake off the thought of that stick. But now, as it dawned on him that Aya was telling him something that he actually did not know, something interesting at the very least . . . yes, now he paid attention.
His mind raced as he massaged the haphazard stubble on his round chin, scratching and rubbing as he turned away from Aya and gazed out the window at a tranquil pool set in marble, lotus pods floating in the still water. So Zahain had knocked up this waitress. What the hell?
Had she told him she was on the pill or something? Was the chick out to trap Zahain? Having a Sheikh’s baby is not a bad play for some broke-ass waitress with no future, Samir thought, and now some of the forgotten anger began to emerge again as he thought about Wendy the waitress. It was bad enough she had sucker-punched him in front of all his men. But now she was messing with his brother as well. Who knows how she planned to blackmail Zahain, disgrace the Sheikh, the entire family perhaps.
Samir had no deep attachment or loyalty to his brother, but Zahain had certainly made life a lot easier for Samir by
agreeing to be Sheikh, and Samir was grateful, even if he could never admit it. Samir had seen a little bit of what a Sheikh’s job entailed, and a lot of it seemed tedious and downright boring to him. Samir much preferred his carefree life with all the money and freedom in the world, and he was more than content to let his older brother Zahain conduct the seemingly endless Islamic rituals and political ceremonies that appeared to be the primary job of the Sheikh of Farrar, a job that Samir was in no hurry to take on.
But now, if this woman was going to involve Zahain in some kind of scandal or whatever, who knew what would happen! Perhaps the Council would decide that it was better that Zahain step down and allow Samir to step into his God-given role, thereby keeping the nation of Farrar free of scandal and dishonor. Perhaps the unspoken understanding between the Council and Samir that Zahain be allowed to remain Sheikh until Samir stepped forward would be nullified, forcing Samir to take on a job that he really did not want—at least not yet.
Samir turned back now, his gaze narrowing as he stared into Aya’s eyes that looked like dark slits behind that old veil. He couldn’t tell if she was grimacing or smiling, and he blinked and addressed her now.
“Did you hear my brother and the waitress talk about this, Aya?” he asked quietly. “Does my brother know? Was he angry? Surprised?” He paused for a moment as a crazy thought appeared. “Was my brother . . . happy?”
Aya blinked now, drawing a quick breath, breaking eye contact as she blinked again. “I do not know, Samir. I do not know.”
And then the woman was gone in a flash, her old legs carrying her away surprisingly fast, Samir thought. Now the prince was alone, and he stood there and stared at the cloudless blue sky beyond his palace walls. He was feeling strange—excited, fearful, alive in the strangest of ways. He felt clearheaded as he thought about all the possibilities—that Zahain might not even know yet, that Zahain might know and be furious . . .
Or the most unlikely of possibilities, according to Samir: that Zahain might know and actually be happy, might actually want this.
This last thought stayed with Samir for a moment as he thought about what Aya had told him about “preventative measures.” So his brother had been sleeping with a woman he barely knew, every day for three weeks, it seemed, and he never used a condom? What was he thinking? Had his brother lost it? Had all the wild partying of Zahain’s youth finally rotted his brain?
Samir didn’t know his older brother that well, but he saw the man for what he was: someone in supreme control of himself, body and mind, spirit and senses. Whatever the failings of his youth, Zahain had wrested control of his life back into his own hands, and from what Samir had heard, the Sheikh was respected throughout the Middle East for his policies and had even made a name for himself in academic circles in Europe and the Americas.
Yes, Samir knew of the rumors that Zahain had taken a vow of celibacy five years ago, but they were just rumors. No one had heard him say it out loud, and certainly it was by no means a requirement to be Sheikh. God, no! If anything, Zahain’s lack of any wives made him stand out amongst the Sheikhs of the region—and not in a good way.
So this could just be Zahain getting his rocks off after holding on for so long, after remaining “chaste” for so long, Samir thought. And who can blame the man for not wanting to use condoms? Those things felt awful! So perhaps he was making sure she used birth control. Perhaps he watched her take the pills every morning. Maybe it was a genuine accident. Who knows?
Still, something didn’t sit right in Samir’s round head, and now he started to chew on his nails as he felt an earnest desire to get to the bottom of it. This was REAL drama, and it suddenly made the boy feel alive! It was a rush like he hadn’t had in a while—after all, drugs and fast cars and violent TV were all getting old and boring. Nothing like some real life family drama, no matter how minor!
But how minor was it, Samir wondered as his mind began to wander again, this time back to his old attendant Aya. She always knew more than she told, Samir knew, and he could sense that she was holding back something about this. The woman had been loyal to his mother, and although he did not particularly like Aya, he did indeed trust her—with his life, if it came to that. So if she was holding back something, there was probably a good reason. But what? And why?
Of course, he could simply summon Aya and order her to spill the beans, but Samir knew this woman. She had practically raised him. Yes, she lived to serve him, but there was little he could do to force her to speak of things she preferred to keep secret. She had always played these little mind games with him, giving him a little bit of information to feed his curiosity, fire up his engines in the hope that Samir would seek out the answer on his own.
And so he stayed there silent for a moment, biting his nails still, and finally, with quick nod of the head, he gulped down the last of the tea, snorted a line of pure white Colombian cocaine, and stormed out of his room, heading straight for the Royal Library and Archives.
28
Two days later Samir had decided what to do, and after lunch he made the long walk from the South Wing over to the royal chambers, where he knew Zahain would be holding court with his Council.
The Royal Council was in session, and Samir quietly entered the stately session room. Portraits of all the former Sheikhs adorned the white walls. Thick Persian rugs embroidered in royal blue and imperial red covered the floor. A large verandah opened into a private garden, the carefully cultivated pygmy palms and flowering bougainvillea adding some life to the elegant but sterile room.
The Council were assembled around a large oval-shaped rosewood table, each member dressed in white traditional robes, gold headbands the only item distinguishing them from common citizens. Zahain sat at the head of the table, and Samir watched his older brother speak with passion and vigor, red-streaked beard highlighted in the natural light as the Sheikh argued for something that sounded very complicated to Samir.
Zahain truly looked like a Sheikh, a leader, a king even, and for a moment Samir hesitated, wondering if he was about to do something rash, stupid perhaps. What if the Council called his bluff? What if Zahain called his bluff?
But Samir was determined to move forward, and he sat quietly until the Council finished their regular business, which, as far as Samir could tell, was as complicated and boring as he had imagined it would be—perhaps even worse. But he was here now, and perhaps he would even make things interesting for these old men, yes?
And so Samir cleared his throat as the last council member placed his feathered pen back in the holder, having just signed some sort of resolution, or perhaps just a check—Samir couldn’t care less. He was geared up and ready, the tension gathering in his throat as he prepared to address the solemn, long-bearded men, some of whom had served under his father, perhaps even his grandfather.
“Members of the Royal Council,” Samir said, his voice high-pitched and squeaky. “Exalted Sheikh.” He glanced at Zahain. “My respected brother.”
Zahain nodded, a look of vague surprise, perhaps even amusement, in his eyes as Samir began to speak.
“I am gathered here today,” Samir went on. “I mean, I am here today, gathered before you. I mean—”
Two older council members were pulling at their beards, clearly stifling their laughter, and another member began to cough, covering his face as he did it. Samir began to feel a rage build up inside, and now he felt even more tongue-tied, his frustration mounting until he was furious, furious with himself, with everyone else too, with the goddamn world!
But Zahain spoke now, quietly, calmly, with genuine warmth that almost seemed fatherly, Samir thought. “Relax and speak freely, brother,” Zahain said. “There is no need for formality. We are all family here.”
Samir swallowed now, nodding and blinking rapidly as he wished he had either taken some Valium or an extra line of cocaine. He swallowed again, took a deep breath, and finally uttered the words he had come to deliver:
“I am here to announce my inte
nt to assume the throne of Farrar,” Samir said in a voice that shook at first but was steady by the time he finished the sentence. Now he could feel confidence within him, and he looked each council member in the eye, one by one, his gaze finally resting on Zahain, who looked a bit pale suddenly, Samir thought with some satisfaction. “Actually,” he said, leaning back in his camel-leather chair and crossing his legs, fingertips making a little tent as he examined the distraught faces of the council members, “since I turned twenty-one three months ago, I am technically already the Sheikh of Farrar. All that remains are the formalities. So let us get a move on, shall we? I would like the reign of Sheikh Samir to begin as soon as possible. I have so many exciting plans for our great nation of Farrar! In a year, the world will know our name, I assure you!”
29
“Samir. Can we talk?”
Samir looked over his shoulder, eyebrows raised at his brother. They had just left the Council’s session room, all the members filing out in some state of either shock or dejection. Zahain had stayed behind, hoping to speak privately with Samir, but Samir had stood and walked out behind the last council member.
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 10
