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

by Annabelle Winters

  It was all so perfect, she thought as that trance came back, that trance in which she could barely understand what was going on, that trance in which she was floating above a desert kingdom, spires and domes all round, everything shining in the midday sun, reminding her that she was going to be married soon, married to a man she loved, married to a man whose seed was growing within her, married to a man who was inside her right now.

  This man.

  They climaxed together, the two of them barely needing to even move before their shared orgasms overtook their senses like two dragons laying waste to all that lay before them. The thick bulletproof glass shuddered with their convulsions, shook with their shivers, rattled with their reverberations. Around them lay the entire kingdom of Farrar, and although none could see into the dark tinted windows of the Sheikh’s high tower, perhaps the energy unleashed by the two lovers in their fiery embrace was felt in some way throughout the land, a beacon heralding the dawn of a new era.

  34

  “Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD!”

  Wendy held the phone away from her ear, wincing as the high-pitched squealing threatened to shatter the bulletproof glass of Zahain’s office above the clouds. It was Cindy all right, even though Wendy hadn’t heard her sister’s voice in a long time. Too long, she thought for a moment before immediately dismissing the thought.

  “Oh, I can’t believe it’s actually you, Wen! I can’t believe I’m actually hearing your voice! God, I was SO angry after you ignored SO many letters and calls and emails, but now I don’t give a shit because it’s YOU on the phone! But how did you get this number? Why not just call my cell? I mean, I’ve sent you my cell number like a billion times in emails and letters. Even that postcard, remember?”

  Wendy sighed. “Cindy, only a moron puts her cell phone number on a postcard,” she said sternly, immediately embarrassed at adopting that big sister (or perhaps surrogate mother) voice.

  “Hmm,” said Cindy. “That could explain all those calls with the heavy breathing that I keep getting. So strange, don’t you think? I mean, I keep calling back and asking who it is, but all I get is this heavy breathing, and—”

  “Are you f—”

  “Gotcha,” Cindy said. “Wake up, sis. I’m not that innocent little girl anymore. And even if I was, I’ve never been STUPID, yeah?”

  Wendy sighed again. “Yeah,” she said. “OK, listen, Cindy—”

  “So how did you get this number, anyway, Wendy? It’s my husband’s private line. He doesn’t give that number out to ANYONE. It’s pretty much for his outgoing business calls. He actually thought it was one of his clients at first. Because it wasn’t you who was on first, right? It was someone with a Middle-Eastern accent, he said.”

  Wendy sighed for the third time. Where to even begin, she wondered. I haven’t spoken to her in five years, and I’ve lived a lifetime in just the past five weeks! Where to begin? Where the HELL to begin?

  So she began from the beginning. The beginning not five years ago, but five weeks ago, when she was a waitress in Wisconsin, watching a caravan of black Mercedes limousines pull into the parking lot of Artie’s Diner as she and Betty stood outside in the summer sunshine, wondering what the hell was going on. In a way that was the beginning, wasn’t it? Nothing before that really mattered.

  And when she was done talking, there was just silence on the other end of the line. No squealing. No shrieking. Not even any heavy breathing.

  Because, as Wendy found out a minute later, Cindy had literally dropped the phone and fainted, sprawling awkwardly over her husband’s immaculately arranged desk. She came to just fine, to Wendy’s relief. Though Wendy was a bit annoyed that she had to repeat the best parts of the story.

  And when she was done telling it the second time, the shrieks came through loud and clear, the howls were heard across the oceans and valleys, and the love between two sisters rang out through the universe as loud and clear as any bell, whistle, or cosmic siren call.

  “Honey!” Cindy screamed, her mouth not far enough away from the phone. “We’re going to Foraa . . . Fahra . . . what is it, Wendy . . . oh, right . . . Honey, we’re going to Farrar! What? FARRAR! Yes! My sister’s getting married, honey. I said MY SISTER’S GETTING MARRIED!”

  “Your sister’s getting married,” Wendy whispered to herself as she listened to Cindy shriek and howl at her befuddled husband. “Yes, Cindy. Your sister’s getting married.”

  35

  Aya lit the third incense stick and sat down on her prayer mat, turning her face towards Mecca and reciting the first line of the evening Namaz, the ritual Islamic prayers. For a moment she wished she did have magic powers, like she had so often dreamed as a little girl. With magic it would be easy. Poof! The baby is gone! Poof! Her womb is barren! Poof! Aya’s job is done!

  But all of it was a pipe dream, Aya thought as she touched her forehead to the carpet and straightened up again, wailing out the last line of her prayers and staying on her knees as she watched the sun sink down over the distant dunes. Yes, it was just a pipe dream, because the baby was growing within the American woman, and who knew how many more would follow. The woman did have sturdy, child-bearing hips that Aya herself would have been happy to have been blessed with. But such was life. Such was luck.

  In a moment of madness Aya had considered administering the juice of a rare desert cactus, a tincture that was often used to effect a natural abortion, force a miscarriage. But the moment had passed when Aya realized that even if this child was not born, it was virtually certain there would be another soon enough, another child of Zahain’s that would be born while he was still Sheikh. Disposing of one child would not make Samir’s bloodline any safer, and who knew how long Aya herself would be alive to manage things.

  Besides, Aya was ambitious and manipulative, sly and twisted, but she had known the love of a mother for a child, and she knew she could never willingly hurt another woman’s baby. Hurting the American herself was also out of the question—even if Aya WOULD do it, she did not have the strength or influence to be sure she COULD do it.

  Which left only one option, Aya realized as she rolled her prayer mat into a tight log and placed it against the back wall. Just one option.

  Find a way to get the American to leave. Before the wedding. Before the birth. But by her own choice. Her own free will.

  And there were ways to manipulate free will, weren’t there? Yes, indeed, Aya said to herself as she thought about what one of the Sheikh’s private attendants had been talking about . . . something about the Sheikh asking for another American woman to be tracked down.

  A sister.

  A younger sister.

  36

  “Because she took the easy way out, Zahain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . .” Wendy paused, looking around the lavish dressing room that was the size of a high-school gymnasium. It was to be her dressing room, Zahain had told her, and as she stared at the plush red walls, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the rows and rows of empty shelves waiting to be filled, she almost felt like a hypocrite for what she was about to say about Cindy. “I mean . . . she married for money, Zahain. For security, safety, comfort, luxury.” She took a deep breath and looked at Zahain. “Money, Zahain. Not love. Just money.”

  Zahain blinked and looked away, his face clouding over for a moment before he forced a smile and nodded. Wendy felt a chill go down her spine as she glanced at the Sheikh. Oh, God, she thought for a panicked moment. He doesn’t think that I . . . that I’m only marrying him for . . .

  No, she told herself firmly. You are not Cindy, and Zahain is not . . . whatever his name is—Cindy’s husband. Paul or Ray or something.

  There was silence for a moment, and then Zahain spoke, clearing his throat first. “Well,” he said. “You did tell me that things were very hard for you and your sister growing up. Money was always a problem, and—”

  “Money wasn’t the problem,” Wendy snapped. “Food, shelter, and basic sa
fety were the problems, Zahain. Those were the goddamn problems.”

  Zahain took a quick breath, looking into Wendy’s eyes with some surprise before looking away. He spoke calmly. “Well, I know money is not the solution to all of life’s problems, but it is quite often the solution to problems like food, shelter, and basic safety, Wendy. And so one cannot blame your younger sister for—”

  “I was the solution to those problems for her!” Wendy shouted now, standing up and storming over to one of the empty shelves, stopping just before she walked right into the solid wood. She took several deep breaths, staring at the smooth dark wood as she felt emotions bubble up, emotions that she thought had been released long ago but had perhaps only been buried. “I solved all of those problems! For her and myself! On my own, Zahain. No help from a man! And if I taught Cindy anything it was that she needed to be independent, first and foremost. Always have the power to put food on your own table, a roof above your head, walls to keep you safe. And instead, at the first chance she got, she just . . . she just . . . she just chickened out.”

  “Chickened out . . .” Zahain repeated. “You mean by marrying a wealthy man before she was able to stand on her own two feet.” He paused. “You do not think she loved him?” he asked quietly.

  Wendy shook her head, still facing the empty shelves, still breathing hard, still fighting those unresolved emotions that were bubbling up at precisely the wrong damned time.

  “She barely even knew him!” said Wendy, almost spitting the words out. “Three months after meeting they were walking down the aisle!”

  Zahain was quiet, and Wendy’s own breath caught in her throat as she listened to herself talk. Three months? That seemed like an eternity now, now that she compared it to five weeks . . . the five weeks in which she had gone from zero to “Engaged-with-child-to-a-billionaire!”

  “Oh, hell,” she whispered, looking down as the obvious dawned on her. She felt flush, and she knew the color was rushing to her face as her head began to spin. It took a while for that realization to bubble up through the emotion, but it came up soon enough—so soon that Wendy wondered if perhaps she had always known it, even at the time, at that very moment all those years ago when Cindy looked her in the eye and said “I don’t understand why you don’t believe me, Wendy. I am in love. Don’t you see it? How can you not see it?”

  And now the words came, and Wendy stuttered and cried out, “Oh, God, Zahain. How could I have been so stupid? How could I not have listened to her when she swore that she loved him, when she told me that she knew it from the moment they met, when she called me selfish and mean after I refused to come to the wedding. How could I have been so . . . so . . .”

  “. . . so strong,” Zahain whispered to her as she took a step back and felt his presence right there, right behind her, supporting her like Wendy had supported Cindy for all those years. “It’s because you were strong, Wendy. Not stupid. Not selfish. It’s because you had trained yourself to be that person: unbreakable, untouchable, unmovable. You became that person for her, Wendy. But it came with a price. You lost your innocence, Wendy. For her.”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t—”

  “And I think she knows it, Wendy!” Zahain continued, his arms on her shoulders now, thumbs gently massaging away the tension from her neck. “That’s why she never stopped writing, never stopped calling, never turned away even though—”

  “—even though I turned away,” Wendy whispered, closing her eyes as she felt the tension start to leave her body as Zahain’s grip grew firmer on her shoulders, thumbs pushing against the center of her neck as she pressed back against him. “Oh, Zahain . . . maybe . . . maybe . . . I wonder . . .”

  But her voice trailed off as her eyes shut tight, and she leaned into her fiancé as he rubbed her shoulders and upper arms now, kneading and pressing as she sighed.

  Maybe, she wondered now . . . maybe I didn’t fail with Cindy. Maybe protecting her all those years protected more than just her body. Maybe without even realizing what I was doing, I protected her innocence while I lost my own. Maybe that’s why she was able to fall in love so easily, in a way that seemed so strange and alien to me . . . seemed so impossible to me . . . until now. Until it happened to me too. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, GOD!

  And she broke down in his arms as he pulled her close, smothering her with his warmth as she sobbed into his chest, years of tension and confusion melting away in the span of a few seconds, the coldness and hardness inside her dissolving in a blubbering pool of tears and convulsions, loud, gasping sobs that brought even more of what was hidden to the fore, and Zahain held her tight, held her close, held her the way she needed to be held, the way no one had held her before.

  Held her like he loved her.

  37

  “Oh, hi! Hello! Sorry, you must be looking for Zahain. I mean the Sheikh. He’s not here. He’s leaving on a three-day trip to Dubai in a couple of hours, so he must be in his chambers preparing. If not, then—”

  “I know where the Sheikh is. He is with the Royal Council, informing them of his wedding plans. He will be there at least an hour, and then he is to fly to Dubai for a round-table convention of local Muslim leaders. He will be back in three days.”

  Wendy blinked as she tried to see the attendant’s face, but it was evening now and the sun was behind the old woman—at least it sounded like an old woman.

  “OK . . .” said Wendy, squinting as the setting sun cast the hunched old attendant in dark shadow. “Then . . .”

  “I am here to see you,” the woman said, pausing as if trying to think of how to address Wendy. “Madam.”

  “OK . . .” Wendy said again, putting down her hairbrush and turning away from the mirror above the dresser, the same old mirror that perhaps still held the reflection of the way Zahain and she had made love against it not so long ago. She had been trying to get her hair up into one of those swirly old-style buns that she had always thought looked so pretty. She was doing it partly because of the heat, but also because . . . well, because she was getting MARRIED!

  Wendy smiled now as the woman stepped out of the shadows. Wendy could see her eyes now—the rest of her face was veiled in black, like most of the women who served at the Royal Palace. The woman’s eyes looked old, like they had stood witness to many things, but there was a sharpness in them, an alertness behind them, something that made Wendy pay attention.

  “How may I help you?” Wendy said sweetly, smiling wide and nodding warmly. “Sorry, what is your name?”

  Wendy always asked for a name when an attendant appeared, and although none of them actually volunteered that information, she kept doing it. So she was surprised when the old woman answered without hesitation.

  “My name is Aya. I have been with the family since before Samir and Zahain were even born.”

  Wendy was a bit taken aback, but she recovered quickly. “Wow,” she said, raising her eyebrows and holding the smile. “You certainly must have been with the family for a long time. None of the other attendants have ever referred to Zahain and Samir as . . . well, as Zahain and Samir. It’s always the Sheikh and the Prince.”

  Aya took a deep breath, her gaze sharpening. “I am not an attendant,” she said. “I am—”

  “—part of the family. Of course. Forgive me, Aya,” Wendy said quickly.

  It was Aya’s turn to be taken aback now, and Wendy could see her blink behind that veil, like she was surprised—perhaps pleasantly surprised. But Aya’s hesitation was short-lived, and that sharp look returned as the woman stepped closer to Wendy.

  “I will be brief, Madam,” Aya said now. “And please know that what I am about to say . . . what I am about to do . . . it is not personal, Madam. Everything I do is guided by the hand of Allah and my own sense of duty. I mean you no harm. I mean your child no harm.”

  Wendy felt a chill go down her back at that last sentence. As far as she knew, no one besides Samir had been told of the pregnancy. Sure, Zahain had suggested that word would have gotten
around the palace—especially after that not-so-subtle bout of morning sickness in the garden. But no attendant had ever dared bring it up in front of her. Of course, Wendy reminded herself, this was no ordinary attendant.

  This might be the first time I am seeing her, Wendy thought, but something tells me she has been watching me for some time now.

  “I will be putting forth a choice,” Aya whispered now, drawing even closer, so close that Wendy could smell the musk of sandalwood incense on the woman’s clothes. “A choice that you must make of your own free will. I have prayed to Allah for guidance, and He has guided me through intuition, guided me to this point where I offer you this choice.” She paused and took a slow, deliberate breath. “Do you understand?”

  Wendy was frozen in silence. The sun sank below the horizon now, plunging the room into a dark red haze, and she shivered even though the slow breeze was warm and gentle. She did not know what to say, and so she said nothing. She simply nodded.

  And as the red light faded to black, Aya began to speak. She spoke quickly, clearly, deliberately, and as the old woman’s words met the desert air, Wendy shuddered and shook as the seriousness, the gravity, the sheer madness of what was happening began to sink in.

  When she was finished, Aya handed Wendy a thick brown envelope. Then she left as silently as she had come, leaving Wendy alone in the darkness, alone with her choice.

  With trembling fingers Wendy opened the envelope, looking through the contents as the reality began to sink in. Aya had been speaking the truth. This was no bluff. This was no idle threat. She could make phone calls to confirm what the old woman had said, but Wendy knew it wouldn’t change the fact that the matter was in her own hands now. It truly was a choice. A choice only she could make.

  Indignation, anger, desperation, grief. Sorrow and anguish. Tears and shivers. All of it came and all of it went. There was no choice, Wendy knew. There was no choice because Wendy knew that her inner core would only allow her to choose one path. The path she had always chosen.