The Sheikh's Baby Bet

by Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Baby Bet

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Baby Bet

  Want More?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Holly Rayner & Lara Hunter

  Bought And Paid For: The Tycoon’s Sheikha Bride

  Want More?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Also by Holly Rayner

  The Sheikh’s Baby Bet

  Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2017 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Tiffany’s fingers snapped over the keyboard at her desk. It was just after six o’clock on Friday afternoon, and her office, in the tiny Middle Eastern country of Al Barait, was clearing out for the weekend. Like her, many of the travel company’s employees were American, working to bring wealthy Westerners to the gorgeous desert landscape of the Persian Gulf.

  Was it her dream job? Maybe not. But at this point in her career, she just wanted to flee bad memories in America, and make a new life for herself.

  She’d graduated from a good university, and tourism had been her major which almost overqualified her for the executive position she held. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her father was the U.S. ambassador to Al Barait, and had been for the past ten years. Tiffany knew the country intimately, had vacationed there during summers throughout high school and college, and—when the time had come to move away from her university town—she’d seen no other option. She certainly wasn’t going to join her mother in Florida, of all places. In her mind, that was where Americans went to live a slower life. To retire. And Tiffany Ashworth was anything but passive.

  Her stunted relationship with her mother didn’t help, either.

  A British woman named Mallory appeared on the other side of her desk, grinning at her from behind thick-rimmed glasses. Her dyed red hair fell in ringlets around her shoulders. “Aren’t you going to have a crazy weekend in the city, Tiff?” she asked, her eyebrows high. “You’re too young to work your weekend away.”

  Tiffany brushed her fingers through her long and luscious brown hair. She hated it when older people commented that she worked too hard, or implied that she was wasting her youth. “I have plans,” she said, shrugging slightly. “I promise.”

  “With a nice young man, I hope,” Mallory said.

  Tiffany batted her long lashes, and giggled just enough to satisfy the older woman. “Mallory, if I had a boyfriend, nothing would get done around here. You know that.”

  Mallory chuckled good-naturedly. Slowly, the other woman eased a finger over the power button on Tiffany’s computer screen, cutting it to black. Certain now that it was high time for her to leave, Tiffany sighed begrudgingly and followed Mallory from the air-conditioned building, into the steaming desert heat of the city streets. On some level, she knew that Mallory was right; her professional career was slowly eating away at her regular life.

  Mallory spoke in a bouncy, British accent, explaining that she and her husband were trying out a new yoga routine that weekend. “But he’s far too tight in his thighs,” she explained. “He can barely touch his toes.”

  Outside, she and Mallory hopped on a train, bolting back to the center of the city. Mallory and her husband, Jacob, had moved to Al Barait nearly ten years before, wanting the dry heat and the gorgeous desert landscape. “And if I were twenty years younger, darling,” she said often, “these Middle Eastern men are absolutely divine! Jacob says all the time how frumpy he feels in comparison. I can’t say I don’t agree. I mean, I am making him do just about every form of exercise I can think of.”

  Tiffany struck off by herself in the center of town, waving goodbye to Mallory as the train doors snipped closed between them. Striding across the train station, she let her shoulders loosen, and allowed her mind to wander. Her thoughts had been focused on prices of plane tickets that had been arranged for special guests, not to mention the constant fear that their little firm wouldn’t make its numbers this quarter. Instead, as she pushed into the revving streets of downtown, she allowed herself to people-watch. The city was vibrant, and international, with women dressed in bright, flowing dresses, and men in immaculate suits and expensive sunglasses. As she walked, she couldn’t help but smile.

  Tiffany’s good friend Zarina had been her first roommate when she’d moved out to Al Barait. They had lived in a tiny apartment, both of them earning meager salaries, and sometimes Tiffany had felt that she had made a huge mistake in leaving the US.

  In an attempt to combat her homesickness, Zarina had become like a sister to her: telling her about her wildest dreams, cooking with her, and sharing everything, including her small victories, miseries, and loneliness. Several months back, the friends had opted to live separately, in their own, one-bedroom apartments, more suited for the type of women they wanted to become. They had continued to meet up regularly, each complaining in ways they used to—at one in the morning on their kitchen floor. Each filling in the gaps of what they’d missed in each other’s lives.

  That Friday, Zarina had suggested they meet at a new cocktail bar and restaurant between their two apartments. With expensive drinks and attractive waiters, each of them wearing stylish beards and directing delicious smiles in their direction when they walked past, Tiffany anticipated a truly interesting evening.

  Poised at the intersection, just a block or two away from the restaurant, Tiffany watched as a sleek, orange supercar flashed around the corner, to her left. Whooshing between the other cars, it slid along the yellow line, nearly blasting into a group of pedestrians as it raced. Shocked, Tiffany gaped at it. The man in the front seat was wild looking, attractive, with his dark hair whipping behind him. His smile was firm, his teeth bright white. And, as Tiffany inhaled every little detail about him, she realized that she knew precisely who it was.

  The man was Sheikh Kazra El-Youradi, the notorious eldest son of Al Barait’s current Sheikh. Nearly every day of the week, his face was plastered all over the country’s tabloid magazines, which discussed all of his scandalous exploits. He was a prolific reveler and gregarious host, bringing in celebrities from all over the world to sail out on his yacht, to destroy his penthouse apartment, and to flit along with the most gorgeous models in the Middle East. Every time Tiffany saw his photograph, or caught wind of a story about him, her stomach flipped. Mostly because she was disgusted that anyone could live like that without consequences. And also because she had to admit, each and every time, that he was still the most handsome man she’d e
ver seen.

  As the car raced past the intersection, a gust of desert wind blasted into Tiffany’s face, mussing up her hair. Tossing her head back, she let out a sigh. With tentative fingers, she attempted to fix it, slipping the curls down her shoulders. “That’s another thing he’ll get away with,” she whispered, feeling suddenly grumpy. She could already hear herself complaining about him to her father, next time she saw him. “The nerve of that man!”

  Chapter Two

  Bolting across the intersection, Tiffany found herself at the front of the restaurant, watching incredulously as the orange sports car parked in the back lot. The maître d’ waved at her, spreading the fingers wide. “Hello? Miss?” he asked, giving her a playful smile. “Are you there?”

  “Oh. Um. Yes, sorry,” Tiffany said, her eyes still on the Sheikh. He leapt from the driver’s seat and strode quickly to the passenger side, opening the door to reveal a gorgeous woman, all legs and long dark hair. Beside them, another two sports cars pulled into spots, with similarly well-dressed men and women joining them. They seemed like a gang, each of them smirking, the weight of their finances off their shoulders.

  “My friend should already be here,” Tiffany said, feeling her cheeks sag with disappointment. Did this mean they would be coming into the restaurant, all together? She felt her temper begin to grow, making her heart beat against her ribcage. God, she wanted to turn her heels toward the door, push her finger into his chest, and tell him just what she thought of him. That he was an arrogant, self-serving asshole; that he was going to be the ruler of the entire country someday, so why on earth didn’t he act like it?

  “Girl. I’m over here.” Zarina’s words penetrated the air around her.

  Blinking wildly, Tiffany found her friend: tall and lanky, with black hair falling in coils down her back. Zarina wrapped herself around Tiffany, hugging her tight, and whispering, “I could almost hear all the vicious things you were thinking about that man,” she laughed. “Loud and clear.”

  “You know how I feel about all of it,” Tiffany sighed, sitting across from her. “It’s no use dwelling.”

  “Do you want to change restaurants?” Zarina laughed, after a pause. “Come on, girl. Just look at the menu. This place is going to be the bomb.”

  The Sheikh’s group entered the restaurant, rowdy and wild, and seated themselves at a long table near the bar. With a snap of his fingers, the Sheikh ordered a round of shots for the group, along with cocktails. The bartender busied himself, pouring Russian vodka, his movements deliberate and firm. The Sheikh began to tell a story about his previous party—a story, Tiffany was sure—they’d all heard before. But no matter: his friends still laughed at the right moments, playing the game he’d set forth for them.

  “Let me just pick a drink for you,” Zarina laughed, grabbing the menu. “I know you’re going to keep obsessing over them, but I’m thirsty.”

  “Let me just go to the bathroom and—um—collect myself,” Tiffany sighed, rising up. “And I’ll have a gin and tonic. I can multitask. I can be annoyed with them, and read the menu at the same time. Pretty impressive, huh?”

  Tiffany stormed towards the bathroom, diving toward the sink and splashing water on her hot cheeks. Her frustration was making her blood boil. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her so angry. So, the Sheikh was a wild party animal. Why did that bother her so much?

  She wondered if it was because her father was so intimately tied to the country. As the United States ambassador, he treasured his time in the Middle East, spoke highly of its people and its position in the world. All while people like the Sheikh—given everything since birth—seemed to belittle it, make it seem cartoonish and ridiculous.

  Giving herself a stern look in the mirror, Tiffany turned from the sink and made her way back to her table, determined having a good time. But as she passed the Sheikh’s table, her eyes on Zarina, she heard the Sheikh speak.

  “Hey. There she is. Waitress! Hey. You there, pretty girl with the brown hair. Come here!”

  Suddenly enraged, Tiffany whipped around. Anger shimmered through her arms, her legs, and her heart. Her eyes flashed. She now faced the Sheikh who was, indeed, speaking in her direction. He beckoned her toward the table, making an aside joke, “What’s her problem? It’s clear we’re out of drinks.”

  “What?” Tiffany blurted, glaring down at him. His handsome face was wide-set, with high cheekbones; a dark five o’clock shadow carved his jawline. His hair was long, but handled well, making him look gruff and animalistic, handsome in a destructive and fiery way.

  “We’re going to need another round of drinks,” he said, his voice playful and light. “If you aren’t too busy, that is.” He turned his eyes back to his friends at the table, tipping the last of his drink down his horrible throat. His arrogance bled through the room.

  Tiffany didn’t know what to do. She felt her pulse in her ears. Her lips twitched, wanting to blurt out the worst of her opinions.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, speaking in a high-pitched voice. “What was that?”

  After a brief pause, the Sheikh turned back to her. He coughed once, realizing that his normal waitress was actually still poised behind the bar, stocking liquor. He stretched his face into a smile, sliding his tongue across his teeth in an almost menacing way.

  “Oh. I see,” he said, clearly flirting with her now. “I do apologize, Miss. When we get thirsty, we get a bit rowdy.”

  “It’s to be expected, sir,” Tiffany said, her nostrils flared. Was that really the most snarky thing she could think of? “Enjoy your night.”

  But the Sheikh wasn’t going to let her off the hook so easily. Bringing his hand forward, he gripped her wrist tightly.

  “Don’t run away so soon!” he said, still grinning that horribly attractive grin. “We’ve only just begun.”

  Several of his friends had begun to titter, their eyes filled with questions. Why wouldn’t he just let the “nobody” go?

  “I have to get back to my friend,” Tiffany said, pointing toward Zarina. She was captivated in this moment, both a prisoner who wanted to be free, and a woman who couldn’t look away from his deep, impenetrable eyes.

  “Your friend can wait,” the Sheikh said, his nostrils flared. “Sit down. I’ll buy you a drink, if you tell me your name.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a good trade,” Tiffany said, her eyes flashing as she pulled her wrist sharply out of his grip.

  “You have nothing to lose here,” he said, scoffing. “Why won’t you just sit?”

  “Because,” Tiffany said, finally feeling the perfect answer on her tongue. “I’m not irresistible to your charms. That’s why.”

  “I beg to differ,” the Sheikh said, cackling. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  “I’m being polite. Or is that something else that’s lost on you?” Tiffany retorted, feeling her tongue flail with anger.

  “I suppose so. Because you look like a woman who would much rather date me than fight with me,” the Sheikh said. “And believe me. I could get you to go out with me eventually. Just another five, or six minutes of you standing at this table, I could have you on your knees—begging me to take you out.” His smile was smooth and confident.

  “Ha!” Tiffany scoffed, tossing her head back. Her heart hammered in her chest, making her feel wild. Turning on her heel, she strode back towards Zarina and her gin and tonic. After a brief pause, she called over her shoulder; “I’d never go out with you in a million years, Sheikh Kazra. The world would be a better place if more people told you ‘no.’”

  Once she took her seat, Tiffany felt herself quivering with fear. She fanned herself, drinking half of her gin and tonic in a single gulp. As she swiped the back of her hand over her mouth, she heard the actual waitress approach the Sheikh’s table. The waitress fell into a fit of giggles, as a result of his charms. What was wrong with her? Why was she so combative?

  Zarina gazed at her with saucer-like eyes. When Tiffany placed her drink ba
ck on the table, she said, “So. That went well.”

  “Spare me,” Tiffany whispered, shaking her head sadly. “I did the best I could.”

  “You really wouldn’t go out with him if he asked you?” Zarina asked, her eyes flickering, as if she recognized another truth. “I mean. Just for the story?”

  “I don’t live my life for the story, Zarina,” Tiffany said, eyeing the food menu before her. “Some of us have morals. Like my father. And like the Sheikh’s father. Unfortunately, old Kazra can’t live up to them.”

  “Suit yourself,” Zarina sighed.

  The evening went on as expected. The Sheikh and his friends trashed their table, jolting it with laughter until finally abandoning the restaurant after their umpteenth round of shots and drinks. Tiffany watched with sad eyes as the waitress mopped the top of the wooden table with a towel. It was up to the rest of them—the non-royals—to pick up the pieces when people like the Sheikh left.

  “That’s when he dropped me off,” Zarina continued, finishing a story about her recent date. “He told me he didn’t want anything serious, and that for him, settling down meant social suicide. He dropped me off at the door, not even a kiss goodbye. And that was after all we’d done the week before…” She trailed off, gazing at Tiffany with large, sad eyes.

  “That’s bad luck,” Tiffany said, drinking the last of her cocktail. “Why was he even on the dating app if he didn’t want anything serious?”

  “I think, sometimes, men just want whatever they can get, right away,” Zarina said. “And since I gave him that…”

  “Jeez, what a jerk,” Tiffany exclaimed, remembering a chat she’d had with her mother, years before, when she’d been warned not to let boys touch her, lest they identify her as “easy.” Tiffany and her mother no longer spoke very often.