Shelter for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 9)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Boys will be boys,” the teacher had said. Then, with a coy smile that Irene had found sickening even back then, added: “Trust me, honey, some girls would kill for the attention you get from those boys.”

  The teacher had glanced at Irene’s thirteen-year-old boobs almost accusingly, and for some reason that all came back to her right now as she hastily grabbed an expensive white wine from the shelf and held it up so Carl could clearly see the price. Perhaps he’d balk at buying an entire case of it up front, she hoped.

  Sure enough, “real man” Carl muttered something about having to see about his order with the owner and slipped away as Irene exhaled hard. She’d been all wound up, she realized as she felt herself relax. It wasn’t so much that she was threatened by Carl—hell, like all bullies he was a coward, and the years of smoking and drinking had taken its toll on the man. They were the same age, but Carl looked almost ten years older, with deep wrinkles and a light gray hue to his weather-beaten skin.

  Shit, this was the closest she’d been to a man in over a year, it occurred to Irene as she dallied in the wine section, waiting for Carl to finish up and hopefully slink away before he was forced to make good on his promise to buy a case of some pretentious California pinot. Was that why she’d tensed up around Carl? As far from a real man as the guy was, he was still male. And she was female. The body wants what it wants.

  She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the thought. She wasn’t attracted to Carl in the least, but there was no denying that her body had reacted when he grabbed her bare arm out in the parking lot. It was an unconscious reaction, but it was real and undeniable. Shit, she needed a man, she thought as she peeked out from behind a pyramid of Wild Turkey and watched Carl finish up and hastily head out the front door, presumably to pull his truck around back to load up.

  She glanced around the store, surreptitiously checking out the other men, feeling somewhat mortified but also excited. She was no longer a wife, she reminded herself. She’d grieved for Dan, and perhaps she’d always grieve for him. But even that bonehead Carl was right about one thing: Life might suck, but it goes on.

  She hiccuped and smiled when she got the aroma of the three shots of whiskey she’d downed with breakfast. She shouldn’t be driving, but she knew the roads and she knew herself. She was the widow of an American hero, wasn’t she? What’s a little drunk driving when you’ve sacrificed so much for your country?!

  “Would you have an overweight American widow?” she whispered to herself as she watched an attractive man in tight blue jeans and a sleeveless black t-shirt walk up to the counter and ask for a pack of smokes. The guy was maybe ten years younger than her, but what the hell. Guys these days were into older women—at least that’s what all the glamour magazines were saying. And the flip side of “boys will be boys” was that any woman could get laid whenever she wanted, that much she knew.

  Maybe I get pregnant, she fantasized as she watched Mister Blue Jeans put his wallet back into his pants after paying. Yeah, I have my fun, get pregnant, sell the ranch, move to Arizona or something. Just me and my baby. The two of us. Goddammit, Dan! One damned thing I ask of you, and you die without delivering. Is that what a real man does? Nope. A real man keeps his promises, Dan. A real man keeps his goddamn promises.

  4

  “But you promised!” came the voice of princess Mala. “You promised to take me with you to America on your next trip, Uncle Bilaal!”

  Sheikh Bilaal Al-Khiyani touched his left shoulder as he turned and looked down the long sandstone hallway leading from his day chambers to the west atrium of the Royal Palace. His fourteen-year-old niece was running full tilt towards him, her feeble attempt at a hijab coming undone as the warm desert breeze flowed through her dark brown hair. She looked like her mother, Bilaal thought. And like his own mother. Would his own daughter have looked like that, been blessed with the same deep green eyes that ran in the Khiyani family? Or would she have inherited the sand-colored eyes of his own beautiful wife? Only Allah and the angels know, the Sheikh thought as he smiled at his niece. Because that is where my queen and my unborn child live for eternity—in Allah’s blessed heaven.

  Life is for the living, the Sheikh reminded himself as he smiled at his niece and brushed away the often-considered thought that it was perhaps his curse that all the women he cared about had their lives cut short. Of course, the Sheikh was not a man given to thoughts of curses. If anything, he would have liked it all to be a conspiracy. And what a grand conspiracy it would be: his mother gutted by cancer of the blood; his sister and her husband killed in a helicopter crash over the Saudi desert; and his wife . . . ya Allah, his wife . . .

  “Slow down, my little princess,” Bilaal said in his deep voice, and Mala stopped in her tracks, almost falling over as she spread her arms out wide and grabbed the legs of two adjacent wooden chairs to brace herself. The old chairs barely moved, the heavy Burma teakwood as strong as the day it was hand-molded into royal furniture. Ironic that the body of a tree long dead is here, but the people for whom this palace was built exist only as painted portraits and fading memories, the Sheikh thought.

  “Disneyland,” Mala said obstinately, stamping her feet and crossing her arms over her chest. “All my friends have been and they laugh at me. They say I am not really a princess. They say if I am really of royal blood, then I would be able to go anywhere I want. Especially Disneyland.”

  Bilaal sighed. It had been three years since his sister and her husband had left this world, and he was still only just figuring out this whole parenting thing. He’d avoided the responsibility for almost an entire year, entrusting the young Mala to nannies and maids, tutors and trainers. Slowly he’d come around, admitting to himself that he’d been shying away because of fear more than anything: fear that it would open up wounds that had never fully healed, scars that still hurt when touched, memories that still tormented him when awoken. Memories of his wife, their lost child, the life that could have been, the life that should have been!

  Life is for the living, he told himself again as he watched his niece fume and fret, acting like a child when he knew she could be mature and dignified when the occasion called for it. She was full of life, it occurred to him as he watched her. She is one of the living, and that is what life is about. His mother had said that to him often in her last days. Life is for the living. Live for the living, Bilaal, not for the dead.

  But Bilaal was indeed living for the dead, and that was what had kept him alive in a strange way. That was what had taken his fascination with the world of intrigue and espionage to the next level, where he’d gotten serious about his training, impressed the no-nonsense head of the Khiyani Intelligence Bureau, convinced their international allies that a man of Bilaal’s stature could indeed be an asset in the war they were all fighting.

  “First of all, you are too old for Disneyland. Secondly, who is telling all your friends that you are a glamorous princess with fabulous wealth?” Bilaal said after faking a stern look. “A woman is defined by more than her bloodline and inheritance. You know that, do you not?”

  Mala pouted and looked at her bare feet. “Yes,” she said glumly as she looked up into his eyes. Then she twisted her mouth and raised an eyebrow. “But to answer your questions: First, no one is too old for Disneyland. And secondly, it was not I who told my friends I was a princess. They already knew. Someone else must have told them.”

  Bilaal frowned as he looked at his niece. The little scamp was many things, but she was not a liar. Bilaal felt a chill run through him, but he took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was being paranoid. The little one was in no danger. Her parents died in an accident, and what happened with his own wife and child . . . well, that was different. Besides, her Swiss boarding school was secluded and secure, and just the price tag ensured that only the wealthiest of the wealthy sent their children there. Yes, Bilaal had asked that her family background be kept confidenti
al as far as possible, but it was a small Swiss town, and after a full year certainly it would have been apparent that the ten large bodyguards he’d stationed in a chalet just beyond the walls of the school campus were not actually Arab businessmen who wanted a change from the endless sand dunes and boundless heat of the desert.

  The Sheikh paused for a moment as an attendant approached with a silver tray and placed it on the low table before him. On it lay the Sheikh’s afternoon tea, the sweet brew that he could not live without. There was a tall glass of cold milk alongside, a bowl of plump almonds, and another silver bowl with what looked like worms made out of green plastic and pink glitter.

  Bilaal raised a royal eyebrow as he watched his niece grab one of the fake worms by its tail and proceed to eat it. He glanced up at the attendant, who was trying her best not to smile. Everyone in Khiyani knew of the Sheikh’s aversion to sugar. Of course, not everyone knew of his addiction to this jaggery-sweetened tea. Sometimes it was good to be a professional secret-keeper.

  The king and his niece ate and drank in silence as the warm breeze carried the scent of palm oil and camel musk across from the sprawling balcony and through the airy day-chambers. The minarets of Khiyani rose tall and splendid just beyond the palace walls, and from the towers of the city’s mosque would come the evening prayer call. The Sheikh had stopped praying for almost a year not so long ago. But now he prayed whenever he was in Khiyani, often going to the public mosque and joining his people. It was for show, he told himself. To set a good example for Mala, who would eventually take over as Sheikha.

  Yes, the Sheikh thought as he reached behind the silk cushions on that old teakwood chair and pulled out a Mickey Mouse hat and tossed it casually on the table, right near the gummy worms as the girl shrieked in delight. Mala will eventually be Sheikha, because I will never dishonor the memory of what I have lost by having a child of my own. No, I will never allow myself to have a child of my own.

  5

  After surviving three days in Disneyland, the Sheikh decided he was now more than ready to handle the best torture-artists that the world’s clandestine organizations could produce. Now it was time for Mala to head back to Switzerland for a late summer session, and after that the school year would be underway.

  He’d considered traveling to Europe with Mala, dropping her off at school, and then perhaps visiting Greece or Italy. He owned houses in both Venice and Santorini, and Allah only knew what condition they were in after years of disuse. But Bilaal changed his mind when he thought of the last time he’d visited the Mediterranean. Back then he had a queen by his side and the promise of a perfect life ahead of him.

  The word promise stuck in his mind as he watched his niece snore gently on the flight to Geneva. There was another promise to keep, was there not? A promise made to a friend, a colleague, a man who had not been perfect or even good but was still a friend. Of course, Bilaal had dismissed the dying man's request almost immediately as madness. The Sheikh knew how the mind swirled in the moments when life slipped away. He’d seen it before. He’d felt it before. Certainly he’d said yes to Dan so the man could pass in relative peace. By God, it did seem to give Dan a sense of calm when Bilaal had agreed with his ridiculous, unfathomable request. It was almost like Dan felt his life was complete, that he’d accomplished the task for which he’d been put on Earth!

  The Sheikh brushed the thought aside again as his tea arrived, but that promise kept returning, even as he dropped his bubbly little princess off at school, met briefly with the principal and staff to check on Mala’s progress, and visited his bodyguards, who had remained in the town all summer just to keep up their feeble cover story.

  And then, without allowing himself to think too hard about what he was doing, the Sheikh boarded his silver jet and ordered the pilot to file a flight plan that would take them back to the United States.

  “Back to Los Angeles, Sheikh Bilaal?” the pilot asked.

  “Iilaa aljahim maeaha,” the Sheikh said as he blocked out the thought that he was insane, unhinged, perhaps even twisted. But it had been a year. There was no harm in simply paying a visit. In a way it was the respectful thing to do, yes? “To hell with it. We are going to Wyoming, USA,” he told the pilot. “Cowboy country.”

  6

  “You need to find yourself a cowboy,” said Doris, as she brushed down one of the horses while Irene washed out the water trough. “Someone who can help you with the horses. They’re getting split ends, for heaven’s sake.”

  Irene snorted so hard all the horses turned to look. “Let me know if you see a real cowboy. The local guys can barely walk straight after six in the evening, let alone saddle up a stallion.”

  Doris eyed Irene up and down for a long moment before going back to brushing out the knots in the chestnut mare that stood patiently staring at the two women with its big brown eyes. “It’s been a while since I saw you walking straight after six in the evening, hon.”

  Irene dropped the hose and stood up straight. For a moment she thought of soaking Doris up and down, but that would be mean. Besides, Doris was right. Kind of.

  “I can handle my whiskey, thank you very much,” Irene said quietly, her jaw tightening as she bent down to pick the hose back up.

  Doris sighed. “Hey, I know you don’t want to hear that shit. But if I don’t tell you, then who will? You’re all alone out here, Irene. God forbid, if something happened, who would even—”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen,” snapped Irene, kicking the water trough back towards its spot. “I got my truck, my horses, and my shotgun. And I got a phone, Doris. This ain’t the old west no more.”

  Doris took a breath and shook her head. Then she smiled. “Exactly. So why are you acting like a prudish maiden from the old west? You’re single, Irene, and you—”

  “I’m a widow,” Irene shot back. “A fat, drunk, widow. Even my husband didn’t want to fuck me, didn’t want to get me pregnant, didn’t think I deserved to carry his child, carry anyone’s goddamn child. Just leave me alone, Doris. Don’t you—”

  “Being alone is your problem, Irene,” Doris said, adjusting her bandana and then reaching out and stroking Irene’s thick brown hair. “I can’t stand here and watch you slip into this hole. The problem is, there’s only so much I can do to pull you out. In fact, there’s only so much you can do to pull yourself out. You need someone else in your life. Someone new. It’s time, Irene. Life is for the living, remember. So you need to live. You need to find the first attractive man and get—”

  “Married? Hell, I ain’t going back down that path for a while, if ever!”

  Doris laughed and shook her head. “I wasn’t going to say get married, hon.” She went up close to Irene and playfully pulled at her red flannel shirt, pushing Irene’s heavy breasts up for a moment. “You need to go out there and get laid.”

  And Irene finally broke into laughter, and soon the two of them were laughing together as the horses stamped their feet and snorted as if in boisterous agreement.

  “All right,” Irene said, pouring out two shots of whiskey and holding one out for Doris, who took it with a shrug. “Maybe I have been feeling a bit too sorry for myself. Maybe I have been overthinking shit a bit too much. Maybe I—”

  “Oh, stop with the goddamn maybes,” Doris said, downing her shot. “I want a promise from you. A serious, honest to goodness promise that the next guy who strikes your fancy gets the prize. Now drink up and promise me.”

  Irene took a breath and held the shot of whiskey up to her mouth, glancing into Doris’s smiling eyes as she hesitated. Irene took her promises seriously, that much Doris knew. So if she agreed to this, she’d need to follow through. She took another breath, taking in the pungent smell of alcohol as the horses moved restlessly as if saying just do it, you silly filly.

  “Screw it,” Irene said, slamming the shot and tossing the stainless steel cup over her shoulder with fla
ir. “You got it, Doris. Next guy who strikes my fancy.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  Irene paused and blinked hard, then smiled and nodded. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  7

  “Someone’s gonna die today,” the Sheikh heard a man say as he walked into the large, brightly lit gas station that was like an oasis in what seemed like an endless maze of winding roads with no signs of life except the occasional group of silent horses.

  Bilaal’s jet hadn’t been given permission to land in Cody, and he’d landed in Minneapolis and taken a commercial puddle-jumper over to Wyoming. He’d come alone, telling his attendants and bodyguard to check into the Ritz in Minneapolis until he was back. Bilaal wanted to be alone for this trip. It felt like he needed to slip back into the shadows for this . . . for whatever this was.

  What is your plan, he’d asked himself as he flipped through his secure phone and glanced once again at the information he had on Dan’s widow. He’d pulled it up one night shortly after getting back to Khiyani almost a year ago. He was still healing from that shoulder wound, and since he never took any drugs, including painkillers, his sleep had been fitful and plagued with dreams so dark he’d preferred to stay awake most of the nights. But the dreams came even through his pain-riddled days . . . dreams of death, of promises broken, of loss, of vengeance.