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

by Annabelle Winters

  And she is right, he thought as she smiled up at him, her big brown eyes filled with tears of hope, of anticipation, of desperation. She wanted him to make the right choice, but she knew she could not force him to do it. In a way she was submitting to him. She was saying, “Lead us, my king. Lead us, my love. Lead us, my husband.”

  And slowly it became clear to the Sheikh: She was desperately trying to make him see that now he was not just Sheikh of a kingdom but the head of a family. The choice he made would be for all of them. There could be no other way. If he murdered this brother, it meant the blood was also on her hands, on Sage’s grubby little paws, forever staining River’s impossibly tiny fingers. They would all pay the price together.

  So what is the choice, he asked as he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. What is the choice I make here? How do I learn from my wife and try to approach this with love and not violence? How, by Allah? How? What do I do? Ya Allah, tell me what to do!

  And then the answer came to him, and it was so simple he almost cried.

  “Nothing,” he said firmly. “I will do nothing. We will return to Khiyani. You, me, and our children. And that is all. The rest I leave to Allah.”

  44

  THREE MONTHS LATER.

  BACK IN THE WORLD.

  BUT NOT QUITE OUT OF THE WOODS.

  “By Allah, I was a fool to do nothing,” the Sheikh roared, holding the phone away from his ear and looking at Irene. Then he glared at the phone and directed his rage at the people on the other end: his head of security and the director of Khiyani Intelligence. “I said I want him tracked, found, and brought to me in chains, handcuffs, or a goddamn sack. Get it done, or I will put you in a sack and tie you to the royal camels to be dragged through the streets of Khiyani. La takhtabirni. Now!”

  He slammed down the phone and glanced over at Irene, who was sitting by the balcony of the Royal Palace, swathed in robes of woven silk, a color palette of deep blues with red and gold trim and the most intricate Eastern embroidery. Sage wore a little brown tailored tunic that came down to his knees. The royal tailors had presented him with matching pajamas, but the little prince preferred to run through the warm hallways of the palace without pants. Soon the adoring attendants began calling him Al’amir Aldhy Yartadi ‘ayu Alsarawil—the Prince Who Wears No Pants. And River was a dream, happy and perfect, content to feed and laugh and smile and grow as she watched the waters of life flow around her.

  Mala had flown to Khiyani immediately upon getting the Sheikh’s phone call three months earlier. He’d called her from that satellite phone and told her that he was alive, that he was sorry to have put her through the grief, that he was coming home and wanted nothing more than to see her smiling face. He also said he’d explain everything when he saw her.

  Of course, when he saw her, the Sheikh could not explain everything. He could barely explain anything at all. How to explain emerging from the dead with an American wife and two babies, one of whom was almost four years old but still his natural born heir! The truth was so twisted it would be easier to say it was magic!

  Strangely though, Mala did not press him to explain much. She was relieved and elated at first. Then she hated him and called him cruel and mad. But the anger could not last, and within a week she was her happy self again, a young lady of royal blood and upbringing. She was gracious to Irene, playful with Sage, and doting with River. And when the Sheikh explained everything by simply saying, “I will explain it all someday, my sweet Mala. But for now just know that I am back and you are safe and this is our family, always and forever,” she nodded and accepted it without question.

  The other brother had disappeared the moment news of the Sheikh’s return hit the Internet. At first it had been a relief to the Sheikh and perhaps the best outcome that could be expected. The Sheikh’s greatest fear—that this brother would kidnap Mala or perhaps even just kill her—did not materialize. The brother had chosen to run instead. Perhaps he would never re-emerge. It was something to worry about, but at least Mala was safe. Doing nothing appeared to have worked—at least at first.

  The first two months were wonderful. Chaotic, but wonderful. His return created a minor stir in the Middle Eastern world, with other Sheikhs sending gifts and good wishes, a few clerics in the Pan-Arab Council grumbling about the state of the world when Sheikhs were marrying American women willy-nilly, and Arab gossip websites having a field day with the back-from-the-dead Sheikh and his beautiful mixed-race family.

  After returning to Wyoming to check that Beauty and the horses were all right, they had all moved to Khiyani (horses included, though the Sheikh had to install air-conditioning in their stables as they got acclimatized to the heat), and it was wonderful. Irene took to her new role as queen with vigor and grace, and the attendants of the palace were delighted to have the energy of new life in the old hallways, with Sage the pantless prince splashing through the fountains of the courtyard while River tried to suckle at every female attendant’s breast to the point where she was given a nickname too—Amirat Ghadibat min Algharb—that Irene was slightly disturbed to learn translated as “Hungry Princess of the West.”

  Nicknames aside, it all seemed like a honeymoon to Irene and the Sheikh—just with two kids along. And the spaciousness of the palace, the thick walls of sandstone, and the many trustworthy and loyal attendants made it quite easy for the two of them to enjoy at least some of their honeymoon in private, so at the end of the second month, when River was three months old, Irene broke the news:

  “I’m late,” she said one morning to him as he scanned the headlines of one of the ten Arabic newspapers he read at the breakfast table, which was bigger than Irene’s old ranch-house kitchen.

  “A queen can never be late, because nothing begins until the queen arrives,” the Sheikh had said without thinking. Then he crumpled the newspaper as his fists closed tight. “Ya Allah, wait. You mean to say . . .”

  “I mean to say that you’d better order the royal bathtub to be filled and ready in nine months,” she’d whispered, blushing slightly as she saw her personal attendant flash an involuntary smile before quickly regaining her poise. “And I’m not lying about the timing on this one.”

  The Sheikh had been overjoyed, and he’d taken her in his arms, gathered both his other babies close, and roared in delight. But slowly, over the next few weeks, as the Sheikh thought about a new child coming to this world, a defenseless innocent of his own blood that he was sworn to protect, those old habits of paranoia and distrust began to seep back into him.

  “He is out there,” he’d muttered to Irene as the three month mark approached. “Who knows where he is, what he is planning. The news of your pregnancy will be public soon. It may drive him to try something.”

  “What? Are you insane?” Irene had answered, shaking her head like she was trying to get a persistent fly away from her. “The boy is probably shivering in fear somewhere! You killed his father, his uncles, and his brother. You are a billionaire king with the training of a Navy SEAL. From what I can tell, the boy is a sensitive, talented playwright who has neither the gumption nor the resources to threaten any of us. Let it go, Bilaal. Let it go, please.”

  “You know nothing about him. But I will concede your point. Here’s what I will do: I will just have him brought here,” the Sheikh had said. “Just for a chat. Some sweet tea, almonds, red dates, and conversation. That is all.”

  “So you’re going to hunt him down and bring him to your kingdom, your palace, your domain. Where you make the rules. Don’t you think that will make him more afraid rather than less? Doesn’t that increase the risk that he does something reckless or dangerous? Doing nothing has worked so far. He is no danger to your niece at her fortress of a school. It is time to let go. Time will heal us all, Bilaal. Just let it go.”

  But the Sheikh could not let it go, and eventually he put the order out to his head of security and the director of Khiya
ni Intelligence. And once he did it, those old habits kicked in, and the Sheikh became obsessed with finding him. He ordered daily updates on the status of the search, getting increasingly agitated when his men turned up with nothing. He considered calling John Benson for CIA help, but better sense prevailed. After all, deep down the Sheikh did not know what he would do with this other brother once he was brought in. Yes, he truly intended to talk to the boy. But who knew where that would lead? What if the boy spat in his face and swore vengeance for the next ten generations? What would the Sheikh do then?

  The obsession grew over the course of their third month back, and by then Bilaal was openly berating his head of security over the phone, often in front of Irene and the children, once even on a day-trip out to the open desert, when Mala had come down from Switzerland to visit.

  And then, four days after Mala returned to school for the last segment of her senior year, the call came in:

  “Swiss police have put their top detectives on it,” said the head of the school, his voice shaking as he informed the Sheikh that Mala had been missing for twelve hours and although there was no indication of violence or foul play, they were treating it with the utmost seriousness.

  The Sheikh left Khiyani that night, his face the color of sin, his eyes harder than steel, his blades sharpened, his guns loaded, his top men filling the seats of his private jet.

  “Utmost seriousness is what the head of the school told me,” he thundered to John Benson over the phone while asking for the CIA’s help. “By Allah, John, I will have his Swiss head turned into Swiss cheese when this is over.”

  And Irene said nothing but goodbye and goodluck when he left. She was true to her word that she was his wife no matter what. In happiness and sorrow, sickness and health, love and violence.

  45

  NINE MONTHS LATER.

  ONE YEAR BACK IN THE WORLD.

  BUT SOMEHOW DEEPER IN THE WOODS.

  The Sheikh returned to Khiyani gaunt and weary, the luster of his hair dulled, the light in his green eyes replaced by the cold fire of vengeance. But vengeance had eluded him, with even the CIA turning up nothing on either Mala or this other brother. The Sheikh’s men had interrogated everyone at the school, to the point where other parents were expressing concern for the safety of their own children at the hands of the burly Khiyani Security Force personnel, who were not always the most polite, with the Sheikh breathing down their necks.

  “You need to come home, Bilaal,” Irene had told him over the phone. “The twins will be here soon. They will want to look upon their father when they open their eyes for the first time. Please, Bilaal.”

  Irene had been patient and silent as the Sheikh scoured the world looking for his niece and this other brother. Mala’s disappearance had almost broken her—indeed, she felt responsible: After all, it was Irene’s naiveté that had convinced the Sheikh to “leave to it the compassion of Allah” or some such sentimental nonsense. Perhaps the Sheikh had been right. In the real world sometimes you need to stab the problem in the eyeball to get what you want, to protect the ones you love.

  She’d often watched her children sleep as she stayed awake, alone in the desert, anxiously waiting for a call from her husband as he roamed the land, polished steel and gun-metal at his side, burning hatred and growing despair in his heart. What would I do for my children, she’d asked as she almost drove herself to sickness from the guilt of stopping Bilaal from taking care of things his way. How could I have been so stupid? A teenage girl is probably dead in a hole somewhere because of my selfishness!

  And it was selfishness, she knew. The same selfishness of which she’d accused Bilaal. How would he ever forgive her? How would their marriage ever survive? How could he ever look at her and not think of his niece who was surely dead by now. Perhaps even the brother had killed himself: After all, it had been almost nine months since Mala’s kidnapping. Would Bilaal leave her once his search was done? Would he take her children? Or would he simply abandon them all? Would he keep her his queen but stay cold and silent for the rest of his days, always blaming her for what she’d made him do or not do? Was she still being selfish thinking about her own marriage and children at a time like this? What kind of a person was she?!

  In the midst of all this she’d found out that her pregnancy was twins, and as her body filled out again and those hormones went haywire, the lack of sleep and the concern for Bilaal, Mala, and the possible end of her marriage had taken Irene to the edge many times. Still, she always found her way back—because somewhere deep down she still had faith that love would win over violence.

  Of course, she knew that violence would be the order of the day once Bilaal found the other brother, and she was prepared for it. A part of her even welcomed it: After all, Irene was a frontier-woman at the end of it. If this brother had indeed done what everyone feared, then she wouldn’t waste her breath trying to save his ass. There was a part of her that understood how justice worked in the old world, that sometimes justice has to be harsh and swift. But now, with her due date approaching, Irene needed the Sheikh’s love. And she knew he could probably use a little love in his life as well.

  “I will be there,” he’d said stoically over the phone, not a hint of that boundless joy that had consumed him when he’d heard she was pregnant nine months ago. “Yes, of course, Irene.”

  The Sheikh kept his word, and the Royal Palace was bustling with activity and anticipation when the big day arrived. Needless to say, there was no bathtub this time. Although Irene had considered delivering the twins with just her attendants and a midwife, she decided against it. The past nine months had been stressful on her mind and body, and she didn’t want to take the chance of anything going wrong. Especially with twins.

  So they’d prepared the Royal Infirmary for the arrival of the royal twins, and on the morning of the day, when Irene’s water broke in spectacular fashion in their royal chambers, she was pleased to see the Sheikh’s handsome face light up with anxiousness and excitement as he bellowed for the doctors and handmaidens to get in there because his children were ready to arrive.

  But as Irene went into full labor for that imminent arrival, another arrival was announced, and this time Irene thought the Sheikh really would pass out on his feet:

  “Sheikh Bilaal,” gasped the breathless attendant who’d sprinted the entire way from the eastern entrance of the Royal Palace, which would have been almost a mile of twisted hallways and winding courtyards, with portraits of old kings and queens staring down from the sandstone walls. “She is here. The princess.”

  “What?” the Sheikh had asked, confused for a moment as he glanced over at his daughter, Princess River, who was in the arms of an attendant in the room with them. As before, Irene had insisted her children be present at the birth, so they understood that childbirth was natural and normal. “What are you saying? Speak, or I will—”

  “Princess Mala!” shouted the attendant as he fell to the floor, dripping with sweat, his eyes wide. “She is here, my Sheikh! The princess is here! She is alive. Allah hu Akbar! She is alive!”

  46

  “Go!” Irene gasped through an explosive exhalation. “It’s going to be a little while for me still. Go, Bilaal. Go to her!”

  The Sheikh tore out of the room, almost barreling through the solid teakwood doors as the attendants pulled them open just in time. Behind him ran his personal attendants as well as Mala’s handmaidens and even her old nannies. The atmosphere in the palace was electric, with the queen panting and puffing in labor, two new royal babes on the way, and what appeared to be another miraculous return from the dead.

  “Mala!” roared the Sheikh as he finally made it to the anteroom in the eastern wing. By then he was almost mad with adrenaline, a part of him wondering how it could be true, another part of him convinced that it was a mistake of some kind and that someone would pay for that mistake with his life. “Is it true?
Where are you, my sweet Mala?!”

  He did not see her at first, perhaps not able to believe it. But when he wiped the tears from his eyes there she stood, upright and smiling, not a scratch on her brown face, not a hint of pain in her eyes. Her eyes looked different though. No longer the eyes of a child.

  “I heard that I will have two new cousins soon,” she said, gasping as the Sheikh almost crushed her with his embrace as cries of Inshallah and Barakallah rose up from the crowd of attendants who’d loved Mala like their own. “So I thought it was time to return to the land of the living.”

  It took a moment for the Sheikh to understand what she was saying. “What do you mean? Do you mean to say you . . . you . . . ran away!?”

  Mala shrugged her narrow shoulders, her mouth twisting but her eyes staying focused and strong. “Ran away sounds so childish. I prefer off-the-grid. That is the term you used, yes?”

  The Sheikh rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. “The term I used . . . ya Allah, Mala! Is this some act of getting back at me for what I put you through? Are you . . . are you mad?! You did this to teach me a lesson?”

  Mala shook her head firmly. “Of course not. The lesson was just a side-effect of my act. It is ironic, but it was not the point. I do not harbor that need for revenge and payback like my powerful uncle, the Sheikh. It was not the purpose of my disappearance.”