The Sheikh's First Christmas - A Warm and Cozy Christmas Romance

by Rayner, Holly

  "That's good, though. Right?" He was right; everything I'd seen on television about the Middle East was about violence and war.

  "It's very good. My country is blessed with rich oil reserves, and we sell to the U.S. and China. Our nearer neighbors don't need oil from us, and we send cash aid to countries who might otherwise find reason to quarrel with us."

  "What is it like there?" I asked, thinking of clay houses, sun-baked streets, and bazaars full of merchants. It was hard to imagine Sadiq in such a setting, as he sat sipping whiskey, surrounded by luxury.

  "Probably not how you think," he said. "Almarain is a prosperous nation. The capital, where I’m from, looks a lot like many American cities. The weather is different, of course—hot and dry most of the year—but life there is modern. People live in houses, not tents or huts. You can get McDonald's or Starbucks just as easily as you can here. There are more accountants there than shepherds."

  "What did you do, when you were living there?"

  "My family owns land. The land has oil. That is our business."

  I had a hundred questions about that, but something about his expression told me that he'd said as much as he wanted to. I decided to shift the direction of the conversation.

  "Are people in Almarain Muslim?"

  "Most are, to one degree or another, but, overall, the country is more liberal than others in the region. We're free to practice whatever religion we choose."

  "And what about you, Sadiq? Are you Muslim?"

  "My family is, and I respect their practice, particularly when I visit. My parents were more secular than their parents, who were quite devout. As for me, I don’t consider myself religious."

  "Does that bother your family?"

  "Like I said, I follow the practices when I visit, out of respect to them. My grandparents always assumed I was a believer. My parents knew I wasn't, but they didn't mind. Their religion was largely a cultural habit. They had no fear for my soul."

  "My mom was like that," I said. "We went to church sometimes, but only when my grandmother was still alive. She was really religious and wanted to make sure we'd make it into heaven, too."

  "Everyone finds their own way to express their love for their family," he said, and the sadness behind his eyes was back.

  Sensing I was touching on an uncomfortable topic, I jumped up.

  "Let's go outside," I said, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

  "Why on Earth would we do that?"

  "Look out there! Actual snow! And it's not too cold to pack." I took his drink from his hand and set it on the table beside his chair. "You can't waste snow like this. Come on!" I grabbed his hand and tugged him to his feet. He let me do it, watching me the whole time with disbelieving eyes.

  He had a good coat, but no boots, so made do with sneakers.

  "What about gloves?" I asked, pulling my mittens from my coat pockets.

  "Will these do?" He grabbed a pair of soft, calfskin driving gloves from a nearby shelf.

  "No! They'll get ruined. Don't you have any cheap ones?"

  "I do not." He sounded a little shocked at the idea.

  I huffed in mock exasperation.

  "Well, I guess you'll just have to risk your fancy ones."

  We crunched into the snow that covered his vast front garden. At the center of the lawn, we stopped, not speaking, drinking in the delicious, dense silence that only happened when there was fresh snow on the ground. Sadiq looked down at the snow, but I could tell his mind was far away.

  His attention returned to me abruptly when my snowball collided with the side of his head.

  "Are you insane?" he cried, shaking the snow from his dark hair.

  "It's just snow," I laughed. "I didn't even pack it that hard." I bent over and scooped up another handful.

  He was quiet for a moment, seemingly torn between irritation and amusement. Finally, he grinned.

  "How many life lessons am I going to have to teach you in the same twenty-four hours?" He grinned as he started gathering up snow, packing it into a massive clump. "You really think this is a smart fight to pick, girl?"

  I stuck out my tongue and flung my second snowball at him, just missing his head. I ran for the cover of some low bushes, stumbling as I hit a deeper drift. The giant snowball Sadiq had made slammed into my back, and I squealed as icy bits ran down the back of my neck.

  I made a few more counterstrikes before calling for a truce. We were both breathing hard, our cheeks red with cold, when the end of the snowball war was called. I stuck out my mittened hand and he shook it seriously.

  "Well?" he asked. "Does that qualify as sufficient respect paid to unseasonable, packing-grade snow?"

  "Not even. There has to be a snowman."

  He sighed and rolled his eyes, but dutifully went to work rolling up the base. It was, indeed, excellent packing snow, and we quickly had the snowman's body assembled.

  "He needs a nose," I said, regarding the snowman with my hands on my hips. "Do you have a carrot?"

  "Definitely not."

  "You seem quite certain about that."

  "Yeah, because carrots are food, and there isn’t a lot of that around here."

  "Seriously? You must have a huge kitchen in this place."

  He hunted around in the bushes until he came up with some red berries and short sticks. "Here, try these." I took them and went to work giving our snowman a face.

  "Don't rich people eat? Or do you pay someone else to do that for you?"

  "Hilarious, Annabelle. Yes, I eat. I don't cook, though."

  "You can pay people to do that, too. I'm surprised you don't."

  "I used to. After a time, though, I could no longer tolerate having people around so much. Eventually I sent all the staff away." His voice was carefully neutral. I glanced at him sideways.

  "I guess that’s why the bedroom was such a mess," I murmured, but apparently not too softly for him to hear.

  "My apologies. If I'd know I was going to be robbed, I'd have tidied up first. Perhaps put out some snacks and tea." He stepped back and narrowed his eyes at the snowman. "It's not right. What's he missing?"

  "He needs a hat," I said. I took the red knit cap from my own head and plopped it onto the snowman. I paused before adding the scarf. "Just a loan. Got that, Frosty?" I slipped my mittens off and put them on the ends of the sticks that stuck out crookedly from its sides. I wrapped my arms around myself as I started to shiver.

  "You're going to freeze to death to dress a snowman, silly," he said, coming closer to me. He rubbed my upper arms briskly with his palms. I inched closer to his broad chest, already feeling warmer. Our breath made clouds in the chilly air. I looked up at him. He was so tall. How had I not noticed that before? And he had a little scar, just next to the corner of his mouth...

  The moment stretched out, tension building. Each passing second made it more difficult to find something to say that wouldn't be ridiculous.

  He smelled good, like soap and ice and something else, something utterly male and entirely him.

  "You're so tall," I said finally, when I could stand the silence no longer. I needed to say something or kiss him.

  He tilted his head a little, smiling, confused. "I'm not so tall, Annabelle Christensen. You just happen to be very, very short."

  "I'm only slightly shorter than average," I said. "I'm five two."

  "That's good to know. In case my silver goes missing later."

  I punched his chest playfully and turned away.

  "The winter gods have been appeased," I declared, trudging back toward the house so he couldn't see my blush. My voice echoed over the snow. "Let us return to our castle and celebrate with a mighty feast."

  "The feast will have to be a figurative one," he said as he followed me. "No food, remember?"

  "That's okay," I replied seriously. "The gods are in the mood for Thai anyway. They know this great place in Belltown that delivers."

  He chucked as he trailed after me.

  We were still
grinning as we shed our coats in his cavernous foyer.

  "Hurry, you have to get the snow brushed off your pants before it melts," I scolded him. "You'll be wet for hours if you don’t act fast."

  "You're remarkably skilled at snow-related activities," he said.

  "No, you're just remarkably bad at it. Didn't you have snow days when you were a kid?"

  I shook out my thick blonde hair, running my fingers through the damp mess it had become.

  "Not so much," he said dryly. "It doesn't snow where I'm from."

  "Not at all?"

  "Not at all," he said, kicking off his sneakers.

  "So, I’m guessing your family didn't celebrate Christmas?"

  "No. Most Almarainian families don't, but I've spent time in the U.S. since I was a boy. We always tried to take part in local observances when we traveled. My parents believed it to be educational. But even so, somehow, Christmas just passed us by."

  All of a sudden, it made sense; why he was spending Christmas Eve alone in an empty, undecorated house. But right now our spirits were light. I decided to leave the subject alone for now.

  "You're like a kid from California," I said. "You’re aware of Christmas, but you have no idea what all that white stuff on the ground is in A Christmas Carol. You never got why Bob Cratchit was all about adding coal to Scrooge's stove when the temperature never falls below seventy."

  He shrugged. "My father didn't care for snow. He never understood some Americans' romantic fascination with the stuff. We avoided traveling to cold climates in the winter."

  "Well, then I guess it's not your fault that you suck at snow. Your parents really neglected this part of your upbringing, though. Every kid should spend some days half frozen. It builds character. I bet you don't even have hot chocolate in the house." I pulled off my boots and set them up against the door.

  "You'd be right about that." he said. "Like I said, when I heard someone knocking over furniture upstairs in the dead of night, I didn't realize I'd need refreshments for them."

  I started to tell him that we'd have to make do with pad Thai and bourbon when the doorbell chimed. Sadiq turned and walked the few steps over to the front door.

  The blood drained from my face when I saw two uniformed police officers standing outside.

  FIVE

  I couldn't believe how stupid I'd been. Of course he'd called the police. I'd stolen from him, then I'd returned to his home, harassed him, and dragged him out into the snow like a crazy person.

  "Oh, God," I breathed.

  "Don't worry, dear," Sadiq said, smiling broadly. "Your aunt will understand if we're a little bit late to dinner." He turned back to the cops. "Can I help you, officers?"

  "Yes, sir," the cop on the right said. He had a thick mustache that completely covered his top lip and heavy jowls that moved when he talked. "We're sorry to bother you on the holiday. We've gotten reports of burglaries in this area over the last few weeks, and wanted to see if you'd noticed any suspicious activity in the neighborhood recently."

  "I don't think so," Sadiq said. He frowned; his look of concern was perfect. "Should I be worried?"

  "Probably not. Just make sure your doors and windows stay closed and locked. You may also want to update your alarm system."

  "I'd have to be a real fool to leave my windows standing open," he said. I thought my legs were going to give out from under me. Maybe he noticed, because he put an arm around my shoulders.

  "You'd be surprised," the other cop said. She was younger than her partner, with a snub nose and brown hair cut very short. "It's easy to forget this time of year that not everyone is good people. Bad folks up to bad things, any day of the year. I mean, what kind of lowlife robs houses at Christmas?"

  I stared daggers at her. Sadiq squeezed my shoulder in warning. I forced a tight smile.

  "Indeed, who would do that?" he said.

  The first cop reached into his jacket pocket and produced a slightly-crumpled business card.

  "Well, if you see anything that doesn't seem right, or if you remember anyone hanging around the neighborhood who didn't seem to belong, please give us a call."

  "I certainly will," Sadiq said, slipping the card into his pants pocket. "Thank you."

  "Yes, thank you," I said. It came out in a high squeak, and Sadiq squeezed my shoulder again. I didn't try to talk anymore after that.

  "You have a Merry Christmas," the female cop said, nodding to each of us.

  I watched them follow the foot prints they'd left in the snow back to where they'd left their patrol car parked in Sadiq's driveway. Officer Mustache gave a final wave before climbing back inside. Sadiq and I waved back. We stood and watched in silence as the car backed along the winding length of the driveway, pausing at the turn-off to the street before backing out and driving out of sight.

  Sadiq closed the door. I staggered back and leaned against the wall, pressing my fingertips against my temples.

  "That's just what would happen, too. The day I decide to quit, the day I return a forty-thousand dollar watch—"

  "Eighty thousand," Sadiq corrected as he pulled off his gloves and laid them on a glass-topped table standing against one of the foyer walls.

  "Eighty?" I repeated, choking on the word.

  Sadiq nodded. "It was a gift, from a Sheikh who was a friend of my father. It came to me when my father left this world. I was quite relieved when you brought it back."

  "You're welcome," I said.

  "Don't sound so happy about it," he teased, smiling at the agony in my expression.

  "Of course I'm happy you got it back. It was your father’s, and anyway I had no right to... Eighty? Really?"

  He laughed. "That’s right, but it's not about the money. I don't care about that. It's sentimental to me."

  "Sentimental," I repeated. Sadiq's little keepsake could have gotten Marion well-launched into medical school. I didn’t regret returning it, but I decided it was a very good thing I hadn't known what it was worth before I had. I was sorry, but I didn't know if I was eighty thousand dollars sorry.

  "Now, shall we see about finding something to stand in for the hot chocolate I have so embarrassingly failed to keep on hand in case of snow?"

  I'd expected a huge kitchen, but this was something beyond. Row after row of gleaming chrome counters stood empty. I counted three, no four ovens, topped with cast-iron burners and stainless steel griddles. Hundreds of pots and pans hung from the ceiling at stations throughout the room. There was an entire wall of refrigerators, and a door that I guessed led to a walk-in freezer. Sadiq started opening and closing cupboards, finding most of them empty. He opened a door, revealing a walk-in pantry. I peered in at the empty shelves. There were cobwebs in the corners and dust on the shelves.

  "Ha!" he said, reaching behind an enormous can of crushed tomatoes. "It's not cocoa, but it will at least be hot." He showed me a small tin labeled in Arabic writing.

  "What is it?"

  "It's tea, and it’s very good. Not as fresh as I'd like, but still much better than what you have here."

  We hunted through more cupboards until we found a copper-bottomed teakettle. I hopped up and sat on one of the metal food prep stations while we waited for the water to boil. Sadiq crossed his arms and leaned back on the counter beside me.

  "Your father was friends with a Sheikh?" I said. He nodded, but didn't say anything more, so I prodded him further. "Seems like there'd be a story there."

  He shrugged. "It's smart to be on good terms with Sheikhs from other families. My father was never satisfied simply not to have them for enemies. He always went further, won their friendship. It was difficult to dislike my father once he'd decided to become your friend."

  "Wait, your father was a Sheikh, too?" My mind was flooded with stereotypical images; I'd only ever learned about Sheikhs in cartoons and comic books, sources whose realism I doubted.

  "Mm hmm," he said. "He became Sheikh when he was twenty-five, when my grandfather died. My father was the youngest
leader the family had known in centuries, but he was the best, too." His voice was heavy with defeat.

  "So, if your father passed away, does that make one of your brothers Sheikh? Or your uncle?"

  "It would, but my father had only sisters, as did I."

  "So... that means it's you. You're a Sheikh!" My words sounded so bizarre to me that I almost laughed out loud. "Wow."