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

by Rayner, Holly

  The kettle began to whistle, and we realized we'd forgotten to find mugs. The screeching of the kettle grew louder as Sadiq opened cupboard after cupboard, searching. By the time he pulled out two ceramic mugs and dusted them off with a towel, I was covering my ears and laughing. He dropped a tea bag into each mug and poured the steaming water over it. A spicy aroma rose into the air as the tea infused, turning the water a rich orange color.

  "Do we add sugar?" I asked, inhaling over my mug.

  "Just a little bit," he said. He broke into a sheepish smile. "If I can find it."

  "No sugar is fine."

  I sipped from the mug. The flavor was unfamiliar, but I quickly decided that I agreed with Sadiq that American tea couldn't compete with it. I was grateful for the warmth against my hands and in my stomach. I still felt chilly from our time in the snow, and didn't feel much warmer in the empty kitchen. I shivered, wondering if Sadiq bothered to heat this part of the house at all, since he obviously didn't use it.

  He noticed me shivering and frowned. "Come on. Bring your tea back to the study and I'll get a fire started."

  "A fine idea," I said. "Lead the way." I wasn't being cute; the truth was, I wasn't sure if I'd be able to find my way back.

  He built a fire, and I ordered the pad Thai. I learned that adding a generous slug of whiskey made the tea no less delicious. I curled my feet beneath me and wrapped my hands around the mug, finally beginning to thaw. Sadiq stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with a soft knit blanket. He unfolded it and wrapped it around me, cocooning me in its thick folds.

  I expected him to sit opposite me, in the antique armchair, but instead he took a seat on the couch, just a couple of feet away from me. He leaned back, drink in hand, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

  "Is your sister waiting at home for you?" he asked. This was the first time he'd mentioned her without the cynical, sardonic tone he'd used when I was locked in his panic room. He didn't think I was lying to him anymore.

  "No," I said. "She's spending Christmas with friends."

  "You miss her."

  The way he said it, the weight in his words, made me search his face, but it was impossible to read anything there.

  "Yes," I said. "I really do. She's getting older. She's not the homesick kid who went off to college a year ago. She doesn't need me so much anymore."

  "Well, I'm sorry that you have to miss her, but I'm glad for myself. It's been an entirely unexpected delight, this day with you, Annabelle." He studied his drink as he spoke.

  His words unbalanced me. I picked nervously at the edge of the blanket on my lap.

  "I deserve to be in prison right now," I said. "And I'm not. I'm not even alone at home. That place is so full of my mother, but still so empty of her. I'm grateful to you, Sadiq, for taking me away from there. And... I like you. I didn't expect to like you."

  "No more surprised than I," he said. The corner of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a smile.

  ***

  The food arrived, and we sat, cross-legged, on the floor in front of the fireplace as we hungrily pinched up bites of noodles with our chopsticks. In my haste I dropped a noodle, and watched with horror as it landed on the rug.

  "Oh, no. I'm so sorry."

  "Forget it," he said, waving his chopsticks dismissively.

  "But the oil, it'll leave a spot."

  "It's fine. It doesn't matter."

  "Sadiq..."

  "Yes?"

  "I feel stupid asking this.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “A Sheikh—what, um, what is that, exactly?"

  He didn’t laugh at my ignorance, as I’d expected him to.

  "It's a leader of a ruling family, in my case. A family in power. Sometimes a Sheikh leads a village or tribe, but that tends to be in more rural areas."

  "So, like, a Godfather."

  He looked at me in confusion.

  "A what?"

  "You know, like the movie, The Godfather. When that old man was the boss of the mafia family."

  "It's not quite like that. For one thing, my family's business ventures are entirely legal."

  "Okay, but you're still in charge."

  "Yes."

  "And your family has a lot going on, with their businesses and all that."

  "Yes..."

  "Okay, so, why are you here? Why are you all by yourself? And why isn't anyone taking care of your house?" I ran my finger along the countertop’s dusty surface and held it out to him.

  He looked down at the paper carton in his hands.

  "Annabelle, I'm afraid that we aren't yet good enough friends for me to tell you that story."

  His words were quiet. They made me wish I hadn’t allowed my curiosity to disturb this painful thing he kept so carefully hidden.

  "Okay," I said.

  "Okay," he replied, and rose to pour us more drinks.

  SIX

  "I can’t believe this! You weren't kidding!"

  "Why would I kid about this?"

  "It's a ballroom, Sadiq. You have an honest-to-God ballroom. In your house."

  I took a few steps toward the center of the polished marble floor, wobbling just a little. With each drink Sadiq had poured for me, the bourbon had gone down a little smoother. I tilted my head back and stared at the massive crystal chandelier that hung overhead. The electric lights at the center made spots appear in front of my eyes. I was only half sure this was really happening.

  "It's just a big room, Annabelle." Sadiq stood waiting in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest as he regarded me with amusement.

  "It is not!” I pointed my finger at him seriously. “It's a room that you fill with fancy dresses, tuxedos, an orchestra... It's a fairytale room. You have a fairytale house and you don't even know it."

  He shook his head.

  "Formal balls are not as fun in real life as they are in cartoons, little thief. At a real ball, everyone stands around and speaks very carefully. The drinks are horribly weak, and the laughter is fake."

  "I'd come to your ball and laugh for real," I said, closing my eyes and picturing it. I attempted a one-person waltz, turning in spinning steps around the floor.

  "I know that you would," he said. His words didn't slur the least bit. Despite matching me drink for drink, he gave no sign of intoxication. I, on the other hand, knew I would be leaving his house in a cab tonight.

  I stopped dancing when the dizziness became too intense. We stood at opposite sides of the room, staring at each other across the empty space.

  How strange this night had become.

  Earlier, as we shared our fireside Thai food and bourbon, we'd started trading stories of our respective holiday traditions. I told Sadiq about the almond cookies my mother had baked with Marion and me every year to set out for Santa. The recipe had been my grandmother's, and we only had the cookies at Christmas.

  "We should totally make them now," I said, struggling to my feet.

  "With what?" he laughed. "We hardly managed tea, remember?"

  "Oh, right." I sat back down on the couch. "Well, you tell me one of yours. What does a sort-of-Muslim family traveling in America do on Christmas?"

  "My mother hung stockings for us," he said. "That tradition doesn't just exist in the West, you know. Many people hang stockings or put out shoes to be filled with treats."

  "What did you get in your stocking? My mother always put in an orange, down in the toe."

  "Hmm, I'm not sure I remember," he said. "Chocolate, I think. And...yes, hazelnuts!" His face brightened at the memory. "My father loved hazelnuts and always stole them from us."

  "What about your presents?" I asked. "I mean, I'm sure yours were better than mine. I bet you got ponies and stuff, but did you have to wait until Christmas to open them?"

  "Yes and no," he said. "The first Christmas my parents ever tried to celebrate, years before I was born, was in Peru, where they were traveling for business. It's traditional there to wait u
ntil midnight on Christmas Eve, then eat a feast. That's how they did it for us.

  It was great fun as a child, being allowed to stay awake so late. We even opened gifts once—no, not ponies—played games, put on music..." He went quiet, his mind far away. When he looked back at me, his eyes were shining. "I've not thought about that in a very long time."

  "They were good days," I said, putting my hand over his.

  "The best days," he agreed.

  I held up my glass, and he touched his to it; a silent toast to those remembered times. We drank, and I thought about how strange it is, to treasure such painful things.

  The mood was suddenly somber, and I tried to lighten it by suggesting we partake in another tradition.

  "How about we play charades?" I asked, hiccupping. "I was always the best at it. They could always guess mine."

  "Charades?" His brow furrowed.

  "Come on. You don't have charades back home?"

  "I don't think so. But, anyway, this is home for me now, not Almarain."

  The way his voice hardened when he named the country made me more determined to get him laughing with me again.

  "Well, if you go back and visit, you should teach them. Everyone should know how to play charades."

  "I don't."

  I was in the middle of taking a sip when he answered me, so I could only shake my head to indicate how unacceptable his ignorance was. I handed him my glass and held up a finger—one minute—as I swallowed and climbed unsteadily to my feet.

  "Okay, not everyone gets a lesson in charades from the Christensen family champion. I'll have you know that I once got them to correctly guess 'Everything's coming up roses.'"

  He stared at me blankly.

  "Okay, fine," I said, "I guarantee you'll be extremely impressed by that after I teach you the game."

  "I'm sure I will," he said, the beginnings of a smile forming on his lips.

  "Okay, so, first, you show how many words the answer is..."

  I drunkenly explained how the game was played, and when I thought he was clear on the rules, I started to act out a charade for him to guess. Being new to the game, it took a long time for Sadiq to figure out my clues.

  Finally, understanding dawned on his face.

  "Breaking and entering?" His eyebrows rose in mock disapproval.

  I touched my nose, nodded, and collapsed backward onto the couch, giggling.

  "See? I am the master!"

  The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. He was gorgeous in the firelight. It was hard to think about him here, alone in this room, night after night. Something in him was so joyful and alive, but I wondered how much longer it would be if he stayed here with only his books for company, and only a bottle for comfort.

  "You're like someone in a story," I said, realizing as I did how ridiculous I must sound.

  "Hmm?"

  "You're like someone... I don't know. Trapped in a castle. Under a spell. You can't be real, Sadiq. This place can't be real. I feel like if I go looking for a bathroom I'm going to end up in a ballroom."

  His expression changed slightly, and my mouth dropped open.

  "No…" I said.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Seriously? You have a ballroom?"

  "Just a small one. All the old estate homes have them." He waved his hand dismissively and drained his glass.

  "Wow," I said. "Well, I guess that settles it, doesn't it?"

  "Settles what?"

  "I never got through your window last night. I lost my balance, fell off the trellis, knocked my head, and now I'm in some kind of Disney-inspired coma dream." I gave him a little salute with my drinking glass, and tipped it back, finishing it. I set the glass down on an end table.

  "I'd offer you another, but that might be unwise, unless you wish to spend Christmas terribly ill."

  "No, no..." I said, watching the fire. "I want...I want..." I turned to him and our eyes met. His seemed to grow darker.

  "What do you want, little thief?" He rested his hand against the floor and leaned closer to me.

  "I want to see the ballroom."

  He led me through the dark mansion, down two hallways and up a flight of stairs. The room was as dusty and neglected as he'd warned me it would be. There were covers over most of the furniture. When Sadiq switched on the breaker for the lights, two bulbs in the chandelier buzzed and popped, going dark.

  There was light enough, though, to see him as he strode toward me now. All teasing was gone from his face. The gaze he fixed on me was one of desire, and intention.

  I lay my hand over my heart, feeling it race. I felt... I couldn't name it. Was it fear? Desire? Or something else? It occurred to me that I hadn't truly felt anything in years. I had the thought, and then I didn't care that this was crazy or dangerous. I didn't care that I hardly knew him. I felt alive inside, and I knew I'd do anything to feel this way for a little longer. I kept my eyes on his, not moving, even when he was in arms' reach.

  He didn't hesitate before he put his right hand on my hip. It was a large hand, and a strong one. He slid it around my hip and to the small of my back. Spreading his fingers wide, he pressed me close to him. His chest was hard against mine. He held me against him and with his other hand found mine. He lifted my hand in his, holding it lightly.

  There was a question in his eyes when they met mine. I looked at him uncertainly, and then I thought I understood. I put the hand he wasn't holding on his shoulder and stood up straighter. He gave a small nod and smiled.

  Then we were moving. I wasn't much of a dancer. A friend had taught me a little, but that was years ago. Now, though, as I moved across the empty ballroom in Sadiq's arms, I remembered something she'd said: "Dancing with a strong partner feels like flying."

  Yes, flying.

  There was no music, and he kept the steps simple for my sake, but he made me feel as graceful as any leading lady gliding across a movie screen.

  He started to spin me and I stumbled, but he just caught me against him, holding me against his chest with arms like steel as we turned together. Then suddenly he stopped, and I saw that look of intention in his eyes again, along with another look, something that was almost like pain. I pressed my body against his as he lowered me slowly. My feet had just touched the floor when a clock began to chime.

  He smiled and lifted his hand, brushing my cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers.

  "Midnight," he said. "Merry Christmas, Annabelle." And he brought his lips down to mine.

  His kiss was everything I'd never known I was looking for. It was sweet and sure, strong, but almost teasing. I pressed up on my toes to reach him better, and his fingers dug into my back in response. A helpless sound escaped my throat as I clung to him.

  All analysis and confusion about my feelings for him dissolved into plain truth: with every cell in my body, I wanted him.

  "Sadiq," I breathed when his lips left mine. He held my face in his hands, breathing hard.

  "Annabelle... ya amar..."

  I stretched up, trying to kiss him again, but he pulled back. He wrapped his arms around me and drew a deep breath. A moment later, he looked down at me.

  "You almost make me forget myself, little thief."

  He released me from his arms and stepped back. I frowned.

  "What’s wrong, Sadiq?"

  He shook his head slowly.

  "I poured your drinks myself. If I were to have you tonight...” He looked away, his jaw clenched. “That’s not the man I am."

  I nodded, torn between embarrassment and lust.

  "Will you let me make you comfortable here tonight?" he asked. "I can take you home in the morning."

  "Yes, thank you," I said, realizing how exhausted I was as I stifled a yawn.

  I followed him down the hallway to a large bedroom.

  "You can sleep here," he said. "The bathroom is just through that door. You'll find everything you need in there." He smiled ruefully and turned to leave.

  "Sta
y with me," I blurted out, grabbing his hand.

  He turned back to face me, frowning.

  "Annabelle, I don’t think I should share your bed tonight."

  I don't see the problem, I thought, frustrated, but I pushed the words away. It wasn't fair to press him on this. It was just my own luck that I'd managed to find the last honorable man in Seattle.