by Kristi Gold
The Sheikh’s Bidding
KRISTI GOLD
KRISTI GOLD
has always believed that love has remarkable healing powers and greatly enjoys writing books featuring romance and commitment. As a bestselling author and Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she’s learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from the most unexpected places, namely from stories shared by readers. She welcomes all readers to contact her through her Web site at http://kristigold.com or by mail at P.O. Box 11292, Robinson, TX 76716.
To Sandy R. for her expertise and her heart of gold.
And to those who go beyond tolerance and embrace acceptance, acknowledging that true love knows no cultural boundaries.
One
“Now, who’s going to bid first on this fine little lady?”
Andrea Hamilton shifted nervously on the platform situated in the middle of Winwood Farm’s impressive arena, wearing the only dress she owned and a self-conscious smile. Resentful of being called “a fine little lady,” she reminded herself that the benefit auction was for a good cause, the reason why she had agreed to donate two months’ worth of horse-training services. In turn, she was throwing herself onto the block at the risk of being passed over for someone with more experience.
“Come on, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer pleaded. “Give her a chance. She’s good.”
“At what?” a stumbling drunk in a disheveled tuxedo called from the corner.
Andi shot him a scathing look that he didn’t seem to heed, evident from his sickening leer. Now nearing the end of the event, the remaining patrons continued to mill around, paying little attention when the auctioneer called her name again. What if no one even bothered to offer the minimum?
“Five hundred dollars,” the drunk called out.
So much for that theory.
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
The murmuring crowd was suddenly silenced at the sound of the booming voice delivering the astronomical bid from the back of the arena. Andi froze with her mouth agape, unable to fathom who would make such an offer.
“Fifty-thousand. Going once, going twice! Sold to the gentleman near the door!”
Andi craned her neck to try to see the mystery bidder, but because of her small stature, she only caught a glimpse of the back of a man in traditional Arab dress leaving the building. Royalty, she assumed. Not at all uncommon in racing circles.
Perhaps he had more money than sense. Or it could be that he had questionable intentions. She certainly hoped he understood that he was buying only her training expertise. If he counted on another kind of assistance, he would be sorely disappointed. She had no intention of letting him near her, even if he’d offered fifty million dollars.
With a muttered thank-you directed at the auctioneer, Andi sprinted down the steps as fast as the silly high heels would let her, passed her drink off to a roving waiter and shoved her way through the crowd to the exit at the side of the building. She escaped into the warm Kentucky night, grateful to leave behind the well-heeled racing society, not to mention the drunk. Now she could be on her way home and worry about the phantom bidder tomorrow.
Once she made it to the walkway leading to the front parking lot, an imposing dark-skinned man wearing an equally dark suit blocked her path.
“Miss Hamilton, the sheikh would like to speak with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“He is the one who bought your services and he wishes to have a word with you.” The man gestured toward a black limousine that spanned a good deal of the nearby curb.
No way, no how, would Andi get into a limo with a stranger even if he was some prince who’d invested a great deal of money to benefit a children’s clinic. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out her card. “Here. Have him call me on Monday. We can discuss the terms then.”
“He insists that he see you tonight.”
Andi’s patience scattered in the breeze. “Look, mister, I insist I’m not interested in doing that right now. Please tell your boss that I appreciate the gesture and I look forward to meeting him soon.” Very far from the truth.
The man looked totally composed, unmovable. “He said that if you give me trouble, I am to present a question.”
How weird was this going to get? “What question?”
He averted his gaze for a moment, the only hint of discomfort in his staid expression. “He asks do you still hang your dreams on the stars?”
Andi’s heart vaulted into her throat and rapidly fluttered in a frightening rhythm. Haunting memories whirled her back to a time seven years before. Memories of lying in a field of grass beneath a predawn sky, alone, immersed in tears until he had come to her. Memories of a sensual awakening that had begun with tragedy and ended with bittersweet bliss. One special moment, one unforgettable man.
One true love.
Why hang your dreams on the stars, Andrea? Why not something more tangible?
His voice came back to her then, mellow and deep and seductively dangerous. That night in her grief she had turned to him, only to be left behind, left alone except for one precious gift that served to remind her every day what she could never have.
Andi trembled and chafed her palms down her arms, suddenly chilled. “And this man’s name?” she asked, although she feared she already knew the answer.
“Sheikh Samir Yaman.”
Andi had known him only as Sam, known only of his family’s wealth, not his title. He’d been her big brother’s best friend who’d spent the better part of his college days at their home as an adopted member of the family. She’d been a teenager smitten by an “older” exotic man who had teased her mercilessly, saw her only as Paul’s kid sister, until that night a few weeks after she’d turned eighteen when unforeseen tragedy had created new life. Ironically, only hours before, another life had been taken away.
But that was ages ago, water under the proverbial bridge, and she didn’t want to unearth the pain or face him again, knowing she ran a great risk by doing so, both to her heart and the secret she had hidden from him for years.
The man walked to the limo’s door and opened it wide. “Miss Hamilton?”
“I don’t—”
“Get in, Andrea.”
The deep timbre of the magnetic voice drew her forward against her will. She suddenly found herself sliding into the limo as if she had no control over her body or mind. How familiar that concept. From the moment she’d met him, he’d held her captive with his charms, his easy manner, his air of mystery, eventually his touch.
The door closed and a small light snapped on, revealing a man reclining against the rear plush, leather seat facing Andi. A man who was anything but a stranger to her—at least he hadn’t been at one time in her life. She stared at him for a long moment, her heart creating a furious cadence in her chest as if it wanted to escape as badly as she did. Yet she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak when her gaze made contact with his intense eyes.
He raked the kaffiyeh from his head as if to prove he was the man she’d known all those years ago. But he wasn’t quite the same. The changes were subtle, no doubt brought about by maturity, yet she couldn’t deny he was still beautiful, with the same thick, dark hair that curled at his nape, same masculine jaw, same wonderful mouth now framed by a shading of evening whiskers. Although his near-black eyes held the familiar elusiveness, they also looked weary, not bright and youthful as before. She imagined hers mirrored that disillusionment, only now they more than likely revealed her shock.
Andi struggled to stay strong in his presence. “What are you doing here, Sam?”
His high-impact smile appeared, gleaming white against his caramel-colored skin, revealing the single dimple creasin
g his left cheek. Yet he seemed to be fighting the smile as much as Andi was fighting her reaction to it. “It’s been a while since anyone has called me that.” He gestured toward the small built-in bar to his left. “Would you like something to drink, Andrea?”
Something to drink? He expected to waltz back into her life after all these years and ply her with pleasantries?
Andi welcomed the force of her sudden anger, the anchor it provided against the sea of emotions. “No, I don’t want a drink. I want to know why you’re here. I haven’t heard a word from you since Paul’s funeral. Not one word.”
He shifted in his seat and glanced away. “That was necessary, Andrea. I had obligations to fulfill in my country.”
And none to her, Andi decided. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a sheikh?”
He pinned her in place with his dark gaze. “Would that have made a difference? Would you have understood what that entailed?”
Probably not. It also didn’t change the fact that he’d disappeared without any explanation. Regardless of his status, she was hard-pressed to understand a concept as foreign to her as the clothes he now wore. “So why did you come back?”
“Because I couldn’t allow another day to pass without seeing you again.”
Andi hated the tiny flutter of her pulse, the glimmer of hope in her heart. “Well, that’s great. What did you hope to accomplish after all this time?”
He slipped out of his robes, the final garment that distinguished ordinary man from revered royalty, and tossed them aside, leaving him dressed in a white tailored shirt and black slacks. Try as she might, Andi couldn’t help but notice the breadth of his chest and the spattering of dark hair revealed at his open collar. In a matter of years he had gone from a boyishly handsome college student to a devastatingly gorgeous man. And she would be smart to ignore those differences, the heat coursing through her traitorous body.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “I need to know if what I have discovered is true.”
A stab of fear impaled Andi’s chest, making it almost impossible to breathe, to speak. “What would that be?”
He leveled his serious eyes on her. “I know that you’ve struggled with the farm, barely managing to get by. Several times over the years I’ve considered offering my help financially but decided you would have too much pride to accept.”
Relief replaced the fear. Maybe he didn’t know everything. “You are so right about that. I don’t need your help, financially or otherwise.”
“Are you certain about that, Andrea?”
“Positive. I’m doing fine.”
“But you’ve never married.”
“I’m not interested in finding a husband,” she said, when in reality no one had ever come close to being Samir Yaman’s equal. No one had ever affected her in the same way, with the same magic. She’d told herself time and again those were the fantasies of a young girl and they shouldn’t exist now that she was a woman. Yet no matter how hard she’d tried to convince herself to forget him, forget what it had felt like to be in his arms, it hadn’t worked. No man had ever measured up. No man probably ever would. Seeing Sam again brought home that painful truth. Knowing who he was, what he was, only cemented the certainty that she could never be a part of his world.
“I have another question for you,” he said quietly.
She was afraid of his questions, afraid of the hold he still seemed to have on her. “If this has to do with the past, I don’t want to go there. It’s over.”
“It’s not over, Andrea, no matter how much you wish it to be.” His voice, his expression, balanced on the edge of anger as he locked on to her eyes. She couldn’t look away even though she wanted to. “How is your son?”
The fear advanced once again. “How do you know about him?”
“I have the means to learn anything I wish about anyone.”
Damn his arrogance, his sudden appearance that could very well destroy her world once again. “My son is fine, thank you.”
“And his father?”
Bile rose in her throat. Terror closed off her lungs. Protectiveness for her beautiful child pushed it all away. “He’s my son. Only mine.”
“He has to have a father, Andrea.”
“No, he doesn’t. His father isn’t in the picture. He never has been.”
“Then he is mine, isn’t he?”
Oh, heavens, what was she going to do now? Had he returned to claim his child? She wouldn’t let him, not without a fight. “Believe what you will. This conversation is finished.”
“It is far from finished.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to know why you never told me about him.”
She released a mirthless laugh to veil her anxiety. “How would I have done that? You disappeared with no number to call, no way to get in touch with you.”
“Then you admit I am his father?”
“I’m admitting nothing. I’m saying it doesn’t matter, Sheikh Yaman. None of this matters. The past is over. I don’t want to dredge it up again.”
“It doesn’t matter what either of us wants, Andrea. What matters is our child. I’m determined to settle this. If not now, then later. And soon.”
Andi opened the door and tried to slide out, but not before he caught her hand and said, “I will be in touch.”
She responded with tingles where his fingers curled around hers, with regret when she saw a sadness in his expression that she’d only seen one other time. But that surprising display of vulnerability soon disappeared, and his eyes once again took on the mystery—deep, dark waters that threatened to suck Andi into their shadowy depths. Without breaking his gaze, he turned her hand over and slid a slow fingertip along her palm, reminding Andi of that long-ago night when his masterful touch had made her beg him to stop, beg him to never stop.
Andi yanked her hand from his grasp and hurried away to her truck, sprinted as fast as her heels would let her. She raced from the panic that he might intend to take her child away from her, ran from the love for him that had never died.
But in her heart she knew that no matter how hard she tried to get away, Andrea Hamilton could never escape Sam Yaman, even after he left her again.
Samir Yaman sat alone in darkness in the hotel suite, surrounded by the luxury he had known most of his life. He needed a drink and would welcome the bitter taste of whiskey on his tongue, but he didn’t dare give in to the craving, not when he needed a clear head. Truthfully, he hadn’t touched alcohol since that night—the night he had made two grave mistakes.
After all this time Sam had not been able to escape the guilt over his best friend’s demise. He had realized all too late that he should have stopped Paul’s postgraduation drinking binge, but he’d allowed him his freedom that night, feeling it had been hard-earned due to the responsibility placed upon Paul after his father’s death. That freedom had cost Paul his life, and Sam still paid the price for his own poor judgment.
And if only he hadn’t gone to Andrea after he’d left the hospital with the knowledge that her brother had not survived. If only he had waited until dawn instead of following her to the pond where she always went to think, that night to mourn. If only he hadn’t forgotten that she was no more than a grief-stricken girl who had needed comfort. Giving in to that need had been his second mistake. He’d been powerless to resist her, perhaps because of his own need to forget or perhaps because she had always been his ultimate weakness.
She still was.
He had recognized that tonight the moment he’d glimpsed her standing before the masses, wearing a black dress that revealed a woman’s curves. She had looked poised and proud until no one offered a decent bid—the reason he had spontaneously decided to remedy that situation.
Leaning his head back, Sam closed his eyes against images of Andrea that burned in his mind, a flame that would not die, had not died since he’d left her the day they had buried her brother, his friend. No matter how he tried, they refused to disappear, f
orcing him to acknowledge what he had known all along—time and distance had changed nothing.
Her eyes were still azure, her long hair still the color of a desert sunset, reds mixed with gold. He imagined she still possessed a free spirit, an undeniable passion for life, a strong heart, the attributes that had attracted him to her from the beginning. Qualities he still admired. Yet he had sensed defiance when she’d entered the car, perhaps even hatred. He couldn’t blame her. She had much to hate about him. At times he hated himself. He had thrust himself into his duty, losing his honor in the process by not facing his failures.
Since his return to Barak, he’d had his guard and confidant, Rashid, covertly track Andrea’s life as much as possible. But a few months ago, when he had planned the trip to the States, Rashid had finally revealed that Andrea had a six-year-old son. No matter what Andrea had told him tonight, Sam knew the boy was his. The timing was too coincidental for it not to be the case. He intended to prove it and make certain the child’s needs were being met, though he could never claim him, or Andrea.
He could promise Andrea nothing beyond providing for her and their child. He could never tell her all the things he felt as a man. He could never speak of the times he had considered giving up his wealth, his legacy, to be with her again. She would never know that not one day had passed when he hadn’t thought of her, longed for her.
Sheikh Samir Yaman, first son of the ruler of Barak, heir to his father’s legacy, was bound by duty to his family, his country, groomed from birth to lead, and tied to an arrangement of marriage to a woman he had never touched. A woman he would never love, for his heart always had, always would, belong to a woman he could not have—Andrea Hamilton.
“Mama! There’s a big black car in the driveway!”
Andi froze with her arms full of the clothes she’d gathered for her son’s summer trip to camp. She had hoped this wouldn’t happen today. Hoped that Sam would have waited to contact her until tomorrow. If only she’d hurried and gotten Chance out of the house sooner, she might have been able to avoid this scene. Maybe she still could.
