“What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning as she tried to remember why the Kingdom of Noramaar rang a bell. She couldn’t place it right then, and besides, she’d never heard of Sheikh Darius. So what if he’d read her papers. Her name was on the list of attendees for this conference. Anyone could have looked her up. A compliment at best. Downright creepy at worst. Walk away, Jan.
“I am talking about your latest research, which you have been cautious about making public so far. I have only seen hints of it in your papers, but enough to get my attention,” he said. “Your views on shared marriages, and how in small hunter-gatherer tribes these shared sexual relationships created bonds that tightened the group dynamic. The Arab world is the only major society where any semblance of shared marriages exist, and I believe you are here to further your research. So I would like to help you. An experiment, if you will. One that could save your career.” He took a breath and his green eyes darkened for a flash before regaining that cool light of confidence, but this time with a hint of vulnerability that lasted only a second but was real enough that it caught Jan by surprise. “And one that could save my kingdom.”
Jan felt her heat rise along with that tingle, and this time it wasn’t arousal. Suddenly she yearned to learn more, that hint of buried emotion in his words tugging at her as if to say you need to follow this path. But better sense prevailed, and she took a breath and forced a stern smile. “Um, thanks for the concern over my career, but I’m doing just fine. And—”
“Are you? According to someone I know on the University of Pittsburgh’s Tenure Committee, your case is going to be a tough sell. You have a PhD in Biology, but you have shunned the Biology Department in favor of what they believe is a sensationalist mix of popular pseudo-science and a dangerous hunger for celebrity status.”
Jan would have fallen off her chair if she’d been sitting on one. As it was, she leaned back against the restroom door, doing her best not to sway as a dizzy spell came and then thankfully passed when she remembered to breathe. What the hell was some Sheikh doing talking to the University of Pittsburgh’s Tenure Committee about her case?! And why in the hell would anyone on the committee say something to an outsider! He was lying. He was playing her. Why?
“You’re lying,” she said flatly. “Bullshit.”
“A king does not lie,” said the Sheikh, and she saw his chest muscles flex beneath that tuxedo jacket, like every fiber in his hard body was attesting to his statement. His eyes said it too. This man was serious. Serious about what? “I have donated four million dollars anonymously to Pitt over the past eighteen months.” He smiled. “Of course, anonymous simply means my name will not be published anywhere. The university president and every tenured faculty member knows who I am, and they are all very happy to grant me an audience when I seek it. Or a favor if I ask it.”
Jan cocked her head and pushed her glasses back up her nose. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It could be true, or it could still be bullshit. And if it were true, it was . . . it was . . . “Blackmail?” she snarled. “Are you threatening me? Threatening my career?”
The Sheikh smiled and took a breath. “I am a positive man, so I prefer to think of it as a bribe instead of a threat. I wish only the best for you, Professor Johansen. I admire your ideas, and I admire your . . .” He paused as he glanced down at her chest and then flinched as his breath caught. Jan felt her own body respond, but she did her best to keep that stern, I-hate-you look on her face.
I gotta get out of here, she thought as the mixed signals from her own body and mind threatened to take her down a path that felt dark and dangerous for a reason she couldn’t understand. This is too weird. Just too damned weird.
“And I’d like to say I admire your shamelessness and sheer gall, but I don’t,” she said, pushing herself away from the threshold and stepping out into the cool air-conditioned hallway, immediately feeling a bit more composed. “Besides, if I recall correctly, you were looking for your fiancée, so I suggest you go find her.”
He smiled and shook his head, touching his chin again and pulling gently at his thick stubble. Then his eyes locked in on hers. “You misunderstood me, Professor Johansen. Yes, I did say I was looking for my fiancée. But I have found her. She is you.”
3
Sheikh Darius watched the curvy American professor walk away from him without saying another word. For a slow-moving moment he was mesmerized by the way her wide hips moved in that tight black skirt, and he had to force himself to blink and look away before his own pants got too tight around the crotch. Ya Allah, there was a magnetism to her that he did not expect. From the photographs he’d seen he knew she was pretty, with beautiful brown eyes and lustrous dark curls that complemented her creamy skin, whose tone hinted at a wonderful blend of American ethnicities. Yes, she was in her thirties, but Darius had played his games with the twenty-year-old supermodels of Europe and South America, and the artificial lips and sunken cheekbones did nothing for him anymore. Still, he was surprised at the attraction he’d felt. It excited him in more ways than just the obvious. Perhaps it even changed things.
“Perhaps I came on a bit too strong,” he muttered to himself as he waited for Jan to turn the corner before he ambled towards the main conference room where he knew she was scheduled to give a presentation in an hour. “Too much, to the point where I cannot blame her for feeling suspicious at the least, threatened at the worst. I should not have brought up the fiancée thing. But what to do? What I propose cannot be approached in any simple way! Certainly the logical thing would have been to simply talk with her and explain everything up front. But this is not a business transaction. It is more. It needs emotion and upheaval, electricity and attraction. It cannot work if either of us is faking it. You cannot sit in a conference room and negotiate something like this. It has to be dramatic! So I was prepared to try anything to get her to listen: blackmail, bribery, seduction. Now that I have put my foot in it and scared her off, what option do I have left? I could attempt to reason with her again, but I can see in her eyes she is not one to bend to blackmail or reach for a bribe. As for seduction . . . ya Allah, I feel the attraction and it could work. But in a way, seduction would be the most dishonest way to pull her into this, would it not? If we make love and then I tell her my plan, she will feel manipulated, betrayed, used! So can it be that the most drastic option will actually be the most honest? Can I do it? Can I take her back to Noramaar against her will, create that upheaval in her life, generate those emotions that can fuel an attraction that will convince her to enter into this madness?”
“Talking to yourself again, Darius,” came the mocking voice from his left, casual and deep, making the Sheikh’s jaw go tight when he realized it was him: Sheikh Ephraim of Habeetha, the small but powerful kingdom across the Golden Oasis that divided their two nation-states. “Perhaps you are in fact the mad Sheikh, like they say.”
Darius turned on his heel and stopped, looking directly into his eyes and holding the gaze until Ephraim blinked and casually looked past him to break the intense eye contact. “Who is they, Ephraim? The women of your harem, who, as I understand it, are the only people in your lawless kingdom who actually agree with anything you say. Certainly your Council of Ministers do not, if what I saw at the last Pan-Arabian Convention still holds. If I remember correctly, your entire Council voiced strong disagreement with your war-mongering rhetoric over the past three years.”
Ephraim smiled and ran his fingers through his hair, which was long and wavy, almost down to his shoulders. He stood a few inches shorter than Darius, but was still taller than most men. He was also thick and broad: certainly as broad and muscular as any in his admittedly impressive army, which had been growing in size after Ephraim had made the controversial move of inviting fresh Islamic immigrants from the more oppressive regimes to become full citizens of Habeetha if they served in his military for five years. Full citizenship meant receiving a stipend
from the oil and tourism revenues of Habeetha, and thousands—mostly young men—had flocked to take advantage of the young Sheikh’s limited-time offer.
“Are you feeling threatened, Sheikh Darius?” Ephraim said, still smiling as he rubbed the heavy stubble on his chin and cheeks.
“No, but perhaps I should,” Darius said, maintaining his calm but narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. “The neighboring Sheikh builds an army that is almost as large as his entire nation. He stations them along the banks of the Golden Oasis, whose fresh waters have been peacefully shared by Habeetha and Noramaar for centuries. Then he is rumored to be working on plans to dam up the underground aquifers that feed the Golden Oasis, drawing the fresh water out through pumps and wells, which would eventually lead to a catastrophic drop in the water levels of the oasis itself.” Darius stopped for a moment, considering his next words. He expected to see Ephraim here, just like he’d expected to make his acquaintance with Professor Janice Johansen. He’d pushed it a bit too far with Jan already. Was he about to make the same mistake with Ephraim? In public he’d often responded to Ephraim’s aggressive statements with equal bombast and challenge, but that was about politics and perception. In private he’d never crossed the line. “It would also lead to war,” he said quietly, before he could stop himself.
Ephraim did not flinch, his smile widening in a way that made Darius wonder which of them better deserved the title of the mad Sheikh. This game they’d been playing over the past three years was mad enough. Real war would be insane!
“Rumors. Speculation. He said. She said. They. This. Them,” said Ephraim through that smile. “In the end the only relevant word is Us. You and I. We are kings, and we decide. No one else matters. Now, what are you drinking, old friend?”
Darius took a breath and allowed himself to relax. Though Ephraim was younger, they’d both attended Oxford at the same time, two Muslim kings playing at being Brits at Magdalen College. They’d had their moments together, most notably the one night that Darius had been swayed by the members of the rugby team to try alcohol. He’d ended up drunk out of his mind on Irish whiskey, and in fact it was Ephraim, who was already an old hand with the bottle, who made sure the young Sheikh Darius made it back to his room in one piece. That was a long time ago, and to say they were friends was a stretch. But they were not exactly enemies either. Not yet, at least.
“Sweet tea, as always,” said Darius.
Ephraim smiled and winked. “Of course. Do not worry. The secret of your indiscretion is safe with me. Now, shall we walk into the conference hall together, making tongues wag as the people wonder whether we will draw swords and face off against one another on the main stage?”
Darius laughed and walked ahead, holding the door to the conference room open for Ephraim and inviting him to enter first. The entire hotel had been cleared of unauthorized guests for the conference, and security on the grounds was so tight that the Sheikhs and billionaires roamed freely in the hallways unburdened by their personal security details. It had added an almost casual atmosphere to the conference, and combined with the almost-western metropolitan vibe of Dubai, made the far reaches of the Arabian Peninsula seem like another world.
Do not get lulled into thinking this is not a very serious game, Darius reminded himself as he followed Ephraim into the gigantic room lined with rows of plush leather chairs facing a lavishly decorated stage on which a panel of Arab academics were politely debating whether it was hypocritical for the oil-rich Arab nations to move to solar energy while continuing to get rich selling oil to the West and the rest of Asia. Ephraim was charismatic and intelligent, greatly loved by the younger generations of Habeetha, admired by many in Noramaar as well. But he was also ambitious and unpredictable, with a hunger for the external symbols of wealth and power that held little interest to Darius.
Indeed, at Oxford, while Darius rode a bicycle because he enjoyed the simplicity, Ephraim roared through the narrow streets in a gold-plated Lamborghini Diablo, wore Seville Row suits that he discarded after a single use, and hosted parties so lavish that even the children of the British royals and Russian billionaires were shocked at the displays of opulence. In fact it was at one of those parties—when Darius had thankfully returned to drinking his sweet tea—that someone had passed a remark so cutting that Darius was certain Ephraim still bore the psychological scar.
“Oy, great King Ephraim,” one of the drunk Brits, the obnoxious son of a minor Duke, had said. “Isn’t your little nation of Habeetha smaller than the slums of Liverpool? And don’t they say that the size of a king’s nation is a smashing indicator of the size of his . . . cock?”
The roaring laughter had almost drowned out the last word, and although it should have been minor in the grand scheme of things drunk college students say, Darius, sober as always, remembered the dark cloud that crossed Ephraim’s face at the time. That Duke’s son had mysteriously been jumped and beaten senseless a week later outside a pub, and no one had ever taunted Ephraim after that. But Darius had noticed a change in Ephraim since that night. It was like a darkness had taken up residence somewhere inside the younger Sheikh after that public humiliation, planting a seed that had grown over the years.
And now Ephraim and his army looked out over the waters of the Golden Oasis, to the smooth dunes of Noramaar. Can one small seed sprout a tree so heavy and twisted? Who knew. What mattered is that’s where they were in this game.
The thought reminded Darius why he was here, for whom he was here. He glanced over towards the left of the stage, a spark of electricity whipping through him when he saw her smooth curves as she sat there, one leg crossed over the other as she listened on headphones to the translators interpreting the Arabic words of the ongoing session.
“I will sit with the other attendees from Noramaar,” Darius said. “But speaking of tongues wagging, I do recommend you listen to this next speaker. An American professor with some interesting ideas.” He paused and bit his lip before narrowing his eyes at Ephraim. “Not so bad on the eyes either. Be sure to get a seat with a good view.”
4
The view from the podium almost made her choke with nervousness. Jan had spent her career standing in front of groups and speaking with clarity and confidence, but this was different. It was mostly foreign, bearded men in the room, half of them putting on headphones because they didn’t speak English, which meant they wouldn’t be hearing her voice, her intonations, her cheesy one-liners and wise-ass phrasings. The other half were looking at their gold-plated iPhones, and the few men that were paying attention seemed more interested in her legs than the first slide of her presentation up on the big screen.
She took deep breaths and scanned over the crowd as she waited for the host to introduce her in Arabic and then in heavily accented English. The announcer was midway through her qualifications when Jan’s gaze rested on a pair of blazing green eyes that made her heart jump.
Oh, God, it’s him! Sheikh Darius, she thought as she swallowed hard and told herself so what. Pretty much everyone in the hotel was here for the conference. You had to know he’d be in here.
It was almost time for her to start when the thoughts of that unexpected encounter in the restroom came flooding back to her. Now as she stared into his eyes, she suddenly remembered why Noramaar sounded familiar. It was on the banks of the famous Golden Oasis, a massive body of fresh water almost as large as one of the Great Lakes. It was unique in that two kingdoms shared that one oasis: Noramaar and the kingdom of Habeetha, which had been in the news a few years ago for inviting a horde of new immigrants even though the livable land area seemed unable to handle it. The move had invited speculation of a future land-grab by the young, brash, long-haired Sheikh Ephraim, who was known as a renegade in that he’d allowed alcohol to be sold in his kingdom, legalized prostitution, and was openly tolerant of the banned practice of gambling. Habeetha was often called the Las Vegas of Arabia, and so it was no surprise that when
Ephraim opened his borders for six months, young men from the more conservative nations of the Arabian Peninsula poured in, happily agreeing to serve five years in the army in return for a lifetime of a monthly stipend and citizenship in Sin City, Arabia!
A round of polite applause rose up as the host finished the introduction, and Jan heard herself start speaking. Years of habit and practice kicked in, and she breezed through her presentation in record time, even drawing a few laughs with her one-liners. The talk had been fairly innocuous—nothing about her racier theories of shared marriages and societies in which they flourished. This wasn’t that kind of conference. She took a few questions and then walked off the stage to the secluded dressing area where she’d prepped earlier. There’d been a pot of tea there, but it had been replaced with an inviting looking glass of lemon-infused water.
“Congratulations on an exceedingly boring lecture, Professor Johansen,” came his voice from behind her as Jan gulped down the tall glass of lemon-water. The tone was flirtatious and teasing. “How did you even get invited to this conference?”
She knew who it was before she even turned. By then she could smell his intoxicating musk, and once again it made her body wake up. Does he feel this magnetism, she wondered as she looked up and met his gaze, his green eyes dancing with spirit as if he was inviting her to get on the dancefloor with him, play whatever game he had in mind.
“I was the only American professor to apply, I believe,” she said licking the tart lemon off her lips and smiling, even though she knew she was setting back feminism about fifty years by even engaging with an entitled chauvinist who’d invaded her space. “And maybe they thought I was a man, since I used Jan Johansen on the application form.”
Shared for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 10) Page 2
