“That’s the middle of World War II. She wasn’t Jewish, was she?”
“No. But her family had hidden their Jewish neighbors when the Nazis came.”
“I never knew that! That’s awesome!”
Elle’s mom had smiled and then sighed “Oh, yeah. Incredibly brave family. And they paid the price. Everyone got sent to the camps, but Margot and my mom managed to get out before the Nazis took the family. My mom was barely five, but Margot was sixteen. Your age, Elle.”
Elle had twisted her smooth round face and looked at the cross as her mom spoke. Even now she could remember the sense of a connection between her sixteen-year-old self and that other woman from another age, another place, another time. It was a connection that Elle realized she wanted to feel again, which was perhaps why she had pulled out that old cross and put it on a new chain three weeks ago.
Three weeks. Three minutes. Three floors. Three floors?
Now the elevator started to beep, and Elle was back in the moment, and the Sheikh was looking at her, waiting for her to step out past the threshold of those steel elevator doors.
“A gift,” he said again as she finally walked past him. “A gift from a lover.”
5
THREE WEEKS EARLIER
THE ROYAL PALACE OF NIHAARA
“A gift from a lover,” Sheikh Akbar Salim proclaimed to his two brothers as they stood beside him and stared in fascination.
“Ex-lover, I hope,” said Mohammed, the eldest.
“Ya, Allah,” said Kaizad, the youngest. “Or perhaps she wants you to be the ex-lover. Or she wants you to be ex-alive! This thing is poisonous, yes?”
Just then the unmistakable rattle emerged from the holes on top of the glass case that contained the snake, and Kai and Mo quickly stepped back and laughed nervously. Akbar, however, stood his ground.
“It is in a cage, you cowards,” said Akbar. “And besides, I think it is defanged. Here, let me check.”
Kai and Mo each took another step back as Akbar pulled the top off the cage and deftly reached in and grasped the rattlesnake firmly beneath the head, one thumb pressed against the back of its skull, fingers tight around its dry, smooth neck as he lifted it out and cradled its weight with his other hand.
“Beautiful, is it not, my brothers?” Akbar cried, taking as much delight in his brothers’ childish reactions as he did in the act of holding this wonderful creature. “Its body is all muscle, and it can control every inch of itself with the highest precision. It is the model of control, in fact. The very definition of control.”
“That does not make us feel any safer, Akbar,” Kai shouted from against the back wall of the sprawling veranda on which the three of them stood, the capital city of Nihaara laid out before the three princes, neat rows of beige and blue sandstone bungalows punctuated by the green and white domes and minarets of mosques, the golden dunes of the desert visible in the distance, towards the outskirts of the small city.
“Yes,” said Mo. “If the snake is the definition of control, then by definition you cannot be in control of the snake. Which means that we are all about to die. Ya, Allah, our Father will be rather vexed to find all three of his princes dead before lunchtime.”
“And killed by an American snake, nonetheless,” Kai said now, laughing as his nervousness made him bounce on his feet like a child, even though he was in his mid twenties. “No doubt Father will blame the CIA!”
“And then he will declare war on the United States,” said Mo, and now he was laughing too as Akbar held the snake up and took a step towards them. “Which will cause England and France and Germany and Canada to all declare war against us.”
“And we will be bombed and gassed,” said Kai, doubling over now as Mo giggled like he wasn’t a dignified thirty-nine year old prince.
“And just like that you will have brought about the end of the Nihaaran empire,” Mo said. “Well done, Akbar. Your ancestors would be proud.”
“We are hardly an empire, Mo,” Akbar said, his focus on the snake as he maneuvered his grip so he could turn the creature and look into its mouth. “And this snake is defanged. It is harmless. Come, at least touch it.”
“Naa!” said Kai, shivering involuntarily. “Slimy creature!”
“Snakes are not slimy at all. They are dry, smooth, beautiful. Come, Mohammed. You first. The oldest goes first. Show our little brother how it is done.”
Mo took a breath and straightened up, patting down the flowing white of his traditional Arab tunic as he took a step closer. “Not poisonous, yes, brother?”
“Correct,” said Akbar, holding the rattler’s head firm as his older brother cautiously reached out and then quickly touched the snake’s midsection with one finger, drawing his hand back almost as fast.
“Ya, Allah!” Kai shouted in glee as Mo retreated to a safe distance again. “OK, I will do it! Come!”
Now Kai reached out and touched the snake, and soon Mo stepped forward, and eventually both brothers touched it again and finally acknowledged that yes, the rattler’s skin was smooth and dry and its intricate pattern was indeed beautiful.
“You see the diamond shape pattern on its body?” Akbar said as he carefully placed the snake back in its glass cage, releasing it and quickly drawing his hand back. He placed the glass cover back on and then straightened up and turned to his brothers. “Yes?”
“Ah, yes. I see it. It is indeed a diamond pattern,” said Kai, eyebrows raised.
“Diamondback,” said Mohammed. “I have heard the term.”
Now Akbar smiled, his green eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now why do you think a woman sends me a poisonous snake with a diamond pattern on its back?”
The brothers were silent for a moment, and then Kai got it.
“Ah, no,” he said, whistling as he looked at Mo and then back at Akbar. “It is a message, is it not?”
And now Mo burst into laughter. “She wants a diamond ring? From Akbar? Ya, Allah, who is this American woman who wants to marry a man she clearly does not understand?!”
Akbar shrugged, his jaw tightening for a moment. “She understands enough, I assure you.”
“So she understands that Father would rather see one of his sons dead than married to someone who is not Muslim, who is not Arab?” said Kai.
“This American is not Muslim or Arab, is she, brother?” Mo said, his tone as close to sarcastic as it got.
“Hell, no!” Akbar said, putting on an American accent that made Kai laugh. “Blonde like the sand dunes. From Nashville, Tennessee!”
“Ah, the southern United States,” Mo said, shaking his head. “You have always had an interest in the strangest parts of American culture.”
“Those comics,” said Kai, pointing at Mo and then at Akbar.
“We all read the comics,” said Akbar.
“Yes, but only you read them all twice!” Mo said, nodding and crossing his arms over his chest.
Kai kept nodding and pointing. “And then there was the American country music phase.”
“Ya, Allah,” said Mo. “How could I forget! Those songs! Like cats being drowned.”
“I do not think cats make much sound when being drowned,” said Akbar. “Their airways would fill with water, rendering them—”
“Ah, be quiet, you know-it-all,” said Mo. “Now tell us about this woman who thinks she will get a diamond ring from Sheikh Akbar. She is the reason you have been traveling to America so often these past few months?”
“I thought you were there on business, Akbar,” said Kai. “Some company you are trying to purchase.”
Akbar nodded, walking away from the edge of the veranda and facing the sprawling room of one of the many day-chambers in the Royal Palace of Nihaara. He scanned the little marble fountains that all emptied into a long, rectangular pool whose bottom was painted gold and studded with semi-precious stones, directing his gaze towards the gaudily painted purple wall at the far end, on which hung massive portraits of his father, grandfather, and great-g
randfather. The three great Sheikhs of Nihaara, who had collectively ruled the nation-state for over a hundred years now! The great “empire” of Nihaara, which was perhaps half the size of the state of Tennessee, but over a thousand times wealthier, thanks to the offshore oil fields that the second Sheikh had secured after World War II—the last empire-building act undertaken by a Nihaaran Sheikh.
“I was indeed there on business,” Akbar said slowly, amidst thoughts of his own empire-building ambitions—an empire in the world of business and entertainment. “The business I want is based in Nashville.”
“Something in the medical field? To go with that hospital?” Kai asked.
“I do not own the hospital. It is owned by a trust and is a non-profit private entity which—”
“Just like the hospital in Paris, where you spent three years after university. And the hospital in Munich, where you lived for a year doing God-knows-what. And the hospitals in San Francisco, Buenos Aires, Tokyo . . .” Mo said with a raised eyebrow.
“And the schools, and the youth centers, and the sports facilities, and the foundations for art and literature and theater. All run by trusts. I am simply a donor. Those are not business ventures, and I do not even bother to claim the tax benefits against my other international income. Islam is a religion of charity, my brothers. Do you forget?”
“Of course. So it is just coincidence that you yourself have found your way to at least three of those hospitals over the years—at least three that I know of. Yes, brother? Drop the pretense, Akbar. We are your brothers. We know how these hospitals have served as private sanctuaries when your proclivities for . . . for . . .” Mo glanced over at that snake and smiled before looking back at his brother, his smile changing form as he looked into Akbar’s green eyes. “When your proclivities for poisonous creatures result in you getting bitten. Literally bitten. Or beaten. By jealous boyfriends, fathers, husbands, brothers . . . pimps?”
Kai smiled, but it was a somewhat grim, uneasy smile, like he didn’t want to think about what Mo meant even though he knew exactly what Mo meant.
“You have it wrong, brother,” Akbar said now. “I am not attracted by the wholly poisonous creatures. Just the opposite. I am drawn to women who have just a dash of that poison—the darkness that exists in all of us. Women who have hidden it, suppressed it, rejected it, denied it.”
“And you help them find that darkness and embrace it, yes, brother?” Mo said, shaking his head in a half-serious expression of disapproval. Now he looked over at Kai for a moment before turning back to Akbar. “Under the assumption that you can control the darkness you awaken.”
Kai shrugged now, walking to the glass cage and tapping on it. “Well, Akbar did control this snake, did he not?”
Mo nodded grudgingly. “True. And so far he has not ended up with more than a few scars and some stitches. Of course, that only encourages him to keep playing this game, which by definition will only end when he cannot handle it. When some woman turns the tables and handles Akbar for a change.”
Akbar just snorted once and walked off the veranda now, his mind already on his upcoming trip to Nashville, just a couple of weeks before Christmas. He wanted this deal to happen on this trip. Before the Christmas season. After all, Christmas was shopping season, and Rattlesnake Records, the country-music label he was trying to buy, was poised to do very well, so well that it could dramatically raise the value of the company, raise it so much that the eccentric family that owned the business might decide to simply not sell!
He had played this well so far—at least that’s what Akbar had thought. Seducing the unmarried (notoriously and happily unmarried . . .) co-owner of the label had seemed like a safe and efficient way to get the deal done, Akbar had thought. But he had misjudged Clarissa Rollins and taken it too far, turned the seduction into romance, the lust into love.
Not that he had ever loved her, and not that he had ever said he loved her. But sometimes not saying something explicitly can be dangerous, Akbar realized as he glanced back at that snake, which seemed to be staring at him with those unblinking, glassy eyes. Yes, not saying something can be interpreted as saying everything, especially with Clarissa, who was clearly thrilled to find a man who would not bend before her madness, would not break before her wildness, would not bat an eyelid as he allowed her to reveal the darkest parts of herself, her deepest desires, her filthiest fantasies . . .
But now she sends me this diamondback, Akbar thought as he took a breath and shook his head, forcing himself to smile when he realized that a part of him was relishing how twisted this game had become, how twisted it was going to become.
Yes, she sent me this message. This message that is really two messages—one personal and one business—wrapped up in one. One deal. One transaction. Marry me and you get Rattlesnake Records as a wedding gift. Turn me down and not only do you get nothing, but you’re going to feel the consequences of your decision. You’re going to get bitten, great Sheikh.
Make your choice, Akbar, Clarissa was saying, just like he would say to her when he had her tied and bound, ready to be treated like the bad girl she craved to be. Make your choice, Sheikh.
He was almost at the door now, those fifteen-foot-high teakwood double-doors studded with ingots a century old. But before he left the room, Akbar smiled grimly and called out over his shoulder:
“Careful, brothers. Do not open that cage when I am gone. That snake is armed and dangerous after all. Fangs and venom. Danger and death. Be careful.”
Be careful.
6
“Careful,” said Elle as she watched the Sheikh slowly lean back on the propped-up bed. Now that he was in the room and perhaps the adrenaline was leaving him, she could see that this man was in an incredible amount of pain, and it was shocking he hadn’t passed out yet. In fact he was still smiling!
“Did you take any painkillers?” she asked now, furrowing her brow as she wondered what she could give him without exposing herself to a goddamn lawsuit by not getting a doctor’s approval.
“I do not take drugs,” the Sheikh said. “No alcohol. No drugs. I do not even drink coffee. Caffeine is one of the worst drugs, you know. Plays havoc with the adrenal glands.”
Elle couldn’t help but smile at the way this man was somehow still . . . still FLIRTING with her even as he was bleeding from his freakin’ side!
“How about sugar?” she said now, keeping her voice calm and light as she stepped close to the bed and began to unbutton his shirt so she could get a look at the wound. “Sugar is a drug too, you know. I’m hopelessly addicted myself. You still do sugar?”
The Sheikh nodded once, his body tensing up as Elle got all the buttons off and slowly began to peel the soaked cloth away from the stitched-up wound that was caked in fresh blood. He seemed to have forgotten that he had instructed her to show him to the room and then leave him to handle himself, and Elle was just fine with that.
Yes, she was just fine with that, she thought as she tried not to look directly at the smooth brown muscles that lined his flat, washboard stomach. Yes fine, she thought as she tried not to notice the way his chiseled pectorals flexed as she gently guided him forward so she could help him get that jacket and shirt all the way off. Ohgod fine, she heard herself whisper in that inside voice as that jacket and shirt came off, revealing his bare upper body, biceps like cannons, triceps heavy and lean, clearly defined shoulders like mountain ridges, thick veins circling his tight forearms, black Arabic letters tattooed on the inside of his right arm, above the elbow, in a place only he could see. A tattoo for himself, not for show.
“What does that say?” she asked as she placed a hand on his chest and got him to lay back down on the angled bed. “The tattoo.”
“Sawf tajid alllah fi alzzalam wa'aydaan daw',” said the Sheikh, grunting as Elle snapped on a set of purple gloves and soaked a cleansing pad with disinfectant. Without hesitating she briskly swabbed the blood away from the wound, tossing the soiled pad and immediately continuing with
a fresh one. The Sheikh’s body flexed under her touch, but his voice remained steady. “Sawf tajid alllah fi alzzalam wa'aydaan daw'.”
“English, please,” Elle said with a smile, her eyes on the wound even though she could feel the Sheikh staring directly at her, looking at her smooth face, now glancing at the swell of her bosom, the hint of cleavage that she knew he could see through the top of her scrubs because of the way she was bending down. For some reason it didn’t make her uncomfortable, though ordinarily it would. Perhaps it was because he had looked without attempting to hide that he was looking, and then after taking in the view he had averted his eyes and looked back up at her face. It was sort of exciting, she thought. And besides, I’m not oblivious to the expanse of his smooth brown body flexing just a few inches from me! And his smell! So thick, so earthy, so strong and clean!
Stop it, she told herself as she realized a goofy smile was hanging on her lips and she had been cleaning his wound way too long. What are you doing, Elle?!
She looked down at herself now, and there was that silver cross dangling in front of her cleavage, reminding her of . . . of . . . of what? It should be reminding her of how good Catholic girls don’t allow themselves to flash cleavage at half-naked men while their panties start to feel tight and uncomfortable, their stockings stifling and restrictive, like all of it needed to come off, come off now!
Oh, God, she thought again as she straightened up and tossed the bloody rag in the bio-waste bin and snapped off those gloves and tossed those too. There you go again. Mom really did a number on you with that Catholic guilt, didn’t she?
Yeah, but Mom also gave you this cross and told you the story behind it, Elle reminded herself as she stepped to the supply cabinet at the far end of the room to pull out a new dressing. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and that cross seemed to be shining in a way that seemed different somehow, like it was telling her that she hadn’t started wearing the cross again to remind her of Catholic guilt but to remind her of Margot. Of Margot and true love. Of Elle’s mother and that lost love. Of Elle and the love she was holding out for.
Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5) Page 3
