Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5)

by Annabelle Winters

  It had seemed like her choice, at least. Until she had asked Prince Kai one last question at dinner earlier:

  “Why were you frowning earlier?” she asked the young prince when they were finishing up dessert, a cream custard so delicate it felt like eating a fluffy-sweet cloud.

  “When?” Kai said.

  “Right when you told me Akbar would be next in line for the throne. You frowned like something had just occurred to you. Something you hadn’t thought of until just then.”

  Kai blinked before smiling quickly. “You are very perceptive, Ms. Easton. But of course. You are a nurse. Your instinct is to notice details about people. Very good.”

  Elle laughed. “Now that’s very perceptive of you, Prince Kai. But now those same instincts of mine tell me you are stalling. So come on. Out with it.”

  Kai laughed spontaneously, his round, bearded face lighting up as he nodded and dabbed his lips with a white linen serviette. “OK, Ms. Easton. OK.” Now he took a breath and went serious. “What occurred to me was something I have always known—what all three of us brothers have always known. That a prince must have at least one wife before he can ascend to be King. An unmarried prince cannot rise to be Sheikh. That is part of the reason Mohammed has chosen to step aside—although homosexuality will be decriminalized soon in Nihaara, I am embarrassed to say that my little country has not yet dealt with the matter of gay marriage. Not that Mo has someone in his life now anyway, I do not think.” Kai had sighed and smiled wistfully. “I think Mo wants to take some time to . . . to . . . I don’t know. Ya, Allah, it must have been hard for him to hold it inside so long!”

  Elle had nodded patiently, certainly listening with sympathy and understanding. But she couldn’t stop her thoughts from racing ahead, tearing ahead, thoughts that twisted what had seemed so pure and simple into something that felt hollow and complicated.

  So Akbar needs to be married before he can be Sheikh, she had thought as she stared down at that dessert on her plate, that sweet cloud which seemed significantly darker now, like the rain was coming, black rain, acidic and poisonous. Yes, Akbar needs to be married to free his brother? And he’s known this all along? So what am I in all this? A convenient patsy? Someone stupid and innocent enough to marry a guy after knowing him three days? A clueless American chick who can be used and then tossed away once the great Sheikh gets what he wants? Gets his lunatic father pushed off the throne so he can take over? Oh, God, how could I have been so stupid! Three days?! Really? I was ready to MARRY this guy in THREE DAYS!

  And now as Elle stood there in front of the mirror, staring at that pill and shaking her head, that wonderful sense of fantasy seemed far away, that delightful feeling of being in a dream just a joke now, the reality settling in with crushing weight, the reality that only a goddamn moron even THINKS about marrying a man after three days.

  So even though a sickness rose up in her, a dread so deep she almost doubled over, Elle reached for that pillbox and tapped out that pill, and without allowing herself to think even one more thought she brought it to her mouth and took it in her mouth and then she SPAT it from her mouth as that thought forced itself in so fiercely that Elle looked around to see if someone has spoken the thought out loud:

  “Trust,” came the thought so loud it deafened her. “Trust not in him but in yourself. In what you feel. In what you know. Trust.”

  And as she felt the tears roll down her smooth round cheeks, a gentle breeze whispered through her open hair, and on the whisper came that other woman’s voice, that woman who Elle wasn’t sure was inside or outside, was Margot or a witch, an angel or a demon.

  “Would’ve been too late anyway,” came the mischievous whisper on the desert breeze of midnight, and the breeze was playful, ticklish, warm, comforting, light and happy, bouncing and alive, fresh and new, like new life, like new life, new life . . .

  And that thought danced in her mind as she dreamed that night, dreamed with a smile, dreamed of cherubs and candles, pixies and piccolos, bunnies and babies . . .

  39

  “Yes, of course I know the old laws,” Akbar said to the emissary from the Judicial Council who was standing in the corridor outside the row of empty prison cells in that sandstone dungeon a hundred feet below the Royal Palace. He sighed and shook his head and glanced towards Mohammed’s cell, which was now empty because Mo had been moved to a separate wing to allow the emissary to speak with Akbar in private about what was unfolding in the world above ground.

  “And so you know that not only must you be married, but your wife must be Muslim,” said the bearded emissary, a hunched, wiry man with intelligent eyes and a quiet voice. “So if the rumor about this American woman is true, then it will not satisfy the requirement.”

  “What rumor about the American woman?” Akbar snapped, his eyes narrowing as he tried not to lose his temper, not to ram his fists into the iron bars that suddenly felt a lot more real.

  The man hesitated for a moment. “That she is here to be your wife.” He paused again. “And that she is Christian.”

  Akbar gripped those bars and touched his head to the black-painted metal, taking a breath as he forced himself to stay calm. He had always known about the marriage clause, and yes, of course, the Muslim clause as well. But Akbar had been confident that the Council would waive the marriage requirement, given how extraordinary the situation was. Not to mention urgent—after all, he WAS behind bars, which was well and good to laugh about for a day or two, but certainly was not going to be pleasant if he had to sit here for weeks, perhaps months!

  “The Council will waive the marriage requirement in its entirety,” Akbar said calmly, looking the man directly in the eye. “Whether the American woman is here to be my wife or not is irrelevant to this situation. Mohammed has informed the Council that he is removing himself from the line, and so by law I am already heir-apparent. So now the Council is faced with a choice between two conflicting laws: Will they continue to allow a man unfit to rule to remain as Sheikh simply because his successor is not yet married? Or will they recognize the greater duty and simply waive the marriage requirement entirely, so I may ascend to the throne and end this madness?”

  The emissary held Akbar’s gaze, and the Sheikh could see that this man not only understood but had already worked out that this was the choice the Council would face if Akbar was not married in five days—married to a Muslim woman in five days!

  “By Allah,” the emissary said, leaning close even though they were alone in the sandstone cavern. “Akbar, some members of the council are already saying that this is all a blessing in disguise, a sign of the ways in which Allah works. Indeed, all of us in the Council—those of us old enough to have seen you grow into the man you are—yes, we are all in agreement that of the three princes you are the most capable, the one with the strongest will, the clearest vision. Your efforts to raise the profile of the Arabian people in the West has not gone unnoticed, Akbar. We in the Council are old but we are not dinosaurs. We see what is happening in the world. By Allah, we see what the young men and women in Nihaara itself want! And you are the one to take Nihaara there.”

  Akbar nodded, holding his gaze steady even as he felt something rising up in him as he heard the man speak, heard the man say things that seemed to fit, seemed to make sense, like Akbar had been unconsciously heading down this path, perhaps being led down this path by some unseen force, this path on which he met this American woman by chance, coincidence . . . coincidence that led to choices, choices made with feverish urgency, without the corruption of logical thought, choices that brought her here, brought them both here.

  “Thank you for your words,” Akbar said now. “And so it is done. When my father turns eighty, the Council will declare him unfit. Then the Council will ratify my ascendancy, after waiving the marriage clause in its entirety.”

  The emissary nodded slowly, blinking and showing some hesitation in those intelligent eyes. “But Akbar, answer me this. Is it true that you are to marry this
American woman?”

  Akbar waited a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”

  The emissary smiled now. “Then why do you not make her convert to Islam? It can be done in a day, and you can be married before the New Year! What is the problem?”

  Akbar held his gaze. “I cannot ask her to convert.”

  “I do not understand, Akbar. If she is to be your wife, then she must obey you. Simply order her to convert! Will she not obey?”

  Akbar smiled now. “She may or may not obey. But that is not the point. The point is I cannot ask her to do it. I will not ask her to do it. I cannot enter into marriage by putting a condition like that on her. I will not do it.”

  The emissary sighed and took a breath. “Then, Akbar, you must know that if you do not marry a woman of the Islamic faith by New Year’s Day, then things could get complicated.”

  “What do you mean?” Akbar said, frowning again as he gripped those bars and stared into the man’s eyes.

  “It is complicated because there is a third son in the royal bloodline, a third brother.”

  “Yes. Kai. Of course. So what?”

  “Well, Sheikh, if you do not immediately satisfy the criteria for ascending to be Sheikh, then in a situation like this, where the Council is forcing your father to abdicate the throne, then . . . then, well, Sheikh, the Council will first have to offer Prince Kaizad the chance to satisfy the conditions and rise to be Sheikh.”

  Akbar blinked in the red-tinted darkness of the sandstone cellar as he processed this. “What does that mean, exactly?” he asked quietly as now a sense of dread entered him from those dark cavern walls.

  “It means that the Council will inform Prince Kaizad that if he is married to a Muslim woman by New Year’s Day and you are not, then he will be ratified as supreme leader and not you.”

  “And if both of us remain unmarried by New Year’s Day?”

  “Then it will be as you said: the Council will eventually be forced to eliminate the marriage requirement.”

  The hesitation in the man’s voice did nothing to ease that feeling of dread that was taking up residence in Akbar now, making him clench those black iron bars so hard his knuckles looked white in the dim light of the underground. “Eventually? What do you mean by eventually?”

  “Well, the Council cannot simply ‘waive’ a clause. It requires a change in the law itself. And since the law is rooted in scripture, the Council will be forced to inform the Grand Islamic Council of the Arabian Peninsula, which would—”

  “Ya, Allah,” Akbar shouted as the connections formed rapidly in his head. Nihaara was part of the Grand Islamic Council, and although the nation was independent and could make its own laws, there were procedures and customs that were deeply intertwined with the delicate political connections, formalities that would take time, months, perhaps longer! “So what,” he said quietly. “Eventually the Grand Council cannot stop us from changing our laws. Yes, it may take time, but I am prepared to wait if I must.”

  “There is more,” said the emissary. “Because if this matter escalates beyond our Nihaaran Judicial Council, then it is possible that members of the Grand Islamic Council will begin to question all of the proceedings.”

  “All of what proceedings?”

  “All of this, Akbar! You forget that Nihaara is one of the more progressive nations in the Arabian Peninsula! Many other nations list homosexuality as a serious crime! As for what you are charged with . . . Akbar, dissidence and blasphemy are indeed punishable by death in the more conservative of member nations!”

  Akbar tilted his head and laughed, the echoes making it sound like the walls were laughing back at him, voices of the darkness whispering that perhaps he was not so smart, not so crafty, not so powerful, not so in control . . .

  “Ya, Allah, it does not MATTER what those other nations think!” he roared now, SMASHING his forehead against the iron bars with such force the emissary leapt back away, fear in his eyes. “It is still an internal matter to Nihaara, correct? So the Grand Islamic Council can argue and deliberate, point fingers and make judgments, pass resolutions and make recommendations . . . but in the end it will still be the Nihaaran Judicial Council that will make the final decision.”

  “Yes, Sheikh Akbar,” the emissary said, his voice wavering as he stayed back away from the bars of Akbar’s cage. “But realize that your father has deep connections with those old men in the Grand Islamic Council, and those old men have connections with the clerics and scholars that form the Nihaaran Judicial Council, and the longer the process takes, the more time is allowed for all these covert influences to work their way through, old favors being called in, old personal debts being paid, back and forth, arguments and rebuttals . . . and eventually someone in the Judicial Council may dissent, and perhaps that person will sway another, and so on and so forth. Do you see, Sheikh Akbar? This is a tangled web of religion and politics, a rabbithole so deep that I beg of you, do not trust your fate and the fate of your nation to it. I implore you, Akbar! Make the American woman convert to Islam and then marry her by the New Year and that will be the end of the matter.”

  Akbar stood there in the darkness, his head throbbing from the blow against the bars, ears ringing from the blood that roared through his system. He stayed silent as he thought, his green eyes shining in the darkness as he stared blankly at the emissary, who stepped forward now.

  “But if you choose not to, Sheikh Akbar,” the emissary said now, and in his voice Akbar could hear the resolution, like this man was only now telling him what had already been decided upon as a fallback, a backup plan, Plan B. “Yes, if you choose not to make the American woman convert, then the Council has told me to go directly to Prince Kaizad and press upon him to take a Muslim bride, anyone of his choosing, an attendant from the palace if he wants, a goat-herder’s daughter if he chooses. Make no mistake, Sheikh. The Council does not want this matter to go beyond our borders. We acknowledge that it is time for the old Sheikh to step down, but do not underestimate his power and influence if the Grand Islamic Council gets involved. We will do our part and force the Sheikh to step down, but one of the princes must do his part and step up as well. We prefer it to be you, Akbar. But we will take Prince Kai instead. It is your choice. And now I take my leave.” He smiled nervously for a moment. “Your Father would have me put behind bars for even being here, Akbar! Inshallah. Allah hu Akbar.”

  Akbar nodded and watched the emissary steal away to the heavy door at the end of the corridor. Then Akbar called out after him.

  “Do one thing for me, old man,” said Akbar.

  “Yes, Sheikh?”

  “Have her brought to me.”

  “Who, Sheikh?”

  “The American woman. Have her brought to me.”

  The emissary hesitated. “Now, Sheikh? It is not yet sunrise. Not yet four in the morning! She must be asleep!”

  “Have her awoken and brought to me,” said Akbar turning away from the man and beginning to pace as he planned his next move, the only real plan being that he could no longer figure out the next step alone, that he needed her now, needed her calm, needed her sanity, needed her light. He needed her light. “Now.”

  And as the old emissary nodded and hurried off, Akbar felt a sense of calm in the darkness as he closed his eyes and pictured his angel of light coming to him, giving him the strength he needed to navigate this final turn, this final turn that he did not want to take alone, not without her.

  That sense of calm was filling him now, and as he thought back to the discussion that had seemed so complex, it occurred to him now that it was quite simple. It was indeed his choice—his and hers. He did not need to worry about poor Kai getting suddenly pressured into taking a wife. Kai was a mouse with women, and Akbar was quite certain the young man was still a virgin at twenty-four! The idea of marriage would terrify the manchild that he was!

  And besides, Akbar thought. Female attendants and goat-herders’ daughters aside, where in the world was Kai going to find a Muslim wo
man to marry in the next few days?!

  40

  “Aalaaa hoo Ackber,” said Clarissa Rollins as she puffed on a joint and scrolled down on her phone, reading as fast as her unfocused eyes could move, taking in as much as her hazy brain could process.

  Then suddenly she tossed the phone and stood up and stubbed out the joint and went to the window of her private office at Rattlesnake headquarters, looking out over the modest Nashville skyline, a remarkable clarity now cutting through her buzz, making her feel sharp, intelligent, confident, like she knew exactly what to do. EXACTLY what to fucking do!

  Clarissa had been following the events in Nihaara with keen interest, and had just finished reading an in-depth article on an obscure French news site—an article by a writer who had gotten his hands on the full-text of the ascendancy laws of Nihaara and had analyzed the possible outcomes in a way that had Clarissa riveted and saying, “Whoa, man!” even before she had gotten high!

  But now it was clear, and Clarissa was excited. The article had speculated that Akbar had purposely gotten thrown into prison to highlight the fact that his Father was unhinged, which would force the Council to push the old Sheikh off the throne, clearing the path for Akbar to rise. The catch, the writer said, seemed to be that both Akbar and his younger brother were unmarried, and the law was clear that an unmarried son cannot rise to the throne.

  The writer speculated that the law was written such that if the old Sheikh were pushed out, the first son to take a Muslim wife would rise to the throne, making it a battle for power, a race to see who would take a Muslim bride first! “A battle of soap-operatic proportions!” the writer had proclaimed, playing the story as rival brothers fighting for a throne, something that the Western world assumed last occurred in the England of the 1600s!

  Clarissa had no idea whether the whole rival-brothers thing was true—indeed, in the year they had been together, Akbar had not said much about his home and family, his upbringing and all that. And Clarissa hadn’t bothered to ask. That part of the world just seemed brutish and savage and generally distasteful. And all that sand! The way it found its way everywhere! Every nook and cranny! Eww.