ROMANCE: THE SHEIKH'S GAMES: A Sheikh Romance

by Knight, Kylie

  Unless.

  Unless Ahmed was able to convince his father that Keisha was his, would always be his, and needed to be protected. It was hardly an easy task, but now that he recalled the incident earlier in the day—had it really only been a day?—he was beginning to think there was hope. His father was a reasonable man and he understood that there were certain things that had to be carried on. Like the family name.

  His mother wanted a beautiful socially appropriate wife for Ahmed, but his father wanted something different. He wanted a son who would grow to be a good Sheikh and he wanted a Sheikh who would bear a son to carry on the family name.

  Something Sheikh Itamar had only barely managed himself. The fact that Ahmed had three older sisters and was the only boy spoke volumes about his father’s determination, his mother’s desperation, and the inherent need to carry on the family name.

  Which meant he had to bear a son.

  Glancing one last time at his sleeping wife, he made up his mind and made to leave the room. Once he did, he found two guards nearby—they were always nearby—and called them to him.

  “No one save myself is to enter this room unless I say otherwise,” he told them both strictly, using his best ordering voice, filling it with importance and determination. Both of the guards exchanged glances, uncertain. Ahmed sighed and added, “Or my father, of course, as he is Sheikh.”

  At this the guards straightened further and nodded their heads. One of them cleared his throat and answered, “Of course, my prince. No one will enter.”

  Ahmed nodded his head in thanks. Then added, “Not even my sisters. Or my mother.”

  This addition made each of the guards look a little nervous, but neither of them questioned it. They merely nodded mutely and took their positions, one on either side of the door. Though he was not yet Sheikh, he still had more royal authority than the women in his life, though the guards would be tested harshly should his mother decide she wanted into that room. He didn’t enjoy throwing his weight around, but sometimes he understood the need of it.

  As Ahmed walked away, he felt a little better. At least no poison could be infected into their relationship while he had a private conversation with his father. At this point in time, that was about all he could ask for.

  He found the Sheikh folded over several piles of papers—the less glamorous part of being Sheikh. Running a country. It wasn’t an easy thing to do and Ahmed understood that much of the strictness and unfriendliness that came from his father was due to this unrelenting job. He was doing his best to raise a country and a family and one of them ultimately had to suffer for it.

  It was something Ahmed had always dreaded himself.

  Clearing his throat, Ahmed got his father’s attention. When the Sheikh realized who it was, he let out a sigh and slumped back into his chair. Still, despite not looking overly thrilled by the sight of his son, he still motioned for him to come in.

  Sheikh Itamar mostly just looked tired. Tired and weary and maybe a little frustrated, but Ahmed took it at a good sign that it was at the very least not anger that marred his features.

  Ahmed walked into the room, letting the door close behind him, and then took his seat across from the Sheikh. For a moment, they sat in silence, then his father sighed again and said, “Do you wish to argue again, my son?”

  Ahmed shook his head. “No, I do not. I would like to reason with you. I ask that, perhaps, you may look at this as you do a treaty with another country. There will have to be concessions to make peace.”

  Looking suddenly intrigued, Sheikh Itamar straightened a little in his seat. He considered the proposal. “You understand that in a treaty both sides make concessions?”

  “I understand that the best end of the treaty often goes to he who holds the most bargaining pieces,” Ahmed replied, not contradicting his father, but suggesting that he had a rather large bargaining piece.

  His father still did not look angry, which Ahmed took to be a good sign. “Very well. What is your proposed terms? I must assume this is about your young lady.”

  “It is,” Ahmed confirmed. Clearing his throat and sitting up straighter, he thought carefully on his next words before speaking. “I would like to suggest conditions under which Keisha may remain here in the palace with me as my wife.”

  His father frowned, though he did not release any sudden anger in an outburst. Instead, he answered frankly, “Your mother will be displeased. She is already in a terrible mood and this will certainly worsen it.”

  “Yes, but she is not Sheikh. You are. And this is not her decision to make.”

  “Very well. What are your conditions?”

  It took everything in Ahmed not to allow his mouth to fall open as he stared in shock at his father. He had never even imagined that he might get this far in the conversation, though he had hoped it. In all his discussions with his father, there were never negotiations. There was never the concept that anything Ahmed said might be taken seriously enough to be considered.

  And yet here he was, negotiation with his father. It was both terrifying and invigorating.

  “I understand that mother’s choice of a wife is about social concerns above all else.” Sheikh Itamar nodded. “But I also understand that this is ultimately irrelevant. This is not about what sort of monetary wealth or social pride she might bring to the table, because both of these things are worthless without something much more precious.”

  Sheikh Itamar’s features pulled down into a thoughtful frown. “And what might that be?”

  “An heir.”

  At this, his father noticeably straightened and started looking at his son more keenly. Narrowing his eyes, he said, “Yes, an heir is important. But women across the country, many with far better social heritage. What difference then does it make to me which woman you have? I should rather please your mother and you shall come to terms with it eventually.”

  Before the Sheikh could dismiss this entire discussion, Ahmed jumped in. “Yes, but if mother is the only concern here, then you must consider that there already is a woman who is pregnant with my child. A woman who very well might be carrying the next—the first—heir to this country.”

  Ahmed’s father stilled. He probably hadn’t yet fully sensed what was coming, but he understood that something was about to be dropped on his lap, whether he liked it or not. “Continue.”

  “If the child is a boy, then he is rightfully the next in line after myself to this throne. If I were to leave this woman at this juncture and she were to bring the baby to full term, then that child would be able to claim the title of Sheikh after me and before any other sons that I might bring into this world. And he would be right.”

  Leaning on the hard marbled table, Ahmed’s father fixed him with a sharp stare. “And if she is carrying a girl?”

  Ahmed sucked in a sharp breath. This was a gamble, a large gamble that might blow up in his face, but it was the only thing he could think to do. His father had made it perfectly clear after their argument that morning that he would not allow Keisha to stay. Wife or not, he would force her to leave, well taken care of, but ultimately doomed to be forever separated from Ahmed. If he did not make this offer, his wife and future child would be torn from his life and he would never be allowed to see them again.

  “If it is a girl… then I agree to marry again. Whomsoever my mother feels is the best match.”

  The Sheikh stared at his son long and hard before finally nodding his head. “Very well. The terms of our treaty shall be as follows. So long as your wife produces you a son during this first pregnancy, then she shall remain here with you as your wife and your future queen. If, in fact, the child is to be a girl, then she will be taken out of the castle, cared for, and forbidden from ever returning. You shall marry your mother’s pick.”

  Ahmed did his best not to think about who that might be and agreed to the terms. He never told his father that if it turned out to be a girl, he was already making plans to run with his little girl and Keisha, as fa
r as he could go. He would leave the crown behind him and live as whatever Keisha wanted, so long as he got to be with her and his daughter. His father never needed to know, in Ahmed’s mind.

  ***

  It was a long nine months. His mother still seemed to be sulking at the deal he had struck with his father, but Ahmed did not care. That deal had provided him with ample time for the rest of the palace to get used to Keisha.

  Naiad refused to like Keisha on principal alone, but Mahira was beginning to grow fond, mostly because she was allowed to feel the baby kick and she was allowed to pick out names for the baby. Lilac was hesitant, but ultimately decided that having Keisha around only meant that she would have one more person to dote upon her. They became quick friends after that realization and Keisha spent many mornings braiding Lilac’s hair with all colors of ribbon.

  Even the Sheikh had taken some sort of liking to her. He appreciated that she was pregnant and went out of his way to make her comfortable, even sending in storytellers from across the country to weave bedtime tales for her when she was feeling uncomfortable or having a difficult time with the baby.

  Even so, when the time came, the whole palace was nervous. The night of the birth would determine a lot of things and whether the Sheikh liked Keisha or not, he would not go back on his word. Ahmed already had plans made for escape should he need to do it and had spoken in length with Keisha about it. She didn’t like the bet, but she loved him for being so willing to leave everything he knew behind for her and the baby.

  For hours, both Ahmed and the Sheikh waited outside. The sisters were fetching things and helping wherever they could, and their mother refused to be anywhere near the pregnant woman until she had produced a girl and was thus gone. They listened to the screams of pain, the shouts, the labored breathing, until finally it all stopped. Then, out of the new silence, came a tiny, fragile cry.

  A baby.

  With baited breaths, the men awaited the arrival of a new soul. When they were finally allowed inside, Ahmed found a smiling Keisha holding a bright pink baby. It was wrapped in a blanket and he could tell nothing of it, but he loved it immediately anyway. He held his child and Keisha in his arms, clutching them as though they were the most precious things in the world. Because to him, they were.

  “Well?” asked the Sheikh and it was the overseeing nurse who answered him.

  “A beautiful, healthy baby boy.”

  They named him Itamar, after his grandfather.

  THE END

  Her Passion

  Ori Herd was in the habit of giving nicknames to the customers who came regularly to her little bookstore in the heart of Seattle’s Pike Place. The names came from either her first impression of them, the books they pored over or, sometimes, the imaginary alternate lives Ori made up for them to amuse herself.

  Like the woman with the plain clothes and nervous demeanor was The Dominatrix, who spent her time in the store reading erotica that would make a stripper blush; the teenager with tattoos and a potty mouth was Bound for Priesthood; the old man who loved history books, and who adored Ori, was Wish You Were My Dad. Ori would work silently beside these readers, knowing exactly where to point them for their next read, bringing them coffee from her little espresso machine.

  The bookstore had been her passion, her haven, her place of business ever since she’d walked away from the career that had paid for it all. Astoria Vine had been the biggest rock star on the planet when she’d suddenly, abruptly, disappeared from public life. With her bleached blond mane, violet eyes, and perfect face, Astoria had been the envy of millions…but the woman underneath, the twenty-four year old ex-classical music graduate, had hated the business, the sycophants, the endless parties to which she was expected to attend, the sexism, the presumption that she would sleep with any of the revolting head honchos just to get ahead, the drugs that people tried to force on her. Ori had endured it for five years until, one night after a sold-out gig at Madison Square Garden, she’d found herself sobbing on the top of a New York skyscraper, wondering if it would be easier to just jump. It was only the thought of her younger sister, her beloved Yasmin, that kept her from falling. Then and there, she packed a suitcase and checked out of the hotel and moved across the country to the place she felt she could escape. Seattle.

  Now, three years on, and having reverted back to her natural dark brown hair and ditched the contact lenses in favor of spectacles to hide those violet eyes, Ori had at last found where she belonged. Yasmin, now nineteen and tall as a willow, was in college in the city and they lived in a simple apartment out in Queen Anne with their beloved rescue dachshunds, Hamish, and Flea.

  If her customers ever recognized her, they didn’t say a word. With her long dark hair piled up on the top of her head, her uniform of jeans, tee and sneakers and a face free of makeup, Ori looked so far removed from that painted and polished rock star as she ever could. She supplemented their income by giving piano lessons, sometimes in the shop, at the old piano she’d gotten from a yard sale. Hamish and Flea guarded the shop dutifully – when they weren’t curled up asleep on one of the sofas with reading customers.

  Today, as Ori opened delivery boxes packed with new books, she heard the jingle of the door and heard the skitter of tiny paws on the wooden floors; the dogs greeting of their favorite customers. One of Ori’s favorites.

  “Hey, little buddies.”

  Ori felt her stomach quiver at the warm voice. She swallowed before looking up, mentally preparing herself for the effect this particular customer always had. She looked up into his green eyes, so familiar now. Yasmin had nicknamed him ‘Come to Mama’, but Ori just called him The Delicious Dude. He’d been coming in for the last few weeks, always very friendly, always making Ori feel like she was the only person in the world. He was tall, his hair almost black and cropped short around a face Michelangelo would have been proud of. It was just his grin which stopped him from being too classically honed – a wide mouth cheeky, a boyish grin which took over his whole face and was impossible to resist.

  Ori had been impressed with his reading choices too: Murakami, Auster, Bradbury. They’d bonded over a shared hatred of Animal Farm and a fascination with The Secret History. He’d come in for the first time as she was dealing with a rare difficult customer, a scraggly blonde who was complaining about the bonk-buster she’d bought not having quite enough ‘bonk’ in it.

  “I thought it would be about a guy who’s a stud who gets all the ladies. Instead, it’s this weird creepy dude that pretends he’s this other man.”

  She handed a bag to Ori, who pulled out a copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley. She glanced up to see if the woman was kidding and met the clear green amused eyes of The Delicious Dude. A look passed between them and Ori had to struggle not to bust up then and there. Instead, with a nod to him, she bore the woman off to get something more appropriate.

  When she returned, T.D.D. was grinning at her. “A happy customer?”

  Ori smiled back at him, noticing that his dark hair curled around his ears in a way that made her want to run her fingers through it. “Let’s just say I found her something a little less stabby.”

  Since that day, he’d been in every afternoon, three-thirty regular as clockwork, so much so, Ori would glance at the clock automatically ten minutes before and switch the coffee machine on.

  Now, as he fussed over Hamish and Flea, she smiled fondly at the dogs and at him. “Coffee?”

  He stood up and smiled. “On one condition. You’re always so busy – sit with me and have a break.”

  Ori, her face flushing, looked around at the pile of boxes she had yet to deal with and made a doubtful face at him. He touched her arm gently, leaving her skin burning.

  “What if I promise to help you with that lot, afterward?’

  She considered. ‘Okay, deal. But first…”

  “What?”

  “You have to tell me your name.”

  He laughed and stuck his hand out. “Milo Shaw.” His huge hand clos
ed over hers and held it a beat too long.

  “Ori Herd.” She reluctantly pulled her hand away and went behind the counter to pour their coffee. She brought it over to the couch he had commandeered and curled her legs up under her. He was playing with the two dogs, who crawled all over him, trying to lick his face. Lucky dogs, Ori thought, then pushed the thought hurriedly away, worried he could see the naked lust on her face. She felt tiny next to him, his long denim-clad legs stretched out for miles, his broad frame taking up half the couch. Ori rescued him from Hamish, at least, pulling the little dog’s wriggling body onto her lap for moral support. Milo Shaw’s presence made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a long time…

  Milo Shaw lived for these afternoons. Three weeks ago, stuck in an interminable meeting with his accountants and his chief advisor Brandt, he wondered how the hell he’d gotten to this point. His media company was drifting farther and farther away from what he’d envisioned when he’d set it up. His love of music had made him eschew the family oil business and set up his first independent record company and his unerring eye for talent sent the business into the stratosphere. Now, sitting on a billion dollar fortune, Milo was bored. Nearing forty, he no longer spent his time at gigs, following tips around the country, discovering new artists. He spent it in strategy meetings or discussing the company’s online presence or, god forbid, discussing gaming with the nerds from I.T. and feeling very, very old.