HOSTAGE FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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BOOKS BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Sheikh
Flames for the Sheikh
Hostage for the Sheikh
Single for the Sheikh
Stockings for the Sheikh
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Sheikh (UK)
Flames for the Sheikh (UK)
Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)
Single for the Sheikh (UK)
Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright © 2016 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.
Cover Design by S. Lee
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HOSTAGE FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
It doesn’t make sense, Cristy Cartright thought as she counted up to seventeen and then gave up. No, it doesn’t make sense at all. In this day and age, why in the world are SEVENTEEN people waiting in line at the bank on a Tuesday morning?
“Payday for the South Baltimore dock workers,” whispered Ralph from the next teller window. “It’s like this on the first and the fifteenth of every month.”
“What about New Years Day? Aren’t we closed on the first of January?” Cristy said as she flashed a pearly white, at-your-service smile to the scruffy man in blue overalls who handed over a surprisingly clean paycheck with his grease-stained fingers. “And how’s your day going, sir?” she asked him cheerfully.
“Daddy works the nightshift,” came a voice from just below the counter. “He’s tired. But I’m doing GREAT!”
Cristy leaned over as far as she could from her side of the window, but she still didn’t see anyone. “Is that a ghost? A mouse? An invisible fairy?” she asked with exaggerated surprise as a giggle emerged from the other side.
“Sometimes I pretend to be invisible!” the girl said now, squealing softly as she went up on tiptoes and managed to peek over the edge. “It’s fun. I think it works too! I know it does!”
Cristy’s round face lit up when she saw the brown curls of the little girl. The child reminded her of the twin girls she used to babysit for extra money back in high school, back when her parents were unemployed and Cristy had to take control and be the grown-up. She’d been in control ever since—in control of her finances, at least. Not so much the rest of it—though perhaps she just needed to get used to her “new” job at the South Baltimore branch of Midland Bank.
She had been transferred when the East Bay branch of Midland had closed a few weeks earlier. She didn’t want to be transferred to South Baltimore—the commute was longer, the location wasn’t as familiar to her, and there were no Starbucks (or any place serving a triple mocha with LIGHT whipped cream . . .) within walking distance! Oh, horrors! Could her life get any worse?!
Of course, Cristy had a lot to be grateful for, and she knew it. Only the lucky ones (who also had the best performance reviews . . .) got offered the transfer jobs—the rest were laid off with just a few weeks of severance pay! At least she had a job! And now as she smiled and waved at little Miss Brownie-curls and prepared to serve the next customer, Cristy decided that she was also VERY grateful that geography and circumstance had come between her and those calorie-monster coffee-drinks that were like a drug. She didn’t need to drink five of those a week—her bank balance would be healthier for it, and, more importantly, perhaps her thighs and bottom would not look so alarmingly large every time she glanced at herself in those double mirrors in the apartment she shared with her boyfriend, Jeff.
“You can’t wear that skirt anymore,” Jeff had told her last week just as Cristy was about to leave for her first day at Midland’s South Baltimore location. “It just looks . . . it looks . . . it looks . . . well, obscene.”
“Obscene?” Cristy had said, stopping in her tracks and turning to Jeff and then to the mirror, her face suddenly flush with self-consciousness mixed with perhaps just a little indignation. “What looks obscene? My ass? My legs? Me? All of me? Ohmygod, did you seriously just say that to me?”
Jeff had swallowed hard and turned red, but there was no taking it back—especially not the WAY he had said it: like he was almost disgusted! “Babe, no, I didn’t say YOU were obscene! Come on! I just said . . . hey, listen, come on! I’m just trying to be helpful!”
Cristy hadn’t bothered to finish the conversation. She’d rather be on time and “obscene” than late and dressed more appropriately. Appropriately? What, just because she was a full-figured woman, business-skirts that ended just above the knee were “obscene?” Should she wear a robe now? Sweat pants? A goddamn sack?
The rest of the week had been rough—new job, new commute, no triple-mochas, and Jeff acting really distant and weird and, as usual, not wanting to talk about it. Whatever. Cristy had enough going on. If Jeff wanted to talk, then of course she’d make the time and give him her full attention. But she wasn’t going to coax and tease it out of him—whatever it was that had gotten him into a funk.
“Hey,” came his voice now, and at first Cristy thought her day-dreams were talking out loud. But then she did a double-take when she saw who her next customer was.
“Hey,” she said, blinking and half frowning-half smiling as she closed one eye and gave Jeff a comical look. “You’re opening an account here?”
Jeff offered a smile that was strangely apologetic, and he shook his head and shrugged, his shoulders hunching forward as he leaned in towards her, lowering his voice. “Your phone was off, so I thought I’d come down here.”
Now Cristy felt that pit in her stomach as she looked at how Jeff was standing, his body all stiff and awkward, that pained expression on his face, an expression that wasn’t quite an apology but looked like . . . like PITY! Cristy HATED pity! Nothing annoyed her more than someone feeling like they needed to pity her. She was in CONTROL, dammit! Pity was reserved for folks who’d lost control!
Cristy’s smile was indistinguishable from a grimace as she raised her eyebrows at Jeff and then glanced behind him at the line of customers. She blinked as her eyes rested on a tall, dark-skinned man who was patiently waiting in line to be served next, right after Jeff. Cristy had noticed him before for some reason . . . well, for the main reason a woman might notice a tall, handsome man with thick black hair, a smooth, olive complexion, dark eyes that seemed so calm and collected while somehow emitting an intensity that had caught Cristy’s eye the moment he walked into the bank.
He had looked at her as he walked in, and although Cristy had blinked and quickly looked away after feeling a sudden flash of heat at the eye contact, the man had held his gaze for a few moments longer as he walked past two shorter queues and took his place in Cristy’s line. Yes, she had noticed all that, but only now di
d she remember she had noticed it, and the memory sent a little tingle down the back of her legs, right beneath that “obscene” navy blue skirt that Cristy happened to be wearing today.
She glanced at the tall man again, but he was surveying the room, looking at the other customers—most of whom were blue-collar dock workers. The man seemed fascinated by the people around him, and he had a small, almost private smile on his full lips as he scanned the crowd, sort of like he was a tourist.
“Cris,” Jeff said now, leaning so close his face was almost on her side of the counter. “Listen, I gotta talk to you.”
Cristy blinked and focused on her boyfriend. She didn’t need that pit in her stomach to tell her what this was about—she damn well knew what this was about. Cristy hadn’t been in a lot of relationships—in fact, Jeff was only her second boyfriend since college, and college was long gone now. They had been dating almost two years, and had moved in together three months ago—more so they could both save money on rent than from any overwhelming desire to be around one another all the time. Things had been strained ever since, and Cristy couldn’t help but think that, hey, they just weren’t that into each other, and moving in together had brought that out. Still, they had a signed a lease for a year, and it wasn’t like things were awful or unpleasant, and then with the stress of the upcoming layoffs at Midland Bank and the job transfer application, Cristy just didn’t want to think about it.
But now Jeff was here, at ten-thirty on a Tuesday morning, with PITY in his expression as he avoided eye contact yet again.
“My phone is always off at work,” she said, holding her gaze steady as she felt a strange defiance rise up in her. “You know that, Jeff. Anyway, I can’t really talk right now, obviously. What’s the emergency? Can this wait until tonight? Or we can meet for lunch in a couple of hours—”
“I’m moving out,” Jeff said abruptly as he finally straightened his back and looked into her eyes. “Jack and Cody are helping me move my shit this afternoon. Listen, Cris, I’m not saying I want to break up. I just need . . . I just need . . . um . . .”
Cristy waited for him to finish the sentence, but he didn’t. Can’t you at least break up with me like a man, she wanted to say. She glanced at the tall, dark stranger behind Jeff, and looked away immediately when she saw his dark eyes focused right on her.
“You’re moving out this afternoon,” Cristy said slowly, not sure if she was angry, hurt, or . . . or relieved. Then suddenly something occurred to her. “What about the rent?”
Jeff frowned, looking down at his hands and then back up at her, his gaze focused slightly off center from Cristy. “Well, um, I’ve already paid my share for this month. And I guess I can kick in a little for next month if you haven’t found a roommate by then. Though it’s just the fifteenth today. You should be able to find someone. I can ask—”
“It’s a one bedroom, Jeff,” Cristy said, her own sweet face twisting into the beginnings of a frown. “I’m not getting a roommate.”
Jeff shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifted on his feet and looked around. “Whatever. Yeah. I mean, right, it’s your place now.”
“No, it's our place. We signed a one-year lease, Jeff,” Cristy said, keeping her voice low but finding it increasingly hard to keep her anger from rising. “Or do you not understand how contracts work.”
Jeff glared at her. “See, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what, Jeff?”
“Disrespecting me. Being sarcastic. Acting like I’m dumb or something.”
Cristy wasn’t going to take the bait. This was neither the time nor place for an argument. Still, a part of her couldn’t stop.
“So you do understand how contracts work? Like the one-year lease the two of us signed three months ago? One year is twelve months, and twelve minus three is nine, which means we’ve got nine months left. Nine more months of rent.”
Now Jeff almost choked as he swallowed hard and leaned in again. “That’s not fair. You can’t expect me to pay rent when I’m not living there! It’s unfair. It’s just wrong. It’s—”
Cristy wasn’t listening. She was looking right past her sputtering boyfriend and directly into the eyes of the man standing behind him. The man had been looking her way for the past minute or so, and he didn’t avert his eyes when she met his gaze. If anything, he looked at her with more intensity, like he was trying to tell her something with those eyes . . . those eyes that were actually not brown but a subtle shade of green that were mesmerizing, paralyzing, tantalizing . . .
She turned back to Jeff now, feeling strangely calm, supremely collected, absolutely in control. Truth was, Cristy had made sure they rented a place that she knew she could afford all on her own if need be. It wasn’t like she was expecting them to break up or anything—it just seemed like the sensible thing to do. Prudent, rational, logical—qualities that were the foundation for someone in control. Qualities that Cristy Cartright, Bank Teller from Baltimore, took pride in exhibiting.
Yes, she’d have to put in a bit of overtime every month, but she could handle it. She had planned for it in the same way she always thought of the worst-case scenarios and figured out what she’d do if they happened. For example, after working as a bank teller for almost three years now, Cristy had a clear sense of what she’d do if she found herself in the middle of a bank robbery. Yes, the other staff at Midland would laugh when she mentioned it, but Cristy didn’t care. If anything, it made her think even more seriously about the scenario, because now she was certain that her coworkers wouldn’t be prepared at all!
So yeah, Jeff deciding to move out was a bit upsetting, slightly distressing, vaguely sad (though the way he was doing it—like a coward, without having the balls to talk about it seriously—certainly softened the blow), it wasn’t going to financially ruin her. It was going to be tight—very tight. She’d need the overtime. She also wouldn’t be able to take any days off for the next six months. God, she thought. I can’t even get sick the rest of the year!
A couple of bank customers farther down the line were leaning over to see what the delay was, and when Cristy noticed one of them shake his head and switch lines, she knew this conversation was done. In fact, all of it was done. If Jeff didn’t have it in him to just come out and say they were breaking up, she’d have to do it. No problem, Jeff.
She smiled at Jeff now, but before she could say the words, the voice of a brown-haired, invisible fairy interrupted.
“Hi, did my dad leave his wallet here?” the little girl called out, her brown curls rising up over the counter, followed by two blue eyes that were wide and bright. “I told him he didn’t bring his wallet here, but he sent me back to check anyway. He’s waiting in the car.”
Cristy looked around, but there was no wallet. So she smiled and shook her head and said, “Nope. You know, I bet you’re right. I don’t remember your dad taking out his wallet at all. He had the check in his hand.”
“It is over there,” came a deep, resonant voice that was unmistakably foreign though with a clear command of the English language. It was soft enough to be a respectful interjection but still carried with it an authoritative certainty, like the speaker was a man used to giving direction, perhaps even giving orders . . . with the cool confidence that his direction would be taken, his orders followed.
It was the tall, dark, green-eyed stranger, and he smiled at the little girl as she turned and looked up at him. Now she looked over to where he pointed, and sure enough, over by the high table near the side wall, right beside a stack of deposit slips and bank forms, was a solitary brown wallet.
The girl squealed and ran over and grabbed it. “Thanks, Mister!” she shouted as she made for the front door, her curls bouncing as she ran.
“Slow down, little one,” the man called after her, smiling with genuine happiness as the little girl got to the door. “Careful, there is someone coming in.”
The front doors opened just as the girl got there, and three men strode in, almost
at the same time, they were moving so quickly. Cristy had turned back to Jeff but had gotten distracted again when the tall man called out to the little girl and so now she glanced over towards the front door.
And she got a feeling like she had suddenly slipped into a dream, an alternate reality perhaps, a fantasy world where all her worst-case scenarios were coming true. Almost as soon as she realized that all three men were wearing black ski-masks and gloves, each of them carrying a Glock handgun and a black duffel bag, she felt her hand move down beneath the counter with casual urgency to where the dark red button for the silent alarm sat patiently. She pressed the button twice, three times to make sure, and then she kept her hands on the counter, just like she had rehearsed in her mind.
She told herself to stay calm even as she felt her head spin, felt the world slow down. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, and just as Cristy began to assure herself that she would stay calm and that this would be over soon without anyone getting hurt, the shortest of the three men grabbed little Miss Brown-curls by the hair, pulled her back from the front door, and TOSSED her across the floor towards the waiting area.
The little girl SCREAMED as she tumbled across the smooth tiles, finally landing on her bottom near an easy chair off to Cristy’s right. The girl curled herself into a little ball and began to sob and shiver, and though Cristy wanted to run to her and tell her everything was going to be all right, she knew that as a bank employee behind the counter, she needed to be very still right now. No unexpected moves. Stay calm.
And as she blinked in what seemed like slow motion, Cristy watched in half-disbelief as the biggest of the three masked men raised his gun and fired two shots into the ceiling.
“Y’all can panic now,” he growled. “This is a goddamn bank robbery.”
2
Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3) Page 1
