One last turn and he was on the home stretch to the family’s private jetty on Lake Michigan, and he banked hard, released the throttle, and finally screeched to a halt on the heavy wooden planks, blue waters to the left and right, a forty-foot yacht blocking out the sky at the end of the dock.
Smiling and nodding, Kabeer tried to dismount, and only then did he realize that Jenny was frozen stiff, like she was scared out of her mind, her arms wrapped around him, her body pressed so tight against his that Kabeer wondered if they’d need to be surgically separated.
“Hey,” he said, putting the bike on its stand but staying seated, laughing a little when Jenny barely moved. “You can let go now. If you want. No hurry.”
Jenny took a moment, but slowly she peeled herself off him and managed to step off the bike, quickly pushing her skirt down over her tights, covering her hips. Kabeer got off and turned to her, and he blinked when he saw she was bright red, like a tomato, a beetroot, strawberry pie.
“What’s the matter?” he said, reaching out and grabbing her arm.
But she pulled her arm away and covered her face for a moment. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she said, the words coming out hoarse, her voice wavering, like she was just learning how to speak again.
“Oh, come now,” Kabeer said, his voice soft, his eyes looking into hers as he drew close. “Sometimes there’s just an attraction that cannot be denied. That will not be denied. No matter what you think of me, I do not take every woman to my private garage and feel compelled to inspect her stockings for runs.” He winked and shrugged. “But still, it is what a gentleman does, of course.” He waited for her reaction, for her to laugh, smile, nod. But she didn’t, and so Kabeer leaned in closer, his face hardening. “OK listen, I know you felt it too, yes? So I am not going to apologize for—”
But she shook her head vigorously, her eyes widening for a moment like she had only just remembered what had happened in the underground garage. “Not that, Kabeer. I mean, well, sure, I can’t believe I did THAT either. But it’s not what I’m talking about right now.”
Kabeer pulled back, frowning. “Then what?”
She turned bright red again, looking down and burrowing her forehead into Kabeer’s chest. “Kabeer, all those people we passed on the street . . . and my skirt . . . oh, God, Kabeer, half of Chicago just saw my gigantic thighs and big fat ass!”
And Kabeer just burst out laughing as he pulled Jenny close, hugging her like he had known her for years, perhaps a lifetime. But at the same time it felt so new, so fresh, so . . . different.
“Ah, you were doing the world a favor! A beautiful, healthy woman’s body is one of the most wonderful sights imaginable, my dear Jenny! Trust me—every woman out there would have traded places with you in a heartbeat. And any man out there would have traded places with me in a flash. But to hell with them, anyway. Who cares? They are commoners. They are not like us. They are just—”
Jenny pulled away and glanced up at him, eyes narrowed, her mouth open like she was about to snap at him. Kabeer cringed internally at the crude statement—he was too used to moving in circles where people WERE just like him—as he watched Jenny, waiting for her reaction. Would she be angry? Hurt? Insulted?
But Jenny stayed silent. She held that gaze for a moment longer, and then she looked past him and motioned with a head-nod.
“That’s the yacht? It’s beautiful,” she said.
She took a step forward on the wooden jetty, and Kabeer turned and looked at her, not sure what to make of how she brushed off his comment. Who was this woman? She certainly looked interesting. Yes, interesting, unique, and different . . . different from most of the women he ran with.
Kabeer took a breath as Jenny took a step towards the yacht and then stopped, her back to him now. Ya, Allah, those curves, Kabeer thought as that unfulfilled arousal coursed through his body. Natural and full, healthy and . . . and REAL! Ya, Allah, that is what it is, that is what this is, that is what SHE is: Real.
He smiled and shook his head as he took a step towards this somewhat short, supremely contoured, uniquely attractive American woman from who-knows-where. Jenny Jones in her black skirt-suit, no shoes, standing flat-footed in the center of my jetty! That brown hair blown back from the ride through the city. Her soft face flush and peaked from the all the excitement of the last half hour. Oh, shit, she’s already under my skin, he thought as he felt his heat spiral higher, leaving no doubt that his need had never gone away, that the ride together, this woman clinging to him, had only pushed him further along.
I must get her alone when we’re on this boat, he thought as he glanced once more at the ways her hips swung as she walked, the way her bottom moved beneath that black skirt, how firm her thighs looked in those tights. Ya Allah, I must get her alone!
It will not be too hard—Father usually takes a nap when we drop anchor far out on the lake. And Yasmeena knows better than to come looking for me when I’m not above decks.
Yes, Kabeer thought as he took one more look at her strong calves, the form in her chest, the curve of her lower back . . . oh, yes, it shouldn’t be too hard to get her alone below decks.
And this time, Jenny Jones, I’m not stopping.
With Allah as my witness, I am NOT stopping.
5
Bukhaara III. That was the name of the yacht.
Jenny stared up at the gigantic white boat, its polished hull gleaming in the summer sun. It looked a lot bigger up close, and really, it was way too large to be called a boat. Bukhaara III. Did that mean they had three of these?
She looked down at her shoeless feet, and wiggled her toes inside her tights. Thank God these tights were new. She was still shaking a bit from the sheer courage she had to summon to hike up her skirt and get on the back of that bike, but now that the panic had receded, she could feel a tingling warmth inside her. She thought of how it felt to hold Kabeer tight as he took those turns, the momentum of the ride pushing her body closer to his as the wind roared in her ears. It was the sound of freedom, she thought. It was what she always imagined the sound of freedom would be like.
Freedom, she thought as she looked up at the steel-rimmed gangplank that Kabeer was standing next to, waiting for her to get there. She walked slowly, glancing down at the smooth wood of the jetty as she placed one foot in front of the other, each step giving her a chance to think about what she was doing, to try and sort out what her logic and common sense was telling her from what her body was whispering from somewhere deep inside.
She shook her head and blinked and looked up at that yacht, Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara standing beside it, waiting for her, his white shirt unbuttoned almost all the way down as he let the sun have at his deeply tanned, brown chest, the ridges of hard muscle casting soft shadows as he smiled unabashedly.
“Faster,” he called to her, his grin so wide, so annoyingly perfect, so deceptively . . . genuine?
But Jenny forced herself to take her time walking to the boat, walking towards the Sheikh, walking towards what felt eerily like the beginning of something new, something unexpected, something big.
Well of COURSE it’s big, Jenny, she told herself as she diverted her eyes from the Sheikh’s steady, unyielding gaze. I’m finally getting a shot to pitch my idea to someone who can actually finance the investment! And if I get funded, I get to work on what I’ve dreamed about since little Jenny Jones was baking mud-pies in a make-believe oven! That’s what true freedom is, right? The ability to do what you love?
Yes, freedom. That was what she dreamed of when she took her degree, when she set out to chase her dream of starting that restaurant, when she bet everything on it—bet herself on it.
Is that what I’m doing now, she wondered as she smiled at Kabeer as he held out his hand for her to take. Subconsciously putting myself on the negotiating table? The attraction is undeniable, real, impossible to fake. But at the same time I’m not oblivious to the fact that this man is a billionaire, that he seems to be the head of the only
investment company that’s shown any interest in my proposal, that he basically holds my immediate future in his hands. Just like he had my big round ass cupped in his hands less than an hour ago, she thought as she closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief.
But the memory of the way he touched her made her tingle, and there was her body butting in and messing up her clear logic, her clean common sense, her focus, her resolve. And now she was at the boat, near the Sheikh, and she grabbed onto Kabeer’s outstretched arm as she took the first step onto that gangplank, which suddenly looked very long and rather narrow, almost foreboding, like a warning that she was stepping onto a path that was going to be hard to navigate, a bridge that would take poise and character to cross, a road littered with the broken dreams of women who thought they could juggle the fiery torches of money, sex, and true love without getting burned. Burned to a goddamn crisp.
The gangplank quivered with her weight, and for a moment Jenny wondered if it would give way, sending her plunging into the cool blue waters of Lake Michigan. The suspended stairway swayed as she took another step, but it held firm, and now Kabeer was behind her, his hands lightly positioned on her forearms just beneath her elbows, his pelvis right against her bottom as she held on to the railings and continued to climb.
“About time, Kabeer,” came a woman’s voice from above. “And what is this? Who is this? Oh, for Allah’s sake, Kabeer! This was supposed to be a private meeting. Is this why you were late? I should have known you couldn’t—”
Jenny looked up and saw a woman with dark brown hair pulled back tight, sharp features on a long, symmetrical face, and colorless gray eyes that were striking against her dark, Middle-Eastern skin. Those eyes were intense, focused, shamelessly judgmental . . . and they were trained right at her.
“Ah, hello, dear Yasmeena,” Kabeer said from behind Jenny.
“Oh!” Jenny said, nervously looking up and blinking. “You’re Ms. Yasmeena Bukhaara? Hi! I’m Jennifer Bethany Jones! You sent me an email last week about my business proposal! I was supposed to meet you in your office today! Oh, God, so nice to finally meet you! I’m SO glad you gave me this opportunity to—”
The woman just stared back like she hadn't heard. No change of expression. “Who? What?” She glanced at Kabeer now, her eyebrows moving a bit. “What is she saying, Kabeer? And can you both PLEASE walk a bit faster? God! I mean, seriously. Ooof.”
That last word sounded like “oaf,” and Jenny suddenly felt flustered and even more nervous, and without looking she tried to take the next step, and holy-mother-of-God she straight-up MISSED it! Her foot slid into the space between two steps, and she yelled as a sharp pain ripped through the inside of her thigh as it stretched awkwardly. She grabbed onto both railings as she cried out, but she couldn’t stop herself from stumbling, and suddenly panic rolled in as she felt her grip on the left railing loosen, and now she was falling backwards, down, down—
“Got you,” Kabeer whispered as he grabbed her, one strong arm snaking around her waist and clamping tight against her stomach, the other grabbing her upper arm firmly, his chest and stomach tightening against her, hips locking tight as his lean, muscular body took on Jenny’s entire body weight as he broke her fall.
The gangplank swung wildly as Jenny gasped and flailed, but Kabeer held on, perfectly balanced, like he was in complete control, like he had never lost control, wouldn’t lose control, wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t let her go.
“Shit,” she gasped, reaching down and clutching her thigh as she found her balance against the Sheikh’s broad, hard body.
“What is it?” he asked. “Did you twist your ankle?”
“No,” she said, almost embarrassed. “God, I think I pulled a muscle in my thigh trying to get my balance back.”
“Where? Here?” With real concern Kabeer began to reach down the side of her leg, his hand moving down to where her hand was resting on her lower thigh.
“Oh, for—” came Yasmeena’s exasperated voice from above, and now she thumped on the gangplank railing and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “All right, Kabeer. I cannot watch this with a straight face. I am instructing the captain to cast off in sixty seconds.” She turned away but then turned back for a moment, those disconcerting gray eyes finding their focus on Jenny with alarming accuracy. “That means the gangplank goes up in thirty seconds, whether you two are on it or not.”
Jenny tried to look up to see if the woman was serious, but the catch in her leg was too much for now, and so she just turned wide-eyed to Kabeer as Yasmeena glided out of sight. “She’s kidding, right?” Jenny said with a single, nervous chuckle that caught in her throat as she watched three crew members approach the gangplank mechanism above them.
“Yasmeena? Kidding?” Kabeer shook his head. “My sister doesn’t do kidding,” he said. “OK, come on. We really do need to move. She has done this before. So just hold on, Jenny, all right? I got you.”
“What?”
And before she realized what was happening, Kabeer lifted her CLEAN off her feet, and she GASPED as she threw her arms around his neck as she felt every muscle in his arms and back tense up as he rose to full height. Then he winked at her, and without any sound that betrayed effort, Kabeer literally CARRIED her up the gangplank, picking up speed as she held on breathless in his arms, overwhelmed by the exhilarating feeling of him carrying her like she was a feather, a cloud, a wisp of candle smoke.
His strength was surprising, and Jenny’s breath caught as Kabeer began to take two steps at a time, his strong legs and lower body propelling the two of them closer to the top, closer, closer, and now with a final leap that made her BOUNCE in his arms they were there!
Sure enough, just as Kabeer carefully set her down on the hard wooden deck, the boat crew cast off the lines and the gangplank was already off the jetty and getting pulled in fast before Jenny even had a chance to straighten her clothes and catch her breath. Kabeer wasn’t joking: His sister didn’t do kidding.
Kabeer looked down at her legs and then into her eyes. “How do you feel? Is there pain? Can you walk?”
Jenny nodded and blinked, her face feeling hot as her breathing refused to slow down. She suddenly felt dizzy, faint, like her head was going into a spin, like her LIFE was going into a spin. The unexpected meeting at the office, that uncharacteristic (for her!) behavior in the underground garage, that spontaneous (or was it calculated—she didn’t know!) act of kicking off her shoes, hiking her skirt up, racing through downtown Chicago and along Lakeshore Drive, clinging to Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara’s hard body! Then the swinging gangplank, the slip and fall, the way he caught her, the way he carried her. What was happening? How can I think straight? I’m on a billionaire’s yacht! My heart is pounding. My head is spinning. My body is tingling all over. Wait, am I aroused right now?! Oh, God, I’m seriously going insane! Am I freaking AROUSED?!
And now Jenny just told herself to FOCUS and f-ing SAY SOMETHING! “Yes!” she said, the word coming out embarrassingly loud and squeaky. “I mean no! I mean, I think so. I mean I can walk. Yeah, sure, I’ll walk. Slowly.”
“Come on,” Kabeer said, a single bead of sweat rolling down the side of his smooth, flawlessly brown, grinning face. He still wasn’t even breathing hard, though. “Let us see if we can find you some shoes to cover up those piggies, yes?”
He grabbed her hand and slowly led her to the accommodations stack, pulling open the door and stepping inside. It was cool and dimly lit, a faint scent of some kind of fragrant oil in the air—dusky but subtle: fresh palm oil perhaps. There was dark brushed wood paneling along the walls, beautifully polished heavy walnut floors, hand-brushed gold-leaf ceilings. Everything about this was rich and elegant, and Jenny felt like she had suddenly stepped into a new world as the door closed behind her, blocking out the sun.
Yes, a new world, she thought as Kabeer led her into a bedroom that looked like what she imagined the Presidential Suite at the Ritz Carlton might look like (she had no idea). He slid open
the pinewood floor-to-ceiling doors of a massive closet, revealing a full range of women’s clothes on hangers to the left, a shelf unit with perhaps, oh, FORTY pairs of women’s shoes to the right! There were at least two pairs of shoes for every occasion one might imagine, including tennis, Jenny was certain. Tennis! On a boat!
“Anything you want,” Kabeer said, grinning as he pointed to the closet with a comical flourish, carelessly pulling out a pair of shoes (Jimmy Choo pumps—low end for what was up there . . .) and tossing them to the floor. “Not these, though. These are terrible. Ya, Allah, my sister has terrible taste. Expensive, yes. But terrible.” Now he sighed, knocking another pair off the shelf before turning to Jenny. “Here. You pick, I think. I’m sure you have better taste. Or better sense, at least.”
“These are your sister’s? Ms. Bukhaara’s?” Jenny asked, blinking as she remembered the way Yasmeena had looked at her, as if Jenny falling into the lake wouldn’t have even fazed the woman. “You know, I’m really not comfortable—”
“Do not be ridiculous. She will not care.” Hesitation, then a shrug and that devilish smile that brought out the green in his eyes. “Or rather, she will not notice.”
Jenny looked away from the Sheikh and focused on the wall of shoes, and now that dizziness came back, that rush in her head, that tingle in her body. So much going on, suddenly. Had she even EATEN today? Oh, God, was she dehydrated? Hypoglycemic? Hyperglycemic? So many shoes. So many SHOES!
As if he had noticed her hesitation (or perhaps her expression of “what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here-and-god-so-many-shoes” betrayed her incapacity to make a decision about something so strange, minor, and MONUMENTAL . . . ), the Sheikh gently touched her arms and carefully pushed her aside, brushing against her body, her hips, her breasts as he stepped in front of her and looked at the closet, his touch lingering for just a moment before he spoke.
Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2) Page 4
