Pen took a breath and closed her eyes. Some of what Rafeez had said made a little sense. It couldn’t be much fun for her birds to spend the winter living in a barn, with nothing really going on besides their daily feeding. She did her best to keep things clean in there, but there was only so much she could do as one person. Shit. It was probably hellish for those birds all winter!
She’d often considered releasing them into the wild. But where would that end up? Most of them would be killed by foxes, wolves, bears, and the occasional big cat. The rest would be blow to bits by drunk Midwestern “hunters” with machine guns mounted on their pickup trucks. God, she was being childish, wasn’t she? Naive, stupid, and just plain delusional.
Twenty million dollars, came the thought as she stared at her phone again to make sure it was still on. She couldn’t even understand what that kind of money looked like, what it would mean, what it would buy. She could build an animal shelter, name it after Willow, do some real good, have a real impact. She could rebuild this farm, hire good seasonal labor, buy new equipment, grow whatever the hell she wanted. She could even pick up and leave, move to a place where she wouldn’t have to dig herself out of a mountain of snow five times a year! Hell, she could move anywhere in the world! She could even move to . . .
Pen blinked as she realized where her thoughts were going, and she felt a catch in her throat as she reminded herself that she didn’t know this man, didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, whether he was just manipulating her for his amusement, perhaps his massive ego. He was a Sheikh, a king, a man with pride that clearly bordered on arrogance. He was used to dominating everything and everyone in his life, and that was the game unfolding between the two of them. She’d clearly pushed some of his buttons with her comments that day, and maybe no woman had ever talked to him like that before. Maybe he just wanted to . . . win. Dominate her, crush her, and then walk away again. The guy was from a world so far away—both culturally and financially—that Pen couldn’t assume she understood anything about him. He might as well be an alien!
What to do, she thought as her mind swirled. What the hell do I do?
“I’ll have to see this oasis,” she said, almost doubling over in shock when she realized what she was saying. “You say my birds will have a sporting chance out in the wild, that there’ll be enough shade for them to survive the days, food for them to live. I’ll have to see it for myself. Then I’ll decide.”
The Sheikh took a breath so loud Pen could hear it over the phone, and she knew his heart had jumped the same way hers had. There’s something here, Pen realized as she closed her eyes and saw Willow’s smiling face winking at her. Oh God, there’s something here.
“Done,” came the Sheikh’s voice over the phone, breaking Pen out of her daze. “Done.”
9
What have I done, thought the Sheikh as he watched his silver jet land at his private airport on the outskirts of Zahaar. The plane had one passenger, and Rafeez’s heart pounded as he watched her emerge from the doorway in a scarf and sunglasses, smiling at the attendant who was standing on the tarmac and pointing toward the covered electric cart that would bring her to the terminal. Bring her to him.
Is this just a symptom of unhealthy pride and supreme arrogance, Rafeez wondered as he’d done a hundred times after hanging up the phone with Pen a few days earlier. Is it narcissism? The act of an eccentric king who has lived in a bubble for so long that even the slightest rejection from a woman drives him into a manic frenzy? A woman asks you not to come inside her, and that results in you offering her twenty million dollars and a trip across the world so you can assert your dominance?! Ya Allah, if you open a dictionary and look up the word “insane,” will you see your face there?
She was the one who said she needed to see the oasis, Rafeez reminded himself as he took the golden escalator down to the lower level to meet Pen. Which means she understands that this is not about turkeys or even about money. It is about . . .
“Hello!” came her voice, and the Sheikh pushed aside every thought as he felt his mouth widen in a grin at how she was waving like an excited little girl. He could tell she was nervous, perhaps scared out of her mind.
Good, he thought. Because I am scared too. Scared because I do not know if I will be able to turn my back and walk away from her again.
The Sheikh’s heart was full as he reached out and squeezed her hand. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her hard on the lips, but he held back because of his attendants. Already he knew there would be whispers that would spread about the Sheikh inviting an American woman to the Palace, flying her in on his private jet. He had never hosted a woman at the Palace, holding good to his startling declaration several years earlier that he would never marry, that he was married to his kingdom, his duty, his responsibility to his people and to the future of Zahaar.
“I have decided that I will be the last Sheikh of Zahaar,” he’d said in a speech that had sent ripples through the Islamic world and especially the Sheikhdoms of the Arabian Peninsula. “I will not marry. I will not father an heir. And when I pass on to Allah’s heaven, the kingdom of Zahaar will become a full-fledged democracy, with leaders elected directly by the people, from the people, for the people!”
The announcement had been met with both criticism and praise, with many from the Sheikh’s inner circle of ministers begging him to reconsider his move. But Rafeez had been adamant, stating just that democracy was the most reliable system of government, despite its faults.
“No one man should have so much power over so many people,” he’d told them. “My father was a decent man and a reasonable Sheikh, but even he had his lapses of judgment, and we have all suffered for it. I do my best to be a benevolent and forward-looking ruler, but there are times when I feel the power of the throne corrupting me. And there is no shortage of examples from the other Sheikhdoms of Arabia where rulers are running their own people and culture into the ground for their own ego, their own gains, even their own pleasures. A ruler must answer to his people, and democracy is the only system of government that ensures that.”
Rafeez had declared that when he reached the age of fifty-eight, he would oversee general elections and the transition of power. He would stay on as Sheikh in name as the new government found its feet, but would remain true to his word that he would be the last Sheikh.
“It was a bold move,” Charlotte Goodwin had told him when she found a few minutes to speak with him privately at her wedding the previous month. “But what’s with the whole ‘I will never marry and never father an heir’ thing? That seems a bit over the top, don’t you think? Hardly necessary.”
The Sheikh had smiled thinly, shrugging as he finished his club soda with lime. “My part of the world is over the top. Think about what would happen if I married four wives and fathered ten children. What are the chances that after my death, one or more of them would seek to claim the throne, perhaps even seize it in a coup of the democratic leadership that I set up? Then what? A military dictatorship? More of my children fighting over the throne?” He’d shaken his head. “Better to leave no legacy. My legacy will be democracy in Zahaar. Giving a voice to my people. Giving them power over their own lives.”
Charlotte had nodded, her blue eyes narrowing as she stood there in her wedding dress. “It’s a noble and bold move, like I said. But nothing’s going to happen until you’re fifty-eight? That’s like twenty years away! No wonder people have already stopped talking about it in the news. It seems so far away that I bet people don’t believe it’s going to happen.”
“I do not care. I did not make the declaration to get in the news,” Rafeez had said, his jaw stiffening as he realized that he was not being completely honest—not with Charlotte, and not with himself. Certainly he had his pride and his ego, and although he hated to admit it, a part of him cared about being recognized for what he was doing. After all, he was choosing to give up a throne, g
ive up the prospect of marriage, give up the joys of fatherhood!
But in the years that had followed his declaration, Rafeez had not gotten the recognition he thought the announcement warranted. The foreign press had largely ignored it, and even the more liberal news organizations of the Arabian Peninsula had brushed it aside, saying that twenty years was a long time, and who was to say if any of the Sheikhdoms would still have kings and queens in twenty years!
Rafeez had sunk into a strange depression during that time, questioning himself and his own motives. A part of him truly believed that this was the right thing to do; another part of him was disappointed that the world did not seem to care; and a third part of him was troubled by the knowledge that he cared so much about what the world thought of him!
The contradictions in his mind and heart twisted him inside out, and finally he’d just said to hell with it and found solace in the one thing he had not sworn off: Sex. Meaningless, raw sex. Why not? He’d only promised to never take a wife and never father a child, yes? He’d never said he was going to become a goddamn monk, letting his balls grow heavy from denying his need, the primal needs of a man.
I am a man, he would tell himself as he visited the private brothels of Dubai and Bahrain, Singapore and Tokyo, Amsterdam and Argentina. A great man. A powerful man. It is no matter if my greatness is not recognized in my time. History will remember me for bringing democracy to the Middle East through peace instead of war, for denying my own needs for the greater needs of the people, the needs of the entire goddamn world.
“Inshallah,” he would mutter as he rolled on another condom and finished inside another nameless, faceless beauty, his needs getting more manic as time rolled on and the Sheikh felt the clock ticking towards the day he would give up his throne. “God willing I can stay the course, remain true to my word, give up my power when the time comes.”
There would be days he questioned his decision, wondering if he had been brainwashed from the years he’d spent in England. Those were the days he’d leave Zahaar in the middle of the night, taking his private jet to Bahrain so he could unleash his frustration on the latest crop of fresh-faced nubiles at his favorite brothel, making them howl in pain and pleasure as he pumped into them from in front and behind, above and below, always hard, always with power, always with a condom. He’d found both solace and satisfaction in these encounters, taking a strange pleasure in knowing that he was denying the primal need of a man to put his seed in a woman. Was that not true strength, real power, the triumph of a man’s will over the needs of nature? Of course it was!
But then he’d met Pen Peterson, a goddamn farmgirl from Fargo, North Dakota.
Pen Peterson, the first woman who’d ever felt his bare cock against her inner walls.
Pen Peterson, the only woman who’d actually dared to ask him to pull out when even South American beauty queens and European princesses had begged him to take off his condom and finish inside them.
Pen Peterson, who was now standing before him in all her glory, those curvy hips barely contained by the conservative beige slacks she was wearing, the swell of her breasts calling to him from beneath the long scarf she’d draped around her head and shoulders out of respect for the Arab tradition, her lips full and red . . . and ready.
10
“I’m ready,” said Pen, doing her best to smile and hold eye contact with the Sheikh even though she could feel her lips trembling, her gaze wavering, her knees shaking. This man did something to her just with his eyes, and with his body in the mix she was a goddamn mess! “Show me the royal hunting grounds where my hundred-thousand dollar birds are going to be gunned down in some lame display of machismo.”
The Sheikh raised an eyebrow as his gaze travelled up and down Pen’s body. “I see you are still determined on insulting and belittling me. Perhaps I will leave you out in the desert with your beloved birds.”
“No problem,” said Pen, grinning as she felt the chemistry she’d felt the first time she’d met the Sheikh . . . before he’d gone all weird on her and disappeared out the front door. “Just don’t leave me tied up like the last time, though. That wouldn’t be much sport for a manly hunter like yourself.”
The Sheikh’s green eyes went wide, color rushing to his face, turning his olive complexion dark. Pen almost kicked herself, wondering what the hell she was thinking. But she couldn’t help herself. This was who she was, and for some reason she couldn’t stop being herself around this man, even though she knew it got under his skin.
Or perhaps that’s why I can’t stop being myself around him, she thought, exhaling when she saw a smile slowly break on his devilishly handsome face.
“You are fortunate none of these attendants speak English,” he said sternly, though his tone had an undercurrent of amusement. “Because then I would be forced to have you flogged in the town square for insulting the Sheikh.”
“I understand,” said Pen, raising her eyebrows in mock innocence and nodding earnestly. “Perception is important, and I’d happily accept the flogging so you can maintain your aura of being an angry God-King.”
“God-King! Hah! I like that!” Rafeez laughed, and then he took a breath. “Though in all seriousness, the Sheikh is technically the head of both politics and religion, so in a way the term is accurate.”
“Sure,” said Pen, adjusting her sunglasses as the Sheikh led her out past the sliding doors of the terminal to where three Range Rovers were parked in a line on the blazing tarmac of the driveway. “Nice chariots, God-King. Which one is ours?”
“Ours? You presume to ride with the God-King himself?”
“Isn’t it more presumptuous to think I’ll have a gold-plated car all to myself?”
Rafeez laughed as he gestured to an attendant and said something in Arabic. The attendant nodded, bowed, and held open the back doors of the middle car. The Sheikh took a breath, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the bowed heads of all the attendants silently gathered around.
“All right. We will ride together.”
Pen frowned when she saw how the Sheikh had glanced at his attendants. “You’re worried about what they’ll say if we ride together?”
The Sheikh blinked as if she’d seen something he didn’t want her to see. “It is no matter. Come. Get in.”
Pen dropped the topic and climbed into the golden Range Ranger, feeling a bit self-conscious when she felt her ass stick up in the air as she did it. For a moment the memory of the Sheikh’s face between her rear cheeks came to mind, and she felt herself get suddenly wet when she wondered what these attendants would think if they knew that!
Oh, God, what have I gotten myself into by coming here? By suggesting that I come here?! This man wanted to come inside me, and when I said no he walked out the door. So what does it mean that I’m back here, of my own free will? Am I saying yes now? Am I saying “Knock me up, God-King?” Am I saying I’m ready to let him finish this meeting the way he wanted to finish that last encounter? Am I submitting just by being here? Does my presence here mean consent? And if so, consent to what? What the hell does this king want from me? Or does he just want . . . me?
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. It’s just a game for him. You have no idea how people like him think. This man grew up amidst fabulous wealth, with an entire nation hailing him as both king and freakin’ head-priest or something! Be careful, Pen. Be very, very careful.
Careful, or grateful? thought Pen as she reminded herself why she was here, why she’d even begun down this path in the first place. Friendship, trust, and gratitude. She’d let this stranger into her home simply because Willow had trusted him enough to send him over there. And staying on this path was Pen’s way of showing faith in her dead friend, showing gratitude for Willow’s last act of friendship.
Besides, she thought with a smile as the tears gathered beneath her sunglasses, Willow would kick my big butt if I turned down a twenty mill
ion dollar offer without at least looking into it. So let’s just stick with the cover story, shall we? I’m just a turkey farmer here to do due diligence on a proposed business transaction. Perfectly normal, right? Nothing to see here. No weirdo God-King who wants to either knock me up or perhaps tie me to a pillar in the town square and have me flogged. Nope. Everything’s normal. Hello!
“Do you not want to freshen up at the Palace before we head to the Great Oasis?” said the Sheikh.
Pen had been lost in her ruminations, and she whipped her head towards him so fast she felt a sudden pain in the back of her neck. “Ow,” she muttered, grabbing her neck and rubbing it furiously.
“What is it?” said Rafeez, his face going serious with concern.
“I don’t know. I think it’s just a catch or cramp or something.”
“You are dehydrated and your muscles are cramping. The airplane ride. The dry desert air. It drains your body of moisture and electrolytes.” He reached for a sealed bottle of water from the armrest between them. “Here. Drink this. All of it,” he commanded.
Pen blinked as the Sheikh cracked open the bottle for her and watched her drink it like she was a child taking her medicine. She finished the last drop and gasped, smiling and blinking as she immediately felt better.
“What is it?” she said. “Doesn’t taste like any water I’ve drunk.”
The Sheikh smiled. “It is water from the Great Oasis. Rich in minerals and the Earth’s natural salts. Come. Turn for me.”
“What?”
The Sheikh didn’t answer. Instead he turned her body halfway so she faced the car window. Then he pushed her scarf up and slid his fingers beneath it from behind, making her gasp as his strong fingers touched the bare skin on the back of her neck and shoulders.
“Oh, that feels . . .” she started to say, but the words trailed off when Rafeez’s strong fingers dug into her flesh, immediately killing the last of the cramps, sending tingles, sparks, and goddamn flames shooting through her body. “Oh, shit.”
Grateful for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 16) Page 5
