Grateful for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 16)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Oh, shit!” said Pen, color rushing to her face as she sat up and frantically reached for her slacks. “I can’t let anyone see me like this! They’re gonna think I’m some whore!”

  “Do not worry,” said the Sheikh, grinning wide as he grabbed her slacks and held them away from her as she tried to claw her way across his massive body to get at them. “I will tell them you are an American farmgirl who does not wear pants or panties. I will explain that in the free land of America, farmgirls roam the fields naked from the waist down, with bushels of corn propped against their wide hips, their virginal pussies dripping with the nectar of democracy and capitalism.”

  Pen almost choked with laughter, her eyes going wide as she finally got a hold of her slacks and yanked them from the Sheikh. “You should be a poet,” she remarked, still giggling as she pulled her slacks on without bothering to search for her underwear. “You’d win the Nobel Prize for imagery like that.”

  “Right now the only image in my mind is that of your virginal pussy dripping with—”

  “OK, stop!” Pen said, slapping his hands away as the Sheikh reached for her crotch just as she managed to pull her slacks up past her hips. “You’re sick! And who uses the word virginal in a sentence these days?”

  “An Arabian God-King who is also a poet may use any words he chooses,” said Rafeez, finally pulling his hands away and letting Pen zip up just as the car pulled to a smooth stop and the door slowly opened as if by magic “Ibd din allahi,” he said to the silent attendant holding the door open for them. “Other side first, please. The lady alights before the Sheikh.”

  12

  Am I a lady now, Pen wondered as she realized her shoes had come off in the car. Does a lady bend over and grope around beneath the seat to find her shoes?

  Nope, she decided as the attendant’s gaze momentarily shifted to Pen’s eyes before he quickly bowed his head and stepped back after making sure the door stayed open. Then he hurried around to the other side of the car and pulled open the Sheikh’s door.

  “Thank you,” said Pen, smiling and waving toward the attendant, who broke into a huge, toothy grin that indicated Sheikh Rafeez’s staff had excellent dental coverage.

  “Ibd din allahi,” she heard the Sheikh say as she kicked around beneath the seat with her bare foot, doing her best to find those damned shoes.

  Suddenly the attendant was back, and somehow he was reaching beneath the seat in front of her, his thin arms making their way deep down and coming back out with her shoes. His grin grew wider as he placed the shoes on the marbled portion of the driveway where they’d stopped, and Pen shrugged and stepped into them, feeling like Cinderella for a moment.

  But not the Cinderella who spent her days in the pantry, it occurred to her as she glanced up and gasped at the splendor of the Royal Palace of Zahaar, its motif done in white marble, pristine like snow, shining like a jewel in the desert sun. The enormously thick pillars lining the front entrance were too numerous to count, seemingly stretching to infinity on either side of her as she stood there dumbstruck, gaping like a goldfish plucked from its bowl.

  Or maybe I’ve stepped into the bowl. Or into the bubble. Either way, this can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Not to me. Could it?

  Again she thought of Willow, and immediately her heart filled with that strange sense of gratitude, of thankfulness, of pure and simple love for a friend.

  “Thank you for putting me here, Willow,” she whispered as she looked up and saw two towering minarets marking the front corners of the Royal Palace. They seemed to reach up into the clear blue sky, white marble shining so bright it made her head spin. Each minaret was topped with a peak done in shimmering gold paint. Or at least it looked like gold paint. It was probably a bit crude to ask if the Sheikh’s minarets were plated with real gold.

  Pen pulled her scarf tighter around her head and neck as she waited there alone, feeling somewhat awkward as she heard the Sheikh saying something to another attendant behind her. She took a breath, her knees going weak when she caught the aroma of the Sheikh’s semen and she remembered that hell, she was covered in it. Talk about crude!

  She tried to feel dirty, ashamed, embarrassed, but her heart was still full of gratitude and wonder. And when she turned halfway and saw that the Sheikh had sent his attendants away and was now just standing there alone, gazing at her with a faraway look in his green eyes that were somehow still focused on her, she smiled and closed her eyes so she could bask in this moment.

  There’s so much potential in this moment, she thought. Here I am, standing at the front entrance of an Arabian Palace, a God-King staring at me with what looks like desire in his eyes—maybe more. And it’s all because Willow put me and him in the same room. What a parting gift! I need to make sure I don’t squander it, like I almost did when I pretty much chased him off my farm two weeks ago!

  “Are you done staring at my humble home like you have never seen a Royal Palace before?” came his voice through her thoughts, and Pen gasped when she felt his strong arm circling her waist, smelled his masculine scent rise up to her through his white linen shirt.

  “What about perception? Rumors? Palace gossip?” she asked, shifting closer to him almost involuntarily, like it was natural, like it was right.

  “I told you, it is too late to stop that, so we might as well confirm it.”

  “Confirm what?” Pen said, immediately blushing when she realized that the question was premature, that they’d technically not even had sex yet. If anything, this was just the second date. Too early for her to ask, “Where is this going?!” like some psycho chick.

  “That you and I will be married,” said the Sheikh, his tone barely changing as he said the words. “Come. Let me show you your new home.”

  Pen’s knees almost gave way as she let the Sheikh lead her up the majestic marble steps that rose up like a pyramid. She knew she was hearing things, that he couldn’t have said what he’d just said. Of course not. It was sun madness. Heat stroke. Desert insanity. Whatever.

  “My new . . . what?”

  The Sheikh half-turned, one eyebrow raised, his green eyes calmly focusing on her face. “Home. A husband and wife typically live in the same home. Is that not how it works in your curious American farmgirl culture?” He glanced up at the massive teakwood double doors, the dark old wood polished smooth, the frame inset with Arabic inscriptions scripted in gold, studded with precious stones of every color imaginable. “Of course, when the husband and wife are also a king and queen, the home is a Royal Palace. Come. Do not trip on the stairs. Come.”

  Pen blinked as she stumbled, grabbing onto the Sheikh’s strong arm, which felt stable as one of those massive pillars. Indeed, everything about Rafeez seemed calm and stable right then, a cool confidence oozing out of him, his green eyes focused in a way that sent chills up and down her spine. This man had made a decision, she realized as she gasped for air, trying desperately to push back the thoughts that threatened to drown her. Who makes a decision like that?!

  A king does, she realized as she clutched Rafeez’s arms tighter and took the last few steps with all the grace she could muster under the circumstances. A tremble went through her as those double doors opened like magic, revealing a courtyard with black marble fountains and palm trees, gazebos made of polished teakwood, pathways of red sandstone, attendants in white robes standing silently at the edges of the courtyard, heads bowed to acknowledge the return of their Sheikh.

  He is a God-King, isn’t he, Pen thought as she surveyed the perfect proportions of everything in the courtyard, how the open hallways lining the borders were geometrically aligned to give the whole scene a dazzling yet tranquil effect. The way the attendants were lined up seemed staged but yet natural, like petals on a flower.

  Again Pen smelled his semen on her clothes and skin, and her head spun as she began to hyperventilate. It was too much. Just too fucking much.
The way the Sheikh had stormed into her life in the middle of a snowstorm before walking out the door, leaving her tied to her own dining table like a piece of leftover meat. Then Willow’s sudden death followed by this madman nonchalantly offering her twenty million dollars to buy her turkeys so he could seed his private hunting ground.

  An offer which you didn’t turn down, by the way, Pen reminded herself when she realized she wasn’t going to faint after all. Perhaps you should have turned it down, just to keep this weirdo out of your life. But no, you came up with the ludicrous suggestion to actually come and see this Great Oasis where your turkeys will run free like God’s creatures were meant to, hunted by Arabs on camels or whatever.

  Oh God, she thought as she remembered that this wasn’t about turkeys, that it was never about turkeys, that she was the goddamn turkey if she thought it was about turkeys! This entire thing was a marriage proposal, wasn’t it? The phone call. The question. And my response. Sure, we were talking about some ridiculous offer to buy a flock of flightless birds, but really we were talking about us, about this, about . . .

  “Trust,” said the Sheikh, turning to her as they stood in the center of the perfectly proportioned courtyard. “We were brought together because each of us trusted your friend. We are standing here together because each of us trusted our instincts, our need to be close to one another regardless of the superficial details of how long we have known each other.”

  “Yes, but . . . but . . . marriage?!” Pen stammered, blinking as she felt that sickness rise up again, that feeling like she was Cinderella and it was three strokes to midnight and she was about to turn back into a pumpkin—or whatever the hell happened to Cinderella at midnight after the magic wore off and the fantasy faded.

  “What is marriage if not an exercise in trust?” said Rafeez. “I have always trusted my instincts, trusted my body, trusted my nature. That is why when I decided I would never father an heir, I knew I would also need to commit to never being married. I understood that my needs are so strong that there would be times when my resolve would weaken, when the forces of nature, the urges of the body would take over. And I never believed I would find a woman whom I could trust to stop me when that happened. Not until I met you.”

  Pen blinked in disbelief as she listened. She looked down, glancing at her feet. She remembered reading somewhere that if you’re trying to figure out whether you’re in a dream, you should look at your feet. If you’re dreaming, you won’t be able to see your feet.

  Well, I have feet in this dream, Pen thought, but it’s clearly still a dream. A dream where a fat-assed farmgirl from Fargo meets an Arabian Sheikh who wants to knock her up. But she refuses because . . . “reasons” . . . and she refuses again because . . . “morals” . . . and now the Sheikh wants to marry her because he believes he can trust her to always refuse when his need to knock her up gets so strong that he can’t trust himself to stop. You couldn’t make this shit up, and if you did, it would be one of those Mills and Boon comic books.

  “I think maybe it’s time I freshened up,” Pen said weakly, forcing a smile as she felt her head spin again. “I just need . . . I need a minute.”

  13

  I need a minute as well, thought the Sheikh as he watched one of his female attendants lead Pen towards the Eastern Wing of the Royal Palace. He blinked as he tried not to stare at her buttocks move in those beige pants, but he could not keep his eyes off her. He could barely keep his hands off her, and Rafeez wondered if the years of denying himself a normal relationship with a woman had twisted him into a caricature, his personality and character just a comical mix of a schoolboy’s lust and a megalomaniac’s ego.

  He’d arrived at the decision to marry her suddenly, naturally, implicitly. There had been no internal debate, no real thought process behind it. The moment he stepped out of the car and stood by her side he knew she was his partner, his wife, his queen, his Sheikha. She was his, and that was all there was to it.

  It is like an arranged marriage of old, Rafeez thought as he began to pace the crisscrossed pathways of the courtyard, the same pathways he’d run through as the only living child of parents who’d had him late in life. There’d been an older sister who’d died before her time, and then no children until little Rafeez arrived. He’d been coddled and spoiled, treated as if he were a miracle baby, a gift from Allah. His father the old Sheikh had taken three wives in his lifetime, but only one of them had borne him that coveted son—and that too when she was in her late forties: a miracle indeed.

  The old Sheikh himself had been in his sixties when Rafeez was born, and it was only much later that Rafeez seriously wondered what his father was planning for the kingdom’s future if his only heir had showed up unexpectedly in the old Sheikh’s twilight years. And Rafeez found his answer one evening while combing through some old documents in his father’s private library in the North Wing of the Royal Palace, a room so messy and unkempt that Rafeez wondered how in the world his father had managed to run a kingdom!

  The document was an edict, a directive issued directly by the Sheikh. Of course, it was still in draft form, never issued, never published, never made public. Because the arrival of little Rafeez, the miracle baby, Allah’s surprise gift had apparently changed the Sheikh’s mind:

  The time of kings and queens, Sheikhs and Sheikhas, crowns and scepters is gone. This is the age of democracy and individualism, where the common man has earned the right to make his choices, pursue his dreams, claim his destiny. And so I hereby declare I will be the last Sheikh of Zahaar. Allah has decreed it by denying my three wives a son, denying our kingdom an heir. So be it. The message is clear, and I will accept it. Inshallah. Allah hu Akbar.

  The rest of the document went on to describe the peaceful transition to democracy, the establishment of a President and Cabinet of Ministers, the set up of elections for members of legislatures and houses of congress. It was well thought out, and it had affected young Rafeez deeply—especially during the three years he spent in England, studying at Oxford University, mingling with an eclectic group ranging from the entitled children of the world’s leftover royal families to some of the same world’s most brilliant “commoners,” those who’d earned a spot through their own merits and hard work.

  My arrival destroyed my father’s dreams for our kingdom, he’d finally decided when he returned to Zahaar and took back active control of his kingdom’s affairs. His council of ministers had adequately managed things while Rafeez was in England, just like they’d managed things well enough while he was a teenager still learning how to be a king. Clearly the nation could function under the guidance of a similar group of ministers and leaders, Rafeez realized. And perhaps it should. Perhaps my father was right. Perhaps my arrival was not a gift from Allah but simply a test of my father’s resolve, to see if he could put aside pride, ego, and nepotism to lead his nation into the new world of democracy and individual freedom!

  And so perhaps the burden now falls upon me, the son. Perhaps now I need to prove that I can overcome my ego, my selfishness, my pride. Do what my father failed to do: Choose the future of my kingdom over the selfish need to see my own heir sit upon the throne.

  At first Rafeez had decided it would be simple enough to transition Zahaar to democracy while raising a family of his own. There was no need to deny himself the basic needs of a man, was there? But then he’d watched several smaller Sheikhdoms descend into civil war after their Sheikh had died without naming a successor. Sons and daughters plotted against one another. Cousins and distant relatives formed alliances, raised small armies, planned assassinations. No, he’d decided. Our bloodline is clear and our family tree has very few branches. If I do not have children, there would be no one with a reasonable claim to the throne. All I have to do is make that one sacrifice, and I will go down in history as the Father of Democracy in Zahaar! Is that not a legacy I can be proud of?!

  And so Rafeez had issued his announcem
ent, committing to never fathering an heir, never satisfying his animalistic need to spread his seed. He’d also decided it meant he could never marry, because what woman would be satisfied with being denied a child by rule? Even if he found a woman who agreed, how could he trust her to keep her word when it went against everything both their bodies demanded? There was no woman he could trust to that extent.

  Except perhaps the woman who’d just walked through his courtyard in beige slacks, thought Rafeez as he rubbed his jawline and grinned, shaking his head as he reminded himself that he’d just told her they would be married. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered. There was no proposal. He’d just said it like it was done. Case closed.

  “Case closed,” the Sheikh said out loud as he paced, trying to ignore the tension rising along his back, the excitement making his body tingle, the anticipation making him clench his fists. Suddenly he felt vulnerable, an uncharacteristic panic whipping through him as he wondered what he might do if she emerged shaking her head, telling him he was insane, that she couldn’t possibly go along with what he’d decided, that she would never in a million years marry him!

  And then the Sheikh knew he was smitten, trapped, defeated. She’d gotten under his skin, and she had a hold on him whether she knew it or not. For a moment he thought back to that short-haired friend who’d spoken to him at Charlotte’s wedding and arranged the meeting with Pen.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, clenching his fists again and grinning at the way the blood pounded in his temples as he awaited Pen’s decision on his decision. “Thank you for sending her to me. I will find a way to repay you, to express my gratitude for your gift.”

  But first I need to seal the deal with this curvy farmgirl, he thought as he stopped near the edge of one of the black marble fountains in the open courtyard, glancing down into his own reflection. Close the case.

  14