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

by Annabelle Winters

  Pen closed her make-up case and smiled at herself in the mirror. Then she frowned and puffed out her cheeks. This is a fat mirror, she decided as she took a few steps back and put her hands on her hips, turning sideways and sucking in her belly.

  “Mirror mirror on the wall,” she whispered, facing the wood-framed oval glass and smiling as she felt a strange tingle move along her buttocks and up her spine, “who’s the fattest farmgirl of them all?”

  “You are,” she replied, giggling as she shook her head at the madness of it all. “You are!”

  All right, she told herself. You have to go out there and face him. Tell him that you’re flattered by his offer, but you can’t possibly accept it. Hell, you don’t even know him! And from what you do know, he’s erratic, entitled, arrogant, and possibly insane!

  He’s also smoking hot, a billionaire king, and he clearly can’t keep his hands off you, another part of her whispered as she exhaled hard and frowned at herself in the mirror. Besides, Willow believed in him from one meeting! When has she ever set you up with a guy? Never! You already pushed him out of your life once, refused Willow’s gift. And then he came back, and so did you! You’re here, with him, in a Royal Palace that he just said was going to be your new home! Don’t be a moron, Pen! Just do it! Don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth!

  He doesn’t want children, which means that if it doesn’t work, it won’t get too complicated to split up, Pen reasoned as she felt that chill spread out through her body until she was a quivering mess. So think of it like an arranged marriage or something. You’ve already been pretty damned intimate with him. And yeah, he’s been kinda weird, taken things to places you’ve never imagined going before. But hell, now you’re imagining going to those places with him, aren’t you? So maybe you should just do it! See what happens!

  And so before she could second-guess herself, Pen took a breath and walked back out into the courtyard where the Sheikh was standing near a black marble fountain. She could see the tension on his handsome brown face, and it somehow excited her to know that this was important to him, that although he’d made the statement with authority and resolve, like it was a decision that couldn’t be challenged, it was clear that it was also a question. It was indeed a proposal. In his own way, the Sheikh was asking, “Will you marry me?”

  Pen blinked as she wondered what to say. And then the words came. Her answer came.

  “What about my birds?” she blurted out. “Will you still hunt them like some savage?”

  The Sheikh frowned, and then he burst into a smile as if he’d just remembered that none of this was about the damned turkeys. He shrugged, raising his chin and narrowing his eyes as he came close. “The birds will be given their freedom. Then they can take their own chances. It is the way of nature.”

  Pen felt herself smile as she realized they were speaking in metaphors, with her turkeys just a proxy for their relationship, for how things would play out. “No children,” she said slowly. “And my birds are going to live in some Arabian oasis-paradise with nothing to fear except the occasional hunting mission from a mad shotgun-wielding Sheikh on a camel.”

  “That seems like a classic set of conditions for a conventional arranged marriage,” said Rafeez, slowly walking towards her, his face comically serious. “Though my weapon of choice is up for debate.”

  “Oh, really?” said Pen, glancing at his crotch, gasping when she saw it was obscenely filled out, pushing the front of his trousers up into a peak that rivaled the minarets of the Royal Palace. “I don’t think there’s any debate as to your weapon of choice, Your Highness.”

  “So that is a yes?” said the Sheikh, stepping up so close she could smell his natural scent, an aroma that felt familiar now, felt like home. “Not that it was a question,” he added hurriedly.

  “Of course not,” Pen said, blinking when she realized it wasn’t clear what she was talking about. “I mean, of course it wasn’t a question. And yeah, the answer is yes. Sure. What the hell. Let’s get married. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  15

  “Wait, what just happened?” Pen said, pulling the phone away from her ear and glancing at it. It seemed like she’d been doing a lot of that lately. Why was her iPhone showing up in so many crazy dreams? “No, that’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Peterson,” came the solemn voice on the other end. “There’s no mistake. She was found this morning. She drowned in her bathtub. I’m sorry, Ms. Peterson.”

  Pen just blinked as she listened to the female police officer tell her that Randy, Willow’s partner, had been found dead that morning, drowned in her own bathtub. “OK . . .” she said, blinking again and making eye contact with the Sheikh, who was frowning with concern as he looked at her from across the dinner table. Zahaar was nine hours ahead of the United States, and so it was just past sunset their time, ten in the morning in Fargo.

  Pen nodded through the rest of the phone call, unable to speak. Her mind was alternating between going completely blank and running a mile a minute, and by the time she hung up and sat down in the high-backed teakwood chair, her heart was beating so fast she thought she was going to die.

  “Randy’s dead,” she said, her voice deadpan, her expression stoic, her head still spinning.

  “Who is Randy?” said the Sheikh.

  “Willow’s partner,” said Pen, realizing that she and the Sheikh still knew so little about one another’s lives. Hell, they’d groaned and moaned together longer than they’d actually talked! What the hell was she doing marrying this guy!

  Well, that’s not gonna last long, she reminded herself as she thought a few steps ahead and swallowed hard as a chill descended on her, cold and dark like a North Dakota winter.

  “I am sorry to hear that. That was Willow on the phone?” the Sheikh continued, dabbing his mouth with a black silk napkin and leaning back, giving her his full attention in a way that made Pen’s heart leap just a teeny bit.

  Pen frowned, and then her eyes widened when she realized that shit, he didn’t even know that Willow was dead! “Uh, no,” she said slowly. “Willow was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago. I thought I told you that.”

  The Sheikh’s expression changed so fast it startled Pen, and it was only when she saw him swallow hard and clench his jaw that she realized Willow meant something to him, that even the seemingly insignificant meeting had been meaningful to the Sheikh. “You did not,” he said slowly, glancing down at his hands and then muttering something in Arabic under his breath. Then he looked up, his expression back to normal. “I am sad to hear that. She was a good person. A good friend.” He paused again, offering a smile. “And a very good matchmaker.”

  Pen couldn’t help smiling back, and when the Sheikh reached out his hand she nodded and came over to him. He pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, holding her close as he did it.

  This feels good, Pen thought as she felt the Sheikh take her weight easily. She leaned against his strong, hard, massive body, her own body suddenly alive with waves of warmth, sparks of heat, feelings of . . . love?

  “Was Randy’s death a suicide?” he asked finally, caressing her hair gently.

  Pen shook her head. “The police said it was an accident, far as they can tell. They’re still doing an autopsy to see if there were drugs in her system, but for now they’re saying it was just an accident.”

  “The police? Why were they calling you? Are you the next of kin for Randy? Her emergency contact?”

  “Hah! No,” said Pen, rolling her eyes. “Randy didn’t like me much. And she’s got parents—though her parents pretty much disowned her after she came out and married Willow. Still, I’m sure the cops called Randy’s parents before they called me.”

  “But why call you at all? Do the American police call everyone in someone’s phonebook when they are found dead?�
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  Pen shifted on the Sheikh’s lap, and suddenly that warmth was chased away by the fear of what she was about to tell him. And then she realized it was something she should have told him before she’d agreed to marry him, and the fear escalated so fast Pen thought she was choking.

  Slowly she moved off Rafeez, taking a breath as she stepped away from him, her face towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the dark dunes of the Zahaari Desert.

  “Because I’m the godmother of Randy and Willow’s children,” she said quietly, the gravity of it hitting her only as she said the words. Her knees almost buckled as she turned back to the Sheikh, and she gulped back her fear and looked him right in the eyes as she felt her future melting away, the palace crumbling into dust, leaving nothing but Pen and two adopted babies. “And that means those kids are mine now, Rafeez. Those kids are mine!”

  The silence was so heavy in that old dining room that Pen swore it was crushing them, crushing the Palace itself. The only condition he’d put upon their marriage was that they’d never have children, and now, one day after she’d said yes, she was basically telling him she was also a single mom with twins!

  Oh, God, my marriage is over before it even started, came the thought as her heart beat so hard she thought it would explode right then, darting right out of her chest and bouncing merrily around the floor, laughing at her for being naive enough to think this was actually gonna happen in the first place! Married to a king? Sure, honey. Dream another dream, you fat-assed floozy—‘cause this dream is over. Done. Finished.

  “Well, at least it’ll be a great story to tell the kids when they’re older,” Pen whispered as she turned away from the Sheikh, not bearing to see the disappointment on his face. “Mommy was engaged to an Arabian King once, you know. A Sheikh! We were engaged for one day, and then you two came into my life and the Sheikh walked out of it. But it’s OK. I promised Willow I’d be there if anything ever happened to her and her partner. Of course, I never imagined I’d actually have to make good on that promise. Who the hell expects both parents to die within a month of each other, in separate accidents! What are the fucking chances?!”

  “Are you talking to me or yourself?” came the Sheikh’s deep voice from behind her, and Pen almost jumped as she was pulled back to the moment.

  Still, she couldn’t turn to face him. She couldn’t face what she knew was coming. And then suddenly she hated Willow, hated Randy, even hated those innocent kids who’d already lost two sets of parents. And then she hated herself for having those thoughts, for being so selfish that she resented everyone else for taking away her future, her dream, her happily-ever-after. Who the hell was she gonna find now, saddled with twins from Colombia of all places! She was going to grow old as a single mom, working on a goddamn turkey farm, trying to get people to make turkey-egg omelets so she wouldn’t have to slaughter those dumb, fat-assed birds!

  Fuck it, she suddenly thought. Fuck it all.

  Then she turned and looked up at the Sheikh. “Our deal with the turkeys still good? Twenty million for the bunch?”

  Rafeez blinked as he stared into Pen’s eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to break into a smile, wave away her fears, pull her into his massive body and kiss her forehead like he’d just done. She thought he was going to say everything would be all right, that they would work it out, find a compromise, that her children were his children now. That was what a man did, right?

  At least that was what a man in love would do . . .

  The Sheikh opened his mouth as if to say something, but then his jaw went tight, his eyes narrowed, and he nodded his head. “Our deal is still good. I will arrange for the transport, and as agreed, they will be released into the wild.” He paused for a moment, rubbing his heavy stubble. “You understand that what I said about hunting them still holds,” he whispered, the words coming slowly, almost like he was issuing a challenge, giving her another chance to back out, perhaps to beg him for some compromise. “I make no guarantees for their safety.”

  “Kill ‘em all,” said Pen as she felt a dark cloud descend over her even as the pit in her stomach grew so heavy she thought it would drag her right through the sandstone floor. “Kill ‘em all, for all I care.”

  And then she walked right past the Sheikh, almost bursting into tears as she took one last breath of his scent, holding it in because she knew she’d never smell it again. It was over. It had lasted one day, and now it was over. Sure, this had never been about those damned turkeys, but now Pen realized it had never been about her and the Sheikh either. Both she and the Sheikh were committed to something bigger, and they were being called to make sacrifices for their larger goals. The Sheikh had to choose his country over his marriage. And Pen had to choose the children over the Sheikh.

  There’s no choice to make, Pen told herself as she realized she was still hoping Rafeez would run across the room and gather her into his arms like in a movie or something.

  But then she was at the door, and the Sheikh was still at the far end of the room, standing still as a statue, his green eyes narrowed as he watched her leave . . .

  . . . as he let her leave.

  16

  You let her leave. How could you let her leave?!

  The Sheikh watched as his men unloaded crate after crate of squawking turkeys from the belly of the freight airplane he’d sent to Fargo. He’d made good on his offer, even though the offer had been about the woman, not the bloody birds. What in Allah’s name was he going to do with two hundred American turkeys? Would they even survive in the desert heat? Would he have to build an air-conditioned biodome for them? Would his people finally decide their Sheikh had lost touch with reality once they were chased and pecked by turkeys while on family picnics at the Great Oasis?

  Perhaps this will accelerate the move to democracy and the end of the Royal Line of Zahaar, the Sheikh thought as he tried to push away that last image of his American farmgirl, her wide hips swinging as she defiantly walked past him and out the door, out of his life.

  And you let her walk away, Rafeez thought again, closing his eyes and clenching his fists. But what else could you do? You could not commit to taking on two adopted children, and at the same time, you could not ask her to turn her back on her own commitment as godmother! What a mess! Ya Allah, what a bloody mess!

  The Sheikh ran his fingers through his thick black hair, pulling hard at the roots until he felt the sharp clarity of pain spreading across his scalp. It felt good, the pain. It distracted him from the pain in his heart, a pain he didn’t understand—or rather, didn’t want to understand.

  Is that what love feels like, he wondered as he watched the last of the turkeys get unloaded, one of the big birds cocking its head and looking him dead on in the eye as if to tell him he was a fool for letting her walk out of his life. Pain, anguish, loss? Is that the price I must pay for the decisions I’ve made, the decisions my father made but never followed through with?

  And then the Sheikh hated his father, hated the old man for putting him in this position. If the old Sheikh had simply followed through on his decision, then Rafeez would be just a normal billionaire in the Democratic Republic of Zahaar. But no, the old man had weakened at the sight of his giggling baby boy, and he’d decided to hand the child his kingdom, his throne, and the responsibility to make up for the sins of the father.

  What now, thought Rafeez, clenching his fists tighter as the squawking threatened to drive him insane. Ya Allah, what now?!

  And then it hit him, and he broke into a grin, the smile spreading across his entire face, perhaps his entire body. It was so simple. Why not? Why the hell not?

  Yes, I will do it, Rafeez decided. But not yet. I must give it some time, just so I am certain the decision is not being made in haste. Three months. I will give it three months, and if I still feel this way, I will go to her.

  17

  THREE MONT
HS LATER

  The twins were dressed and ready for school by eight, and Pen loaded them into the backseat of her black Range Rover and strapped them in nice and tight. She paused for a moment before getting into the driver’s seat, scanning her farm’s acreage and sighing. Spring was almost here, and the new greenhouses had been built to perfection. Soon she’d be growing organic kale and hydroponic tomatoes all year round, all of it in a controlled environment funded by the Sheikh’s outrageous deal.

  It was all funded by the Sheikh, she realized as she ran her finger along the top of her shiny new Range Rover, looked up at the refurbished (and refurnished) farmhouse that was as close to a mansion as you could get within the limitations of the current architecture. The twins’ future was secure: They’d never have to worry about paying for college or pursuing whatever dreams they had. As for her . . . she was living a dream too, wasn’t she?

  But a wave of melancholy swept over her as she got into her car and glanced at the twins in the rearview mirror, their sweet brown faces shining like the sun. They’d been sad and scared after losing their two American moms, but they’d bounced back like resilient young kids. They were fine. They would be fine.

  But what about you—are you fine? Pen thought, that melancholy twisting inside her until she had to close her eyes and push away the image of the Sheikh, of what might have been, of what she might have been! A queen? A princess? A Sheikha riding camels through the desert with her Sheikh leading her? Who knows what experiences she’d have had! And now she was resigned to raising someone else’s kids, rich but alone, secure but broken, forever doomed to live in the shadow of what might have been.

  “Be grateful,” she whispered, closing her eyes tight and then opening them, relieved that the tears hadn’t flowed down her round cheeks, like they had often over the past three months. “You’re still getting to do something very few others get to do: Be a mother to two wonderful children. Make good on a promise to a dear friend. And you’re fucking rich. So get over yourself, you fat cow! Think of the children starving in Africa or Guatemala or wherever they’re starving these days and be grateful for what you have. Be grateful!”