Carrying the Sheikh's Heir Read online

  But the possibilities there were beautiful, as well. The fabric was gossamer, colorful and draped in such a way that it created a sense of mystery and beauty.

  The women worked quickly, draping bolts of fabric over her body, slipping pins inside and pulling the fabric away only to replace it with a new bolt. Sheridan tried on two dresses they had on the rack—one a gorgeous coral and the other a pretty shade of lavender that brought out the color of her eyes. The seamstress in charge promised they could have those two ready in a matter of hours once they returned to their shop and got to work. The others would take a full day.

  Sheridan didn’t want to imagine that she needed many dresses for her stay, but how could she know for certain?

  The women packed everything up and left just as two men came in with Fatima. They were carrying a box with a flat-screen television in it and they proceeded to set it up on one of the credenzas nearest the bed.

  Sheridan wandered into the living area of the suite and found a new television there, too, as well as a state-of-the-art computer and a newly installed telephone. The new glass was set into the casement and the men were sweeping up.

  Her throat grew tight. Rashid had done what he’d promised. Thus far. He’d seemed surprised she’d had no television or computer, and he’d worked fast to correct it. But, as nice as this was, she’d wanted more from him. She’d wanted his time, wanted to understand more about this man who might just be the father of her baby. He could not be wholly unlikable, could he?

  But he seemed determined not to give it to her.

  She picked up the remote and flipped on the television. The one in the living area was mounted to the wall, and it was huge—it was almost like having a movie screen when all the colors suddenly came to life and filled the surface. It didn’t take too long to figure out how the satellite worked—and her throat tightened again as she landed on CNN International and English conversation filled her ears.

  It was nice to hear, but it only brought home how alone she was here. How would she get through a week of this? Nine months of this?

  Rashid had said she could come and go, but only with an escort and only when she had the proper clothing. Since she still didn’t, she wouldn’t attempt to leave her quarters yet. She’d already behaved abominably.

  She could still see him standing there, looking at her with the most furious expression on his face. He’d also, for a moment, seemed not fearful...but, well, something besides angry. Maybe wary was the word. Like he didn’t want to be in the same room with her, but knew he had to be.

  It hit her then that not only was he not attracted to her, but she also revolted him. He was tall and handsome and kingly, and she was a short blond woman who organized parties for people. She was pale and slight compared to him. He was the Lion of Kyr, or some such thing like that, and she was an ordinary house cat.

  Who might just be pregnant with the next king of the jungle.

  She would have laughed if it wasn’t so serious. Sheridan went over to where Fatima had set a fresh pot of tea and some pastries and poured a cup. Despite the nausea, which came and went, she decided to try a pastry and see if it stayed down. After she’d made an impulsive decision to throw the tray at the window, she’d not eaten any of the food that she’d carefully set aside to get to the tray. Things had happened so quickly after that and she hadn’t had time.

  Sheridan frowned as she nibbled on a pastry. Rashid was repulsed by her. It made sense, in a way, and it certainly explained the way he acted.

  But then she thought of their kiss again, of the way it had slid down into her skin and made her want things she’d almost forgotten existed. Even now, the memory of it made her tremble. He’d slid his tongue into her mouth and she’d practically devoured him.

  How embarrassing.

  But she’d thought, dammit, at least for a minute anyway, that he’d been equally affected. He’d kissed her with such hunger, such passion, that she’d been swept up in the moment.

  Yes, swept up enough so that he could carry her to the car before she managed to make a peep. Sheridan set the pastry down with disgust. He’d certainly known what he was doing. And she’d been just sensation deprived enough to let him.

  “Miss?”

  Sheridan looked up to find Fatima standing over her. The two men were leaving, carting the remnants of television and computer boxes with them.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you require anything else?”

  That was a loaded question if ever she heard one. “Your English is good, Fatima.”

  “Thank you, miss. I studied in school.”

  “Have you worked in the palace long?”

  “A few months.”

  “Do you know the king well?”

  She shook her head. “No, miss. King Rashid, may Allah bless him, has come home again after many years away. We will prosper under his benevolent reign.”

  Sheridan wasn’t going to laugh over that benevolent reign remark, though she wanted to. But she also felt a spark of curiosity. “Many years away?”

  Fatima looked a little worried then. “I have heard this in the palace. I do not know for certain. If you will excuse me, miss. Unless you need something?” she added, her eyes wide and almost pleading with Sheridan not to ask anything more about Rashid.

  “Thank you, but I’m fine,” she replied, offering the woman a smile to reassure her.

  Fatima curtsied and then hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her with one last fearful glance at Sheridan.

  * * *

  After a long day sorting through national problems, including one between two desert tribes arguing over who owned a water well, Rashid was glad to retire to his quarters. These rooms had once been his father’s, but he’d gotten the decorators to work immediately so that they no longer bore any resemblance to the man who’d lived in them for thirty-seven years.

  Gone were the ornate furnishings and narcissistic portraits, the statuary, the huge bed on a platform complete with heavy damask draperies. In their place, Rashid had asked for clean lines, comfortable furniture, paintings that didn’t overwhelm with color or subject matter and breezy fabrics more in fitting with the desert. Certainly the desert was bitterly cold at night, but he didn’t need damask draperies for that.

  The palace had been modernized years ago and had working air and heat for those rare occasions when it was needed. Rashid slipped his headdress off and dropped it on a couch. Then he raked his hand through his hair and pulled out his phone. He stared at it for a long moment before he punched the button that would call up his favorites.

  Kadir answered on the third ring. “Rashid, it’s good to hear from you.”

  “Salaam, brother.” He chewed the inside of his lip and stared off toward the dunes and the setting sun. It blazed bright orange as it sank like a stone. He’d debated for hours on whether or not to call Kadir. They weren’t as close as they’d once been, and he found it hard to admit he needed people. “How are you?”

  Kadir laughed. “Wonderful. Happy. Ecstatic.”

  “Marriage agrees with you.” He tried not to let any bitterness slip into his voice, but he feared it did anyway. Still, Kadir took it like a blissfully happy man would: as the uninformed judgment of a bachelor.

  “Apparently so. Emily keeps me on my toes. But she forces me to eat kale, Rashid. Because it has micronutrients or some such thing, she says it’s good for me.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.” It sounded horrible.

  “She makes a healthy drink for breakfast. It’s green. Looks disgusting, but thankfully doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.” He sighed. “I miss pancakes and bacon.”

  Rashid was familiar with pancakes, though he’d never developed a taste for them during the brief time he’d spent in America. He almost laughed, but then he thought of Daria cooking
meals for him and swallowed. She used to make these wonderful savory pies from her native Ural Mountains. He’d loved them. He’d loved her.

  Rashid swallowed. “I want you to build a skyscraper for me, Kadir.”

  He could practically hear Kadir’s brain kick into gear. “You do? Is this a Kyrian project, or a personal one?”

  “I need a building for Hassan Oil in Kyr. I want you to build it.”

  “Then I am happy to do so. Let me check the schedule and I’ll see when we can come for a meeting.”

  “That would be good.”

  Kadir sighed, as if sensing there was more to the call. “I will come anyway, Rashid, if you wish it.”

  He did wish it. For the first time in a long time, he wanted a friend. And Kadir was the closest thing he had. But a lifetime of shutting people out was hard to overcome. He’d let in Daria, but look how that had turned out.

  “Whenever you can make it is good. I’m busy with many things since you left.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t make the coronation. It was my intention, and then—”

  “It’s fine.” He pulled in a breath. “Kadir, there is something I want to talk about.”

  “Then I will come immediately.”

  That Kadir would still do that, after everything that had passed between them, made an uncomfortable rush of feeling fill Rashid’s chest. “No, that is not necessary. But there’s a woman. A situation.”

  “A situation?” He could hear the confusion in his brother’s voice.

  Rashid sighed. And then he told Kadir what had happened—the sperm mix-up, the trip to America, the way he’d given Sheridan no choice but to return with him. Kadir was silent for a long moment. Rashid knew his brother was trying to grasp the ramifications of the situation. At any rate, he couldn’t know half of why this unnerved Rashid so much. Rashid hadn’t hidden his marriage to Daria, but he’d been living in Russia then and the information hadn’t precisely filtered out.

  And the baby? He did not talk of that to anyone.

  “So she might be pregnant?”

  The ice in his chest was brittle. “Yes.”

  “What will you do? Marry her?”

  Rashid hated the way that single word ground into his brain. Marry. “I will have to, won’t I? But once the child is born, she can leave him here and return to America.”

  Kadir blew out a breath. Rashid wondered for a moment if he might be laughing. But his voice, when he spoke, was even. “I don’t know, Rashid. The American I married would put my balls in a vise before she agreed to such a thing. In fact, I think most women would.”

  “Not if you pay them enough to disappear.”

  Kadir might have groaned. Rashid wasn’t certain, because his blood was rushing in his ears. “You could try. It would certainly make it easier with the council if she would agree to disappear afterward. If she’s pregnant, they will have to accept her. But they won’t like it.”

  Rashid growled. “I don’t give a damn what the council likes.”

  And it was true. The council was old and traditional, but there were lines he would not allow them to cross. He was the king. They had power because he allowed it, not in spite of it. They wanted him to marry a Kyrian. But if he wanted to marry a dancing bear, he would. And if he wanted to marry an American girl, he would do that, too.

  “At least be nice to the woman, Rashid. You are being nice to her, yes?”

  “Of course I am.” But a current of guilt sizzled through him. He could still see her eyes, so wide and wounded, looking up at him today when he’d told her there was no reason for them to spend time together. No reason to know each other.

  And perhaps there wasn’t. But the days were ticking down and they would soon know if she were pregnant. And then he would have to take her as his wife.

  It made him want to howl.

  “We will come for a visit soon,” Kadir said. “Perhaps it would be good to have Emily there. The poor woman is probably confused and scared.”

  He didn’t think Sheridan was all that scared. He could still see her standing up to him, spitting like a wet cat when he’d told her he would take the child and raise him in Kyr.

  “I am nice to her,” he said defensively. “She is my guest.”

  Kadir laughed softly. “Somehow, I don’t think she sees it quite the same way.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes about other things, and then Rashid ended the call. He sighed and went out onto one of the many terraces that opened off his rooms. There was a soft breeze tonight, hot and scented with jasmine from the gardens. In another few hours, it would turn chilly, but for now it was still warm.

  The minarets glowed ocher in the last rays of the setting sun. The sounds of vendors shouting in the streets filtered to him on the wind, along with the fresh scent of spicy meat and hot bread.

  Rashid breathed it all in. This was home. Unbidden, an image of Sheridan Sloane came to mind. She had a home, too, and he’d forced her out of it. For her own protection, yes, but nevertheless she was here in a strange place and nothing was familiar.

  Guilt pricked him. He should not care about her feelings at all, but if she was truly carrying his child, did he want her upset and stressed? Wasn’t it better to make her welcome?

  He sighed again, knowing what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would take lunch with her. They would talk, she would be happy and he would leave again, content in the knowledge he’d done his part.

  It was only an hour—and he could be nice to anyone for an hour.

  * * *

  Sheridan awoke in the middle of the night. It was dark and still and she was cold. She sat up, intending to pull the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, but she wasn’t all that tired now. Her sleep was erratic because of the time difference. She checked her phone for the time—still no signal—and calculated that it was midafternoon at home. She never napped during the day, so it was no wonder she was messed up.

  She got up and pulled on her silky robe over her nightgown before going into the bathroom. Hair combed, teeth brushed, she wandered into the living area. And then, because she was curious, she went and opened the door to her suite. The guard was not there. She stood there for a moment in shock, and then she crept into the corridor.

  She didn’t know where she was going or what she expected, but she kept moving along, thinking someone would stop her at any moment. But no one did. The corridors were quiet, as if everyone was asleep. She didn’t know how it usually worked in palaces, but it made sense they were all in bed.

  When she reached the end of a corridor and came up against a firmly locked door, she turned and went back the way she’d come. There were doors off the corridor, and she tentatively opened one. It was a space with seating, but it wasn’t quite as ornate as hers. It was, not plain precisely, but modern. Personally, she preferred some antiques, but this space was intended for someone who liked little fuss.

  She thought perhaps she’d stumbled into a meeting area since it was so sterile. A breeze came in through doors that were open to the night air and she headed toward them. She hadn’t been outside since she’d arrived, and she wondered what it would be like in the desert at night.

  She stepped onto a wide terrace. The city lights spread out around her and, in the distance, the darkness of the desert was like a crouching tiger waiting for an excuse to pounce. She moved to the railing and stood, gripping it and sucking in the clean night air. It was chilly now, which amazed her considering how hot it had been when she’d arrived.

  A frisson of excitement dripped down her spine. It surprised her, but in some ways it didn’t. She’d never been to the desert before. Never been to an Arab country with dunes and palaces and camels and men who wore headdresses and robes. It was foreign, exotic and, yes, exciting in a way. She wanted to explore. She wanted to ride a horse into that desert
and see what was out there.

  She heard a noise behind her, footsteps across tile, and she whirled with her heart in her throat. How would she explain her presence here to her guard? To anyone?

  But it wasn’t just anyone standing there. It was a man she recognized on a level that stunned her. Rashid al-Hassan stood in a shaft of light, his chest and legs bare. He looked like an underwear model, she thought crazily, all lean muscle and golden flesh. He was not soft—not that she’d expected he would be after he’d pressed her against him—but the corrugated muscle over his abdomen was a bit of a sensual shock. Real men weren’t supposed to look like that.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Sloane?” he demanded, his voice hard and cold and so very dangerous.

  The warmth that had been undulating through her like a gentle wave abruptly shut off.

  Run! That was the single word that echoed in her brain.

  But she couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen. Not only that, but Rashid al-Hassan also stood between her and escape....

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHERIDAN SUCKED IN a deep breath and pulled her robe tighter, even though it couldn’t protect her from the fury in his dark eyes. She thought of Fatima’s fearful look earlier today and wondered if perhaps this man was more frightening than she’d thought. Her blood ran cold.

  “The door was open. I—I wanted to see outside.”

  “You are in my quarters, Miss Sloane.”

  Oh, dear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  He still hadn’t moved. He stood in the door, his broad frame imposing. She told herself not to look below the level of his chin. She failed.

  “So you decided to wander in the middle of the night and open random doors?”

  She twisted the tie of her robe. “Something like that. I’m on a different schedule than you, I’m afraid. Wide-awake and nothing to do.”