MISTLETOE FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
Start Reading
More Books from Anna
Join Anna's Private Mailing List
BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Sheikh
Flames for the Sheikh
Hostage for the Sheikh
Single for the Sheikh
Stockings for the Sheikh
Untouched for the Sheikh
Surrogate for the Sheikh
Stars for the Sheikh
Shelter for the Sheikh
Shared for the Sheikh
Assassin for the Sheikh
Privilege for the Sheikh
Ransomed for the Sheikh
Uncorked for the Sheikh
Haunted for the Sheikh
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Sheikh (UK)
Flames for the Sheikh (UK)
Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)
Single for the Sheikh (UK)
Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)
Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)
Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)
Stars for the Sheikh (UK)
Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)
Shared for the Sheikh (UK)
Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)
Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)
Ransomed for the Sheikh (UK)
Uncorked for the Sheikh (UK)
Haunted for the Sheikh (UK)
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (USA)
AMAZON AUTHOR PAGE (UK)
ANNA'S WEBSITE
ANNA'S FACEBOOK
ANNA'S GOODREADS
ANNA'S NEW RELEASE LIST
COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright © 2018 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.
Cover Design by S. Lee
MISTLETOE FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
Sheikh Bawaar Al-Wakhrani put down the phone and clenched his fists. His knuckles were still bruised from punching the wall earlier, but the wall had been the loser in that battle. He thought about making another hole in the wall of his office, but then decided to hold his rage inside. Perhaps it would be useful later.
“Sheikh Bawaar, there is another phone call for you. It is your wife again,” came his American assistant’s high-pitched voice over the state-of-the art intercom system set up by the overpriced contractors who’d built this office in a suburb of Houston, Texas. This was supposed to be the base for all North American operations of the Sheikh’s rapidly growing conglomerate company—a diversified corporation that owned businesses ranging from condoms to ice-cream. His wife had spent the last three years nagging him to set up shop in America so she could spend some time outside of their kingdom of Wakhrani, and finally the Sheikh had relented and done just that.
And now she had filed for divorce.
Divorce! A queen does not file for divorce from her king! A Sheikh does not grant divorces to his Sheikhas! If this were a hundred years ago, she would be tossed in a dungeon to await her fate of being buried up to the neck in the sand and stoned to death by the people of Wakhrani!
The Sheikh clenched his fist again as he stared at the black phone on his desk. A red light was blinking on it. His wife again. Now what did she want? Even after leaving him she thought she had the right to nag him like the succubus she was?
Bawaar laughed when he reminded himself that a succubus was a mythical entity that used sex to gain power over a man. That was not his wife. The last time he’d had sex with Renita it was like fucking one of those sex-dolls that just lies there on the bed, legs spread, eyes staring the ceiling. He hadn’t touched her in months, and now even the thought made him sick. Had she picked up on his lack of interest and decided to pre-empt the inevitable breakup by asking for a divorce before he did? The woman had always been vain and insecure, even though she was a beauty in her own way.
But she can be a beauty for some other man now, the Sheikh thought as he exhaled slowly, acknowledging that in a way he was relieved. He knew he didn’t love her, and he was certain she’d never loved him. Their marriage hadn’t been completely arranged, but their meeting was indeed arranged by their families, and it had been virtually assumed that Bawaar and Renita would be married.
“But now it is over,” the Sheikh said out loud, watching as the printer silently pushed out the divorce agreement Renita’s lawyers had sent over via email. He flipped through the papers, grunted once, and then signed his name at the bottom. “Done.”
“Sheikh Bawaar,” came his assistant’s voice over the phone. “You wife is on the—”
The Sheikh felt his anger rise so fast he almost tossed the phone across the room. But somehow he controlled himself and picked up the receiver, closing his eyes and wondering how many more times he’d have to endure her insults before she was gone from his life.
“I have signed the papers, Renita,” he said, trying to sound as unperturbed as possible. “I am agreeing to whatever it is you asked for. The house in Switzerland. The flat in Paris. The houseboat in Amsterdam. Even the goddamn racehorse that you insisted we buy. Not to mention enough money to keep you fat and happy for the rest of your days.”
Renita had never been fat, and in fact she had always been far too skinny for the Sheikh’s private tastes. Still, Bawaar knew she’d always obsessed about her figure, and he couldn’t help making the comment just to hurt her. It was cruel, he knew. But she was no better. He’d seen the perverse pleasure she’d gotten from insulting him by saying she was leaving him, as if it were her choice, as if she thought she could do better! Ya Allah, that woman! No substance whatsoever! Just false pride and fragile ego wrapped up in the finest silks!
The Sheikh swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He was self-aware enough to know that his own rage was largely because of the insult of what she was doing. The fact that she would be out of his life soon was a relief, perhaps even a joy! But the insult . . . ya Allah, that stung. A Sheikh does not have his women walk out on him! He kicks them out!
“I was thinking,” came Renita’s dull, lifeless voice over the phone, “that perhaps it was in poor taste to leave you just before the grand opening of your American offices. You have just hired almost a hundred people, and it is the time of the holidays in America. December is a holy month for both Christians and Muslims, and I believe there is a tradition for American companies to have Christmas parties. We should have one at the new offices. I will attend as your wife and Sheikha. We will make your new employees feel special and welcomed. And then we will make the divorce effective on the 1st of January. Yes?”
The Sheikh tightened his jaw as he looked down at the bruises on his left hand. He wanted to hit something again. Perhaps even someone. He grinned as he thought about the one time he’d flipped his wife over onto her stomach and spanked her bottom. She’d screamed like nothing on Earth, kicking at him and calling him a sadist, a madman, even a rapist! Bawaar had been shocked at the reaction, and he’d backed off from her after that occasion, a sense of both shame and anger building in him
from that moment onward. Had that been the beginning of the end for them? Was it just a simple matter of sexual incompatibility? No chemistry? No physics? No spark? No energy?
“No,” he said softly. “You wanted the divorce. I have granted the divorce. It is done, Renita. You are no longer welcome in my presence. You have lost all your royal privileges. Have a blessed Ramadan. Oh, and a Merry Christmas too. I will consider your suggestion of the Christmas party. It might be a good way to get to know my new American employees.”
2
Queenie Quinn stared at the employee schedule posted above the time-clock. She blinked, rubbed her big brown eyes, and then stared again. Yup, it still said she had to work from 9 to 5 on Christmas Eve.
“That’s nine at night till five in the morning! On Christmas Eve! That’s Christmas morning!” Queenie said, her voice shaking as she stormed into the head janitor’s office down in the basement of the shiny new office building that was the American headquarters of the Wakhrani Group. Queenie had no idea what the company did, and she didn’t really care. All she knew was that she’d needed a job after moving down to Texas from Juno, Alaska, and this company was paying its freakin’ janitors twenty-five dollars an hour!
Hell yeah, she’d thought when she’d gotten the job after a brief interview with the head janitor, a matronly woman who spoke excellent English with a thick Mexican accent. It was only after she started work that Queenie discovered that the title “Head Janitor” was a misnomer—there were no other janitors: It was just Queenie and her boss. And since Queenie was the newbie, she got stuck with all the crappy shifts.
“There is a Christmas party on December 24th. It is mandatory for all employees, and it will go late into the night. Someone will have to clean up afterwards. And I will be in Church starting midnight on the 24th,” Ms. Head Janitor had said, shrugging as she looked up from her desk in the spotless closet that was her office.
“Well, I wanna go to church too,” Queenie grumbled. “And by Church I mean my bed. You can’t ask me to work all night on Christmas Eve! It’s inhumane! This is America, dammit! Not the Middle Eastern shithole that our CEO is from. And besides, if this freakin’ Christmas party is mandatory, why aren’t I invited as a guest instead of the goddamn help?”
Ms. Head Janitor had sighed and taken off her glasses. She shrugged and made a face that communicated some mix of amusement and annoyance. “I am just the help too, Ms. Quinn. This is the job, and if you don’t like it, you can leave. Any other complaints can be addressed directly with Mister Bawaar, the CEO. I have heard he has an open door policy for all employees. If you are insulted that you have not been invited to the Christmas party, then feel free to take it up with him.”
“Maybe I will,” Queenie muttered, trying to turn on her heel. But she was wearing standard issue steel-toed shoes with heavy rubber soles, and they just made a squeaking noise on the polished tile, making her moves feel ridiculous.
She walked out of the office, glancing about to make sure no one was around before reaching back and pulling at the dark blue overalls that were riding up her butt. She hated this uniform. It made her butt look enormous—which, granted, wasn’t hard to do since she did in fact have a sizable ass. But dumpy blue overalls didn’t help.
Twenty-five bucks an hour plus an overnight shift-premium did help, though. Yup, that makes up for a lot of sins, Queenie told herself as she finally calmed down and reminded herself why she was doing this. She’d left Alaska because she hated the cold, hated the isolation, and hated feeling like her career options were limited by being in a small town in an out-of-the-way state. At least that was what she told anyone who asked. And she’d picked Texas because it was warm, big, and its cities were large and crowded. As for the job . . . well, she’d picked the job because it paid well and gave her a chance to figure out what she really wanted to do in life.
“Of course, I shoulda figured that out ten years ago, when I was still in my twenties,” she told herself as she filled a mop-bucket and rolled her cart out to the service elevator toward the back of the building. “But nooo . . . Miss Queenie Quinn spent her twenties flitting in and out of colleges and relationships, in no particular order. And so now Miss Queenie Quinn is in her thirties, still single, with a bunch of unrelated college credits but no degree. Oh, and she’s a janitor who has to work on Christmas Eve!”
Stop it, Queenie told herself as she felt the sinking feeling that had plagued her when she was younger, sensed the edges of the dark emotion that used to take over during the long, cold Alaskan winters, when the sun never shone too bright but never set either. Yeah, just fucking stop it. You aren’t going back to that place. Not that physical place, and certainly not that mental place.
“Is there place for two in here?” came a deep, heavily accented voice that broke through her melancholy daydream.
Queenie glanced up from her mop-bucket, realizing with surprise that she had to crane her neck all the way up just to look into the man’s eyes, he was so damned tall. And broad. And muscular. And god-damn he smelled nice! Like some kind of wild herbs that she was sure were expensive as hell. And shit, were those his eyes or emeralds?! So green! So intense! So focused . . . focused on her! OMG!
“Um,” she said, blinking and glancing down, unable to find the confidence to hold the eye contact for any longer. She felt fat and unattractive in her blue overalls, and she wondered if she smelled bad too. Hell, her breath probably still smelled like onions from the three delicious breakfast burritos she’d gobbled before work. Damn that taco-truck that stopped in the parking lot every morning! Just don’t burp in his face, Queenie, she told herself as she said, “Um,” again because she couldn’t think of any other words.
“Are you meditating?” he said, stepping into the elevator with her and her mop-bucket.
“What?” said Queenie, panicking when she realized that yes, she did smell like onions.
“Aum,” said the man, smiling and folding his hands. “That is the word sages and mystics chant when they seek enlightenment through meditation.”
“Um,” Queenie said again, her face turning bright red like that salsa in her darned breakfast burrito. “I mean, no. I wouldn’t know where to begin seeking enlightenment.” She stared down at her bucket of soapy water, then at the man’s shoes. “Nice shoes,” she said without thinking. “Must be hard to keep them this clean and shiny.”
And just as she said it the elevator bumped to a stop and the mop-bucket jumped from the impact and Queenie, who was nonchalantly leaning on the mop, trying to look cool and collected, felt her weight slam the bucket right into the man’s shin.
He grunted and frowned just as the soapy water spilled over the edge of the yellow bucket, all over his shiny leather shoes.
“Ya Allah,” he muttered, stepping back and raising his feet one at a time, gracefully tapping each foot on the floor as the suds rolled off the beautiful black leather. “My shoemaker will have a fit. These are the third pair I have ruined this month.”
Queenie was too busy pulling out massive quantities of paper towels from the roll on her cart to listen closely, but somehow his words registered—as did his sublime accent: Middle Eastern and smooth, with a hint of European polish. As far as she could tell, anyway. What the hell did she know about polish?
“Oh, God,” she said, getting down on her knees and beginning to furiously dry his shoes with the paper towels. “I’m so, so sorry! I can’t even . . . oh, shit, I’m so sorry!”
The man was quiet, and Queenie heard the metal doors of the elevator slowly close again since no one had stepped in or out. She kept rubbing his shoes, puzzled by the man’s sudden silence. Then she looked down at herself and realized the front of her overalls were hanging open, and her cleavage was pretty much hanging out there.
Queenie had a big butt and a round belly, but she also had boobs, that much she knew. She was about to cover up, but her hands were soaked
from the paper towels and she didn’t want to get the suds all over herself. So she just kept her head down and stuck with the shoe-shining, slowly realizing that the man’s breathing had become heavy and labored.
She glanced up with her eyes, and then gasped when she realized her head was at the level of his crotch . . . his crotch which was so filled out that there was no doubt he was erect like a goddamn animal in heat right then. A flash of her own heat suddenly whipped through Queenie as she stayed down on her knees knowing full well the man was staring right down at her.
What are you doing, she asked herself as she felt wetness between her legs, dizziness between her ears, fuzziness in her vision. She was aroused, plain and simple, and so was this guy.
And then she saw his wedding ring.
And at the same time she put it together that although she’d never met him, this must be the CEO. How many other well-dressed men with Middle-Eastern accents were getting into elevators at eight in the damned morning in the office?
This is my boss. My married boss. My married boss with a goddamn hard-on and ruined shoes.
“You can stop,” the man said quietly, and when she looked up at him she saw that his face was flush, his eyes narrowed, some of that focus seemingly lost, as if he’d been in a daze. He blinked twice, and she wondered if he was embarrassed for staring down at her cleavage while she crouched there on her knees, her head lined up with his crotch.
Nope. He isn’t embarrassed at all, Queenie realized as she stood up as gracefully as she could. He knew that I knew my cleavage was on full display, and he was shamelessly looking. Which means he probably thinks I’m a whore or a slut, parading my tits around the office for the boss’s viewing pleasure. Oh, shit, what a start to my career in janitorial services.
“You are the janitor?” he said, taking a breath and smiling.
Mistletoe for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 17) Page 1