Queenie nodded, glancing down at his shoes and then up into his green eyes. God, he was handsome. Handsome and married. A terrible combination. She wasn’t going there again. Nope. She wasn’t that woman. She’d ruined one marriage already, and she wasn’t going to ruin another.
“I’m sorry about the shoes,” she said. “I can apologize to your shoemaker if you like. Though wouldn’t he be happy to sell you another pair? More money for him, right?”
The man laughed, his green eyes twinkling. “It is not the money. It is the time. My shoes are hand-made, and each pair takes twelve months to create.”
“Twelve months for a pair of shoes? I want that job,” Queenie said, half smiling, half frowning.
The man laughed again, his gleaming white, perfectly aligned teeth on full display as if in response to her booby-show. “Perhaps my shoemaker will take on an apprentice. You will have to move to the kingdom of Wakhrani, though. And if you think Texas is hot, you are most certainly not prepared for the desert, I assure you.”
“I moved here for the heat,” Queenie said, running her hands though her long brown hair, only realizing her hands were still soapy when she felt the suds get into her tresses. “Oh, shit, I’m a moron,” she said, frowning as she reached for the roll of paper towels so she could dry her hair.
But she’d used up the entire roll, and now she had soap in her hair and nothing to dry herself with. Onions on her breath, suds in her hair, ruined shoes . . . what else could go wrong?
“This is not your day, is it?” said the man softly, and Queenie gasped when he stepped close to her, whipping out a black silk handkerchief with one hand, sliding his other hand gently around the back of her neck. “It is all right. I have had a rough day as well. Come here. I will repay the favor.”
Queenie almost swooned as she inhaled deep of the man’s scent. She barely came up to his chest, and from this close she could clearly see his massive pectorals through his white linen shirt which had the top two buttons undone.
“Repay the favor, huh?” she said as she took in the sight of his beautiful chest. “Tit for tat.”
She felt his hand tighten around the back of her neck, his chest muscles flexing as his body stiffened from the laughter that rocked his powerful body. She went bright red when she realized what she’d said without thinking, and then suddenly they were both laughing, the boss and the janitor, the man and the woman, Queenie and the king.
“Sheikh Bawaar of Wakhrani,” he said, finally letting go of her, his fingers caressing the back of her neck as he pulled his hand away.
“Queenie Quinn of . . . Alaska, I suppose,” she said, blinking as she tried to come to terms with what had just happened between them. It was nothing, really. But in a way it was also something. Shit, it was definitely something. “And I know who you are, of course.”
“I am embarrassed to say I do not know who you are, though,” said the Sheikh. “I take pride in knowing all my employees, and I consider it a failure that I did not know your name before today.”
“Well, I’ve only been here a few days,” said Queenie, fighting the urge to touch her hair again. “And I’m the janitor. No reason you should know my name.”
“I can think of two reasons I should know your name,” said the Sheikh as he glanced down at her, his gaze resting on her chest for a moment before he blinked.
“Excuse me?” Queenie said, her mouth hanging open as she wondered if she should be offended or thrilled. “What the hell does that mean?”
The Sheikh blinked again, his brown face darkening as the color rushed to his cheeks. “No, that is not what I meant! Ya Allah, I am not thinking straight today!”
“Me neither,” Queenie said, shaking her head and smiling. Just then the elevator doors opened again, and she took a breath and glanced out into the empty second-floor hallway. “Anyway, I think this is where you get off. Sorry about the shoes.”
The Sheikh cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he tried to stifle another laugh. Queenie frowned before closing her eyes and wincing when she realized what she’d just said: “This is where you get off?” Really? Was she in a low-budget porno movie? The boss and the curvy janitor? Soap suds and mops with long shafts?
“I will tell you what my shoemaker says about taking on an apprentice,” the Sheikh called out as the elevator doors slowly closed on their first meeting. “Perhaps you could be the tester. Come up with creative ways to destroy his work.”
“That I could do,” said Queenie, feeling a warm tingle go through her as she gazed into his eyes and felt that sense of connection again. “I’m good at destroying things.”
“I will see you at the Christmas party, yes?” he said just as the doors closed.
Queenie sighed when she remembered that she’d be at the Christmas party, but in her blue overalls and with her mop bucket. “Sure,” she said to the metal doors. “Sure. I’ll be here on Christmas Eve.”
3
CHRISTMAS EVE
“Why are you here?” said the Sheikh, blinking at he stared at her. “I thought I made it clear you are not welcome here, or anywhere in my presence.”
Renita smiled as she walked into the open lobby on the top floor of the office building. The walls had been decorated with snowflakes, red-and-green tassels, cutouts of Santa, and other miscellaneous Christmas-themed ornaments. In the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows stood a Christmas tree, fully decorated with lights and stars. Every employee had showed up, and the room was crowded and loud, with people sampling from the lavish buffet, downing drinks from the open bar, and excitedly talking about the stack of neatly wrapped presents, each with an employee’s name on it.
“Is there a gift with my name on it, dear husband?” said Renita as she walked around the room, that plastic smile still on her long brown face. She wore a red gown, fitted to her slender body, taken in tight around the waist and beneath her breasts.
The Sheikh could tell she was wearing a push-up bra that was heavily padded, and although the sight of Renita made him sick, his mind immediately went back to that meeting with Queenie Quinn—who most certainly did not need a push-up bra or any sort of augmentation. She was all woman, and as the Sheikh thought back to that moment in the elevators, he wished he had just followed his instincts and taken Ms. Quinn right there and then, against the metal walls of the elevators.
Suddenly his mind clouded over, and the Sheikh felt his cock harden at the thought of that janitor on her knees before him, her top opened out, her full lips just inches from his swollen cock. Did she do that on purpose? Was she tempting him? Was she hoping he’d unzip, grab her head, and push his cock down her throat? Ya Allah, he should have done it! He was king, boss, CEO, goddamn master! He should have taken that woman and satisfied his need. Perhaps he would be better prepared to handle whatever it was Renita had planned for this unexpected showing at the Christmas party.
He heard giggles and claps from his left, and when he looked he saw some of his employees cheering on a couple who were standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe.
“You gotta kiss now,” someone called to them. “That’s the rule. You’re caught beneath the mistletoe.”
“Kiss, kiss, kiss!” squealed someone else.
Soon everyone was hooting and hollering, and the Sheikh watched as the man and woman went bright red and then smacked each other hesitantly on the lips before hurriedly stepping away from the mistletoe. Bawaar couldn’t help but smile at how embarrassed the two seemed to be, and he shook his head when he remembered that despite all its freedoms and the overtness of sex in movies and advertisements, American society still had this strange, almost hypocritical conservativeness when it came to interaction between men and women, especially in the workplace.
He sighed as the red-faced couple moved away from beneath the mistletoe, and then shook his head again when he saw how everyone else took care to keep their distanc
e from the green-and-red plant as if it were poisonous. Ya Allah, perhaps he needed to set an example for his staff here. Let them know that it was all right for a man and woman to express what nature had put inside them: The need to touch, the need to love, the need to damned well fuck!
Bawaar blinked as he felt a strange combination of anger and arousal rise up in him. It had been a problem in the past, and indeed, he’d suspected that Renita had always been slightly afraid of him in the bedroom. Perhaps that was why she had always shut down.
Regardless, he thought as he smiled cordially at his wife before reminding himself that she was his ex-wife now—his ex-wife who was most certainly not here to open a goddamn present or kiss him beneath the mistletoe! She was here for a reason, and when the Sheikh saw the tall, blonde, long-haired man walk in behind her and slip his arm around her waist, he knew at once what the reason was:
Humiliation. A slap in the face. A public show that she was moving on, and that it was her choice to move on.
“Bawaar, this is Anders Van Hosen,” Renita announced, her voice loud enough for them to hear her back in Austria—or wherever the hell this European male bimbo was from. “Of the Van Hosen family.”
“Considering you introduced him as Anders Van Hosen, it follows that he is from the Van Hosen family,” said the Sheikh coldly, doing his best not to take the bait even though he could feel his anger simmering. He could not let it rise to a boil, he knew. That would only give Renita what she wanted: To rile him up into a jealous rage, show the world that he wasn’t in control of anything, let alone himself.
Of course, jealousy had nothing to do with the rage bubbling up in the Sheikh. He was simply upset at the insult, the very audacity of this woman showing up with some blonde underwear model. He couldn’t care less about how many men Renita was fucking—hell, she could be doing the entire German national soccer team and Bawaar would just raise a glass and congratulate her. But she needed to do it in private. Off the radar. This display was tasteless, unbecoming of a person of her stature. It was not the behavior of a queen.
And so you need to behave like a king in response, the Sheikh told himself as he stepped forward and shook the man’s hand, almost crushing the man’s bones with his powerful grip. He felt a perverse satisfaction when he saw Mister Van Hosen wince, felt the European stud try to pull his hand away before the Sheikh destroyed it. He looked into the man’s pale blue eyes, and then he let go and glanced back at Renita.
“Enjoy the party, you two,” he said. Then he glanced at the mistletoe and winked at Anders. “Careful you don’t step under there, or else you will have to kiss her in public. It has been a while, but if I remember correctly, she tastes like camel milk that has been left out in the sun.”
The Sheikh clenched his fist when he saw Renita turn bright red, her mouth opening wide in feigned horror. He almost kicked himself for making that comment, knowing he’d said it loud enough for several people to hear. He’d made a mistake. He’d sunk down to her level. She’d dragged him down with her. Made him lose his cool, compromise his composure.
He blinked as he glanced around the room, wondering if already rumors were spreading through the office like wildfire. This whole CEO thing was fairly new to the Sheikh. He’d been a king for some time now, and he was very good at running a country. He hadn’t been a boss for long, though—and certainly not in America, which was still a foreign country to him despite his familiarity with its people and culture.
Suddenly he felt a strange vulnerability as he saw a couple of his employees covering their mouths and whispering to one another as they glanced at the Sheikh, then at Renita and her blonde boy-toy. Ya Allah, was he seriously worried about office gossip?! He was a king! This was beneath him!
He spun around and glared at Renita, once again doing his best to keep the simmering rage under control. For a moment he considered grabbing her by the hair and flipping her over his knee right in front of everyone, spanking her skinny bottom beneath the Christmas tree just to show his employees that their boss was also a king who did not take insults lightly, a Sheikh who punished insolence and defiance his own way, no matter what country he was in.
He almost laughed at the image of himself doing that. The look on Renita’s face as he ripped off her red dress and showed the world her bony bottom and carefully shaved pussy! Ya Allah, it would be priceless! Of course, chances were he’d be arrested, and without a doubt Renita would press charges. But that wasn’t why the Sheikh knew he would never do such a thing. It wasn’t fear of charges or accusations of assault. It was simply that the thought of seeing her naked again disgusted the Sheikh.
Still, he needed something to save face here, Bawaar thought as he rubbed his stubble and began to pace the room, just like he always did when he retreated into the solitude of his mind, the fortress of his thoughts. The live band had started playing, and Renita was dancing now, having Anders Van Hosen twirl her around like they owned the place. Of course, she was looking directly at the Sheikh, and everyone in the room could see that. What the hell was wrong with this woman?! He’d given her everything she wanted in the divorce! Why did she feel the need to invade his space, humiliate him in front of his new employees, insult him in public?
Again the rage bubbled up, and this time the Sheikh let it come. To hell with it, he thought. I am angry, and I want to strike back. If she wants public drama, I will give it to her. People are talking anyway, and so I might as well go all in, get down in the dirt with her and win at her game. I am more than capable of it. I can win at anyone’s game, yes?
Bawaar stopped pacing suddenly, frowning as he felt all eyes on him. He blinked and looked around the room. Sure enough, every single employee was staring at him, most of them smiling, a couple of them nudging one another, one or two of them hesitantly whispering and pointing toward him. What, was he drooling? So he’d passed an off-the-cuff remark to his ex-wife who’d showed up just to insult him. So what? He was a goddamn king! He did not make apologies! What was the big deal anyway? Why was everyone staring at him like that.
The whispers slowly got louder, and finally someone plucked up the courage to shout, “Kiss!” to the Sheikh. Soon others joined in, and finally the entire room was hooting and howling, pointing above the Sheikh’s head and shouting, “Kiss! You gotta kiss her now!”
The Sheikh turned in confusion, not sure what was happening. He looked up, and a chill ran through him when he saw that while pacing he’d ended up right beneath that hanging mistletoe. Then he whirled around, and the chill turned into a flash of heat that blindsided him with such power the Sheikh almost fell to his knees.
Because right there, right behind him, right beneath that same damned mistletoe, was Queenie Quinn, dressed in blue overalls, broom and dustpan in her hand, bent over as she swept up some crumbs from a spill.
She stood up just as the Sheikh turned, and then he was facing her, the entire room cheering them on. The CEO and the janitor. The Sheikh and the cleaning-lady. The king and . . . Queenie.
“Ya Allah,” muttered the Sheikh, his green eyes lighting up when he looked into her big brown orbs that were widening as she realized what was happening . . . and what he was going to do.
“Um . . .” she whispered, taking a step back away from him. “Um . . . I don’t think . . .”
“It is a tradition, is it not?” said the Sheikh, reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her against his body, and then slipping his other arm around her ample waist.
“Well, yeah, but . . . I mean, it’s OK if we don’t. I mean, I’m just the . . . the . . .” she stammered, her eyelids fluttering as the Sheikh felt his cock rise just from being so close to her curves.
“You are perfect,” he whispered, not sure if he meant that this was the perfect comeback to Renita’s little act or if it was just straight-up perfect all around. Perfection, pure and simple. This woman. Her eyes. Her curves. And the moment. Pure perfec
tion. A goddamn Christmas miracle. “Just perfect.”
And then, with the room shouting and clapping, his ex-wife gaping and gasping, the broom and dustpan watching in silence, the Sheikh leaned in and kissed her, right on the mouth, hard and with authority.
Hallelujah, he kissed her.
4
She felt his arm tight around her waist like it belonged there, her body snug against his like her curves had been designed for his muscle. Every part of him felt hard and taut against her . . . every part of him except his lips. His lips felt soft and smooth, even though he’d kissed her hard and deep, his tongue pushing her lips open and driving inside her mouth before she understood what the hell was happening.
“What’s happening?” she gasped as she broke from the kiss but was unable to break from his grasp. The Sheikh was holding her tight against him, looking down into her eyes. He’s holding me like I’m his, she thought in that moment. Am I his now?
And then suddenly the moment was over and a new one had begun.
“We are not even divorced yet, and here you are kissing another woman right in front of me, in front of the entire world! Ya Allah, what have I done to deserve this treatment, Bawaar!” Renita howled, touching her forehead like she was an actress in a 1940s melodrama. “Have I not been a good wife? Did I not do my duty? Did I not . . . satisfy you, my husband?”
Queenie blinked and backed away from the Sheikh in horror, turning to the tall, thin woman in the red gown and makeup. This was his wife?! And he’d kissed her right in front of her and everyone else?! No way. This was not happening. She was not getting involved in some psychodrama unfolding between a married couple. Been there. Done that. And it had not ended well . . . not for anyone!
“OK, I need to . . . um . . . yeah,” Queenie said, feeling the color rush to her face as she pointed at the dustpan and broom, both of which had clattered to the floor unnoticed in the confusion. “I should just . . .”
Mistletoe for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 17) Page 2