Uncorked for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 14)

by Annabelle Winters

  UNCORKED FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  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

  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)

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  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2018 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

  www.annabellewinters.com

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  Cover Design by S. Lee

  UNCORKED FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  “Don’t you think we’ve had enough, Nat?”

  “We? You’ve barely touched your glass. So you really mean to say you think I’ve had enough. I’m a vintner, Peggy. I made this damned wine, and I need to be sure this batch is good.”

  Natalie Norwood gulped down the rest of her glass and looked at the label on the third bottle of pinot noir that she’d plucked from the cellars of the Ashford Winery in Northern Virginia. The last of the Ashford family had passed away three months ago, and Nat had just received word that the winery had been sold as part of the family’s estate. The proceeds were going to charity, as specified in the Ashfords’ will. As for the winery itself . . . who the hell knew. There’d been a part of Nat that had been hoping the old man would just leave the winery to her—after all, she’d been running the place for almost six years now. But no. He’d sold it and given the money to charity. Charity?! What the hell! Should she have pulled an Anna Nicole Smith and sucked his wrinkled old—

  “Cork,” said Peggy, interrupting with a finger-point directed at the new bottle that Nat had just popped open. “Careful.”

  “Shit,” Nat muttered, realizing that her head was buzzing and her words were coming out slurred. “This one’s ruined.”

  “Can’t you just pull out the bits?” Peggy asked, hunching forward on her bony elbows and squinting at the dark glass of the bottle. “You have a tea strainer? I can do it for you.”

  Nat shook her head and leaned back on the well-worn wicker chair. It was three in the afternoon and they were sitting on the back porch of the main winery house on the Ashford Estate. It was early fall, still hot outside, the leaves still green. There were rolling hills punctuating the horizon, a perfectly manicured treeline in the distance. But Nat’s eyes were on the rows of pinot grapes she’d planted when she was hired as vintner six years ago. Six years putting down roots in the most fundamental way, and now it was all up in the air.

  “I am not using a tea strainer on my wine. Here. We’ll open another bottle,” Nat said, shaking her head again and reaching for another bottle from the six she’d lined up. She stood to make sure she uncorked this one right, her buttocks tightening as she twisted the old-fashioned corkscrew she insisted on using. “There we go. Perfect.”

  She saw Peggy glance at her ass and raise an eyebrow as Nat bent forward to grab a fresh set of glasses. “What was that look?” Nat said, blinking and hurriedly sitting down. “Have I put on weight? I have, haven’t I? Shit, it’s been all this stress, I bet. My eating’s been out of control. And my drinking . . .”

  “You look . . . fine,” Peggy said, adjusting her glasses and clearing her throat. She straightened her satin top over her slim frame and then cleared her throat again as she reached for her glass. “Change and uncertainty is hard. You need your release. Cheers.”

  Nat laughed. “You know I hate saying cheers. But OK. Cheers, hon. Drink up.”

  They drank in silence as the warm breeze comforted them. Nat scratched an itch on her bare thigh, frowning when she glanced down at herself and saw the way the sun was reflecting off her cellulite. I should stop wearing these sundresses until I lose some weight, she thought as she tugged at the hem of the white frock that had ridden about halfway up her thighs. With every breath she could feel the weight she’d put on from the ice-cream binges and late-night solo drinking sessions ever since the winery got sold, and as she shifted on her wicker chair she felt her panties ride up into her crack until it was basically a thong. And it had been years since Nat had intentionally worn a thong.

  A sickening feeling rose up in her as she gulped down the rest of her glass and gazed out over the perfectly-spaced rows of grapes. She’d built this place. It was hers. How could Ashford not leave it to her in his will?! The feeling got stronger when she realized that in the back of her mind she’d really been expecting him to do that, and she hated herself suddenly. Had she been waiting six years for a goddamn handout? What she should have done was to negotiate some kind of equity stake in the winery over the years. Then she’d have had some say in what happened to it when Ashford popped it. Either that, or she should have committed to being a whore and just ridden the old geezer into his grave after getting him to add her into his will. Hell, with her fat ass, she coulda just squashed him to death!

  “You could buy it yourself,” Peggy said, crossing one leg over the other. “Borrow the money from a bank.”

  “What bank is gonna lend me that kind of money?” Nat said, suddenly deciding that she wanted to make herself miserable. Screw it. She was drunk, and she might as well get depressed. It was almost fun. “I have terrible credit from all that crap I pulled in college.”

  “You don’t need to have great credit when you have great collateral,” Peggy said, straightening her glasses again as if to remind Nat that she taught personal finance at the community college in Northridge. “Look at this land. The acreage. Fresh water from the lake and river. The winery building. The cellars. The house for migrant labor. The vintner's cottage. All of that is collateral. Any bank will lend you the money. If you can’t make your payments, they’ll just take the land and property. It’s almost no risk for them. I can help you put together a presentation and run some numbers if you like.”

  Nat glanced at Peggy and smiled. “You’re so smart, Peggy. No, really. I wish I was
more like you.”

  Peggy laughed. “I’m glad you’re not, because then you’d be an annoying know-it-all! And I wouldn’t want to hang out with you.” She laughed again. “Anyway, I’m clearly not so smart, because the smart thing would have been to suggest this years ago when Ashford was alive and might’ve sold you the place on the cheap. Now you’ve got to pitch the investment firm or whoever the hell owns the place. Who does own the place now, anyway?”

  Nat frowned as she plucked at the label on the corked bottle of pinot. “I actually don’t know. Can you believe it?” She pulled out her phone and tapped on it. “Some firm based in . . . Luxembourg? Where the hell is that? Maryland?”

  “Um, that’s in Europe, Nat. You’re right, you aren’t that bright, are ya,” Peggy teased, adjusting her glasses and grinning as she finished her wine and unsteadily put the glass back on the table made of local Virginia pinewood. “Here. Lemme see.” She ignored Nat’s feigned look of indignation and took the phone from her friend, scrolling through the search results, tapping on a couple, typing in new search terms. “Just as I thought. Luxembourg is sort of like Delaware for Europeans because it’s tax-free. A lot of investment companies are based there. This one appears to be an offshoot of some Middle-Eastern company called Al-Ladaak Holdings.” She handed the phone back to Nat in triumph. “And it turns out Al-Ladaak Holdings has an office in Washington, DC. You’re one bank-loan and a three-hour drive away from owning your vineyard, Nat. I know, I know. I’m brilliant and awesome. And you’re welcome.”

  2

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  “Welcome! What can I do for you?” said the smiling receptionist at Al-Ladaak Holdings in Washington, DC. The woman was young, pretty, with light brown skin and big, earnest eyes that seemed a bit glassy and unfocused. She’d emerged from the inside offices after Nat had stood at the desk for what seemed like a long time. She seemed a bit red in the face. Embarrassed? Surprised?

  “Um, I’m Natalie Norwood?” Nat said cautiously, reminding herself to sound confident and stop making every sentence sound like a question. She wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was on the wrong side of thirty, and she was about to make the biggest sales pitch of her damned life. It didn’t get more adult than this. “I have an appointment with Mister . . . Sideeki?”

  The woman frowned and cocked her head. There was a shiny laptop on her desk, but she made no move to consult it. “Mr. Siddiqui? Oh! Well, Mr. Siddiqui is not here.” The woman had an accent, and Nat could tell she was trying to sound more Western than she was. “He has been . . . I mean he is . . .”

  “That goat-fucker Siddiqui is on a plane back to Al-Ladaak to answer for his crimes,” came the voice from her left, and Nat whipped around at the sound of the deep, heavily accented baritone that seemed to echo off the walls of the lavishly decorated office. The man was tall, his broad shoulders almost blocking the doorway as he strode out from the back offices. He was nonchalantly tucking in his shirt, and Nat felt her breath catch when she saw him slide his hands into the waistband of his fitted gray trousers, the massive bulge of his package clearly visible as he adjusted himself like he didn’t give a damn who was watching. Quickly she blinked and looked up toward his face, but the sight of his sharp green eyes and chiseled jawline, smooth olive skin and high cheekbones, dark stubble and full lips made her breath catch again. Who was this guy? And why, oh why didn’t she wear her black skirt instead of this peach-colored monstrosity of a pant-suit that Peggy had insisted would play better even though it made her ass look like a pair of oversized pumpkins!

  “Who are you?” the man said, shamelessly looking her up and down, his gaze pausing on her full chest for a moment before moving down past her thick thighs and then back up to her face. “One of Siddiqui’s girls? He likes them big, yah? Hah. He has three wives in Ladaak, but that is not enough. No matter. Laila will pay you if Siddiqui has not. It was all coming from my bank accounts anyway.” He turned to go back through the doorway leading to the inner offices, but then he stopped. “Although, if we are paying you anyway . . .” he said, grinning wide and showing a set of perfectly aligned teeth, his green eyes dancing with mischief as he glanced at her hips and then back into her eyes.

  Nat’s jaw hung open, and she was so shocked she barely noticed how red the young receptionist had turned—not with embarrassment this time but with anger. Only a moment later did Nat notice that the receptionist’s green blouse looked a bit wrinkled and untucked, and when Nat glanced down and swallowed as she tried to hold back the barrage of curse-words that were about to spring forth at this arrogant piece of misogynistic garbage who’d just called her a whore, she saw that the receptionist was missing one shoe and clearly didn’t have any stockings on.

  Focus. Be an adult. Be a businesswoman. Be a big girl, dammit, Nat told herself as she swallowed again, took a deep breath, and then glanced up at the man in the doorway who’d just offered to pay for her fat ass in a peach pantsuit. “Actually,” she said, enunciating as well as she could, “I’m here to pay you.”

  3

  “Sheikh Zameer. But since I am not a pretentious man, you can address me as His Eminent and Graceful Royal Highness Sheikh Zameer Al-Ladaak,” he said to her as he shook her hand and looked deep into her eyes, smiling wide as he caught the scent of her perfume. She’d put on too much, he thought, but for some reason it turned him on.

  So does that peach-colored pantsuit she is wearing somewhat uncomfortably, like she wishes she was either wearing something else or nothing at all. And perhaps soon we will be in the latter situation, the Sheikh thought as he took in the sight of her heavy cleavage, glanced down at her ass as she turned and walked towards the inner offices. Her buttocks were large and round, and they made his cock move as he watched them bounce with every step she took. The Sheikh usually liked his women petite, but something about this curvy American made him hard, and Zameer had never been a man who ignored the calling of his cock.

  He could feel Laila’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head as he followed the peach pantsuit into the back offices, but the Sheikh did not care. Laila was just a distraction, and he knew full well she would spread her skinny legs for anyone who promised her a ticket to America and a cushy office job. She was almost certainly making the rounds of the Washington nightlife, looking for a politician or a businessman to hitch herself to. Of course, whomever she married would forever live in the shadow of what the Sheikh had shown her when he took her against the reception desk, then dragged her into the back room and took her twice more, once on the carpet and then finally against the wall of his private office.

  I just came three times over the past two hours, and yet my cock stirs at the sight of this American woman in her pantsuit, Zameer thought as he followed her into his private office and then closed the door with a loud slam as if to make a point.

  She turned at the sound of the door, her eyes going wide for a moment as she glanced at his crotch and then immediately turned red. Both the look and the reaction were involuntary, Zameer knew, and that got him even harder. He grinned once more, gesturing to the bespoke couch made of soft brown leather.

  “Please,” he said. “Have a seat.”

  “May we sit at the desk?” she asked. “I’d prefer it.”

  “When we are in your office, then we will do what you prefer. In my office, you will do as I ask or leave.”

  He saw the color rush to her face again, but this time he could tell she was suppressing her anger. He watched her swallow, blink, take a breath and then nod as if she was using every ounce of self-control to not tell him to go to hell. Clearly she wanted something from him, and she wanted it bad enough to have ignored his earlier presumption that she was one of Siddiqui’s whores. That meant Zameer had leverage over this woman, and the Sheikh loved the idea of leverage—both in finance and in relationships.

  “I do not usually take personal meetings about individual investments,” the
Sheikh asked as he watched her hesitate for another moment before finally taking a seat on the couch. “But I will admit, what you said intrigues me. No one has ever walked into my office offering to give me money. Most of the people who call on me are looking for a handout.”

  He saw her flinch at the term, and he frowned as he saw her clench and release her fists, tap her foot on the thick carpet, purse her lips and blink three times. She was nervous. The word handout had triggered something in her. Guilt. Minor, but it was there. Why? Was she here looking for a handout after all? Was she offering him some lowball price or minority stake in some investment scheme assuming that since he was a billionaire he didn’t give a damn about a reasonable rate of return?

  “Speak,” he said, leaning against the wall where he could still see a hint of makeup from when he’d pushed Laila’s face against it. “It is your turn now.”

  She cleared her throat, her eyes widening in that involuntary way that made the Sheikh almost smile. He could see that this was important to her, whatever the hell it was. He could also see that she had never done something like this before—again, whatever the hell it was.

  “The Ashford Winery,” she blurted out, blinking several times as she spoke. “I want it.”

  The Sheikh almost burst out laughing as he stared in wonder at the woman sitting as elegantly as she could in her peach pantsuit, her pretty round face red and peaked, her eyes wide like a child’s. “That is your sales pitch? Ya Allah, you must have rehearsed this for months, yes?”

  She turned a deeper shade of red, her smooth cheeks tightening into a frown that made her look older for a moment. “OK, I’m nervous,” she said, blinking and looking down at the folder she’d been clutching. “I have a presentation. I’ve got all the numbers worked out. I have a loan guarantee from a bank. I have—”