Haunted for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 15)

by Annabelle Winters

  HAUNTED 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

  HAUNTED FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  “Who goes there?”

  Sheikh Hakeem Al-Ramaan stared up at the solitary gargoyle sitting atop the roof of the house he’d just paid almost half a million dollars for, all in cash. It was more than the asking price, and he’d paid it because he didn’t want to wait for the seller to consider the other offers and hem and haw over a few thousand dollars here and there. He’d needed a place in the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina, and he’d needed it quick. Besides, five hundred grand was pocket change to him. Oil was still as good as gold, despite the move towards renewable energy, and the kingdom of Ramaan’s oil wells were healthy and thick with it.

  Hakeem glanced up at the gargoyle again before looking over at his two security guards, both of whom seemed unmoved and stoic as they stood behind him in their mirrored sunglasses. He thought to ask if they’d heard anything, but he knew that what he’d heard wasn’t sound. It was something else. A thought. An inside voice. But not a thought that came from him. Not his own inside voice.

  You have not slept well, the Sheikh told himself as he ignored the feeling that the gargoyle’s eyes were watching him, warning him, warding him off the property he’d just bought. The flight was turbulent, the landing was bumpy, and the car-ride was full of stops and starts, with everything from ducks, deer, and even a goddamn alligator blocking their path after they’d pulled off the highway onto the country roads to get to the Sheikh’s home base in the area known as Carolina’s Research Triangle.

  “Medical Science is quickly becoming an Information Science, with biotechnology and genetic engineering pushing the boundaries of what we can expect our bodies and brains to do over the next twenty years,” the Sheikh had announced when he gave his short speech at the banquet honoring him for his donation. He’d donated money to universities and research foundations all over the world, from Singapore to Sudan, Abu-Dhabi to Austria. But the most promising research was coming out of North Carolina, the Sheikh decided. Universities like Duke and UNC-Chapel Hill were producing graduates who’d chosen to stay in the area, and there was a vibrant community of scientists and dreamers who’d come there from all over the world, young men and women who were imagining the future and inventing it as well. The Sheikh knew his money would have the most impact here, in this concentrated environment, and he’d decided he wanted to spend a few months a year in the region as he eagerly awaited the results from the research he was funding.

  “Who wants to live forever?” his mother had asked disdainfully when Hakeem had excitedly told her how medical science was getting to the point where it was conceivable that life-spans could be extended well past one hundred years. “Allah gives life, and Allah takes it away. It is not for us to choose.”

  “Nonsense,” Hakeem had responded. “It is our destiny as a human race to become Gods in our own right. That has always been the dream, the goal, the mission. Even the earliest civilizations were obsessed with immortality.”

  “Well, you can live forever if you like. I will go when my time comes,” his mother had grumpily responded, waving her hand and shaking her head. “As it is my back hurts more every day, my joints ache, my eyesight is blurry even with my glasses. I can think of no fate worse than spending a hundred years like this! I would rather take my place in Allah’s heavens, floating amongst the clouds like an angel!”

  The Sheikh had leaned his head back and laughed, his green eyes narrowed to slits as his muscular body shook with mirth. “There is no heaven other than the ones we create with technology and research, Mother,” he’d said, knowing his words would simply enrage her. “Yes, we can float amongst the clouds, but that is because we have invented airplanes. As for Allah and His angels . . .”

  He’d stopped short of saying anything more, partly because he did not want to drive his old mother into a rage that might literally kill her. But there was also something else that had always made Hakeem hold back from getting into a discussion about the existence (or lack thereof) of God and His so-called angels. An inside voice, perhaps. A sliver of doubt. A hint of hesitation.

  The Sheikh hesitated for a moment as he reached for the brass doorknob of his new house. The handle was old and heavy, and although the Sheikh knew the house was about ninety years old, it felt older—or at least something about the atmosphere felt older. Ancient even—though the Sheikh couldn’t explain it.

  He’d asked the realtor about the gargoyle when they’d visited the place, but she didn’t have a good answer for him. No matter, because she had a great ass, and so the Sheikh had just nodded and smiled as he followed her up the stairs as she pitched the house to him.

  “The gargoyle wasn’t part of the original construction,” she’d explained, looking back at him over her shoulder as she smiled, taking each step slowly and surely, her buttocks moving beautifully in that tight black skirt that ended just above the knee. Her calves were full and thick, and the Sheikh had felt his cock move as he wondered if it would be a conflict of interest if he took her face-down at the top of the stairs just to seal the deal.

  “Usually gargoyles are built in pairs,” Hakeem had said when they got to the second floor and the realtor pushed open the heavy oak door to the master bedroom, stepping in and turning towards him. “It is strange that they added just one.”

  The realtor had shrugged, clearly not particularly interested in talking
about gargoyles. “Maybe they ran out of cash and they could just afford one. One is better than none, right?”

  The Sheikh had laughed. “I suppose. Is this the master bedroom, Miss . . . what is your name? I am sorry. I forgot.”

  “Olivia,” she’d replied, a hint of color showing on her face—just enough to tell the Sheikh that she was attracted to him. “Olivia O’Reilly.”

  “Irish?” the Sheikh said.

  “Italian and Irish, with perhaps some Cherokee mixed in,” she’d replied, blinking and blushing, her eyes darting to his left hand and his ring finger.

  The Sheikh wore no rings, and he could see that it mattered to her. He glanced at her left hand, and although she wore no rings either, he could make out a faint white line on her ring finger.

  “You are married,” he said without thinking.

  Her face went white as he said it, and she curled her left hand into a fist and smiled. “Separated,” she said quickly.

  The Sheikh frowned. Then he snorted, finally breaking into a smile and laughing. “If you say so, Ms. O’Reilly.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “I am saying that it is good business to remove your wedding ring and wear a short skirt when you are pitching a sale to a man, yes?”

  A flash of anger had passed across her round face, and her big brown eyes had narrowed just enough to tell the Sheikh that this woman had fire in her but also self-control. He’d watched as she swallowed hard, blinked twice, her face going red as she held back whatever response had first come to her mind when he’d implied she was using her ass to sell him a house.

  “Whatever works,” she finally said, her full red lips curling at the corners as she looked him directly in the eyes, even though she had to stand as straight as she could and tilt her head back to do it. “Though for the record, I really am separated. Also, this isn’t the shortest skirt I own. This is a great property, and I didn’t think I needed to pull out all the stops to make the sale.”

  The Sheikh roared with laughter, clapping his hands once and shaking his head. “Duly noted,” he said, still laughing as he finally calmed down and held the eye contact with this quick-witted realtor. “And you are correct. It is a magnificent property. Secluded, sophisticated, and I even like that damned gargoyle. Sold, Ms. O’Reilly. My banker will wire the money as soon as you provide us with the relevant details.”

  To his surprise she’d shaken her head, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, making the Sheikh’s breath catch when he saw how full and heavy her bosom was beneath her black jacket. “Sadly, I can’t close the deal right now,” she’d told him. “The seller has very specific instructions, one of which is that all offers are to be collected and sent over for their review.”

  The Sheikh frowned. Then he shrugged. “So tell me what the best offer is, and I will double it. All cash. The wire transfer goes through the moment I get the account number.”

  He’d seen her eyes go wide, and he could tell she’d immediately calculated her commission from the Sheikh’s offer. She’d blinked and taken a breath, as if she was weighing her options. Then she shook her head again.

  “I’ve been given very specific instructions on this property,” she said again. “I got this listing as an exclusive on the condition that the seller gets to evaluate each offer.”

  “Who is the seller?” Hakeem had asked, his patience growing thin. He was not used to actually having to negotiate when he wanted to make a deal. This was not an investment or a true business deal. He simply wanted the house, and he didn’t give a damn how much he paid for it. Could she not tell that? “I will deal directly with them.”

  “Oh, OK,” said Olivia, rolling her eyes. “Let me get you that information so you can cut me out of the loop and screw me out of my commission. Obviously I do this job as a charity gig for obnoxious, entitled millionaires who think the rules don’t apply to them.”

  The Sheikh snorted in surprise. No woman had ever spoken to him like this. Did she know who he was? Surely she did, yes? But just in case, perhaps he’d better make it clear, he decided.

  So he straightened up to full height, baring his shoulders to where he was almost twice as broad as she, even though she was not a small woman. “Firstly, I am a billionaire, not a millionaire. Secondly, I am a king and I make rules, not follow them. And thirdly—”

  “And thirdly, we’re done here,” she replied coolly, her brown eyes scanning him up and down as she didn’t flinch one iota. “This is a great property, and I’ve already got a list of offers that will pay me a handsome commission. So take your billions, and your crown, and stick them up your entitled—”

  “All right!” the Sheikh shouted, raising both arms and laughing as he shook his head in delighted surprise. “You win. Three times the amount of your best offer. The list price is just over a hundred-thousand dollars, so assuming the best offer so far is about one-fifty, three times that would be four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. So my offer is half a million dollars in cash. Take it or leave it.”

  He watched her take a deep breath, her strong eye contact wavering as she swallowed hard. Then she pursed her lips, glanced at the floor, and nodded slowly.

  “All right,” she said softly. “I can probably push it through with the seller.”

  The Sheikh nodded, and Olivia had stepped away and gotten on her cell phone, speaking in a hushed tone as the Sheikh walked around the master bedroom, feeling the satisfaction of getting his way somehow watered down by a nagging suspicion that something wasn’t quite right here.

  The realtor was back in the room a moment later, and before the Sheikh could chase down the source of that annoying suspicion, they’d shaken hands and she’d pulled out a sheaf of papers from a briefcase made of soft brown leather.

  “There is one disclosure I need to make before I let you sign,” she said. “By law I need to inform you if someone has died in this house, and so—”

  The Sheikh grunted as he took the single sheet of paper Olivia handed him. He glanced at it, raising an eyebrow when he saw that it was actually a list of names. “Eight people have died in this house?” he said, frowning as a strange chill travelled up and down his spine. But he’d won this negotiation, and he wasn’t going to back out now. It was a reasonably old house, and so what difference did it make how many people died within its walls?

  “If that’s a problem . . .” she began to say, but the Sheikh shook his head and tossed the sheet of paper onto the old dresser that was built into the wall of the master bedroom.

  “Four generations of people have died within the walls of my palace in Ramaan,” he said with a nonchalance that required some effort. “Where do I sign?”

  She smiled and handed him the sheaf of papers. “On the right margin of every page. Then at the bottom of the last page.”

  He could feel her watching him with bated breath as he put his mark on every page and then finally on the last page, and when he looked into her eyes after handing her the papers again, he saw the look of triumph and he knew he’d been had, taken, wheeled and dealed.

  “Ya Allah,” he whispered, shaking his head and smiling. “There were no other offers, were there? No mysterious seller with strange rules. Nothing but a quick-witted saleswoman with a great arse and a nose for misdirection.”

  He saw panic whip across her face, and he just laughed and shrugged. “Do not worry. I have signed my name, and I will not go back on my word. Have your office call my accountant, and the money will be transferred within a day. Well done, Ms. O’Reilly. You took me fair and square.” He paused for moment, his jaw tightening. “Perhaps I will get to do the same to you someday.”

  2

  “You took me fair and square.”

  His words stayed with her as she checked her messages and saw that the wire transfer had gone through, just like he’d promised. He’d kept his word, even though he’d fi
gured out she’d played him into tripling his offer. The Sheikh had guessed right by the end of their little dance: There were no other offers. The old colonial-style mansion had been on her list for months with no takers. She’d pushed hard with several potential buyers, used all her tricks, smiled her best smile, put on her shortest skirts. But something had always come up with the other buyers: One guy lost his job offer; a couple got divorced suddenly; somebody else had a heart attack and couldn’t make it to the showing. It was almost like the house was driving people away, like it was waiting for the Sheikh, like it wanted to be owned by him, taken by him.

  You took me fair and square. Perhaps I will get to do the same to you someday.

  Liv smiled as she felt a chill move up her bare legs at the thought of that magnificent beast of a man “taking her fair and square,” whatever the hell that meant. She glanced over at her laptop, where she’d just run a search for “Sheikh Hakeem Al-Ramaan” and come up with a slew of results and images. Who was this guy? Or rather, who wasn’t this guy?! Hell, it sounded like he was a king, a scientist, an athlete, and—if some of those photographs were real and not Photoshopped—he was also the goddamn Calvin Klein underwear model!

  She ran her fingers along the screen, tracing the contours of his washboard abs and massive pectorals on the image. The photograph was of the Sheikh on a beach, knee deep in the ocean, his trunks clinging to his muscular thighs, his package looking massive as he stared off into the distance. She wasn’t sure if he was posing for the camera or if he’d been caught in a private moment, and she studied his handsome face, his piercing green eyes, his masculine jawline. Then she sighed and clicked back over to some of the headlines mentioning the Sheikh: His keen interest in medical science; his belief that medical technology would allow people to live for two or three hundred years in the not-so-distant future; his view that humans were meant to be Gods in their own right. Crazy stuff.