Cinderella and the Sheikh (Hot Contemporary Romance)

by Teresa Morgan

  For an instant, he missed New York.

  She sighed. "Good thing I don't live here. I'd never learn all the customs."

  Why did she think that? Her looks had been what had caught his eye, but she was smart. She'd proven it. "You will have to," he said. "We will visit often."

  Libby froze, nearly bumping into the owner of a fabric store displaying a fine scarlet silk to a bare-headed woman in Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a blue t-shirt. "You don’t still think that I'm going to marry you. Can't you see it would be a disaster? The Prince of Damali probably wants me dead."

  "My love—"

  Libby swore. "For the good of your country, you've got to..." Her voice trailed off, the anger fading. She raised a hand to point at a wall. "What is that?"

  Rasyn glanced at where she indicated, not bothering to tell her that pointing was considered rude in his culture. Dozens of eight-by-twelve posters of a dark-skinned man in an impeccable suit and red-checked headscarf covered the wall she indicated. There were other posters; of Uncle Anwar, and of Imaran.

  Rasyn had seen the poster many times before and always had the same reaction: the man's teeth were too white, his hair too shiny. No one was that perfect. It wasn't possible. Obviously, this was not a man to be trusted.

  "That's you." Libby voice was filled with awe.

  "No," he said. "That's Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar."

  "Do you— I mean, do you think it makes Sheikh Rasyn feel odd to see that?"

  Rasyn shrugged. "I suppose it means people like him."

  Libby stared at the poster, her head cocked to one side in deep contemplation. "It would make me feel weird to have pictures of myself everywhere. Just because people do this doesn't mean they know you. How can they like you if they don’t know you?"

  Rasyn's throat went dry. He'd tried to talk to Imaran about it once. Imaran had just complained that there were fewer posters of him. When he'd mentioned it to his uncle, he'd gotten a lecture on maintaining the goodwill of the people.

  No one had understood. But this woman seemed to. "Perhaps you are right," he said.

  She looked at him, her eyes soft with sympathy. "There are more posters of Sheikh Rasyn than the others. He's popular."

  "I cannot imagine why. His cousin is more qualified to be prince." The words had slipped out, perhaps because it was easier to talk about 'Sheikh Rasyn' than himself.

  "But Sheikh Imaran seems less..." She struggled for words. "Kind."

  They were on dangerous ground, Rasyn knew. But it was a relief to talk about this. "He is driven to do the best for this country. If that has made him harsh, it is a sacrifice he has made. One of many. Did you know that he spent the last three years defending the border with Jalaal? He is the best choice."

  "I don't know..." Libby's words trailed off as she stared at the posters.

  Rasyn pulled a few centimes from his pocket and hailed a turbaned man in a robe dusty below the knee, pushing a cart piled with ruby-colored pomegranates.

  Libby was licking juice from her lips with a red-stained tongue, making a satisfied 'mmm' sound that warmed his belly when an enthusiastic beat echoed off the vaulted souk roof.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  He wasn't about to give up the opportunity to show her another of the beauties of his country. "Do you want to go find out?"

  They followed the sound through the twisting passages, finally coming to an open space where a circle of people clapped their hands in a pulsing rhythm. Rasyn elbowed his way into the circle, guiding Libby to stand in front of him.

  In the open area stood two young men in faded jeans, grinning from ear to ear. Under one arm, each of them had a doumbek drum and together, they pounded out a beat that reverberated in Rasyn's chest. They riffed off each other, pretending to compete to see who could beat out the most intricate sequence, then letting out a whoop before returning to playing in unison.

  They weren't the main attraction. Rasyn watched Libby's eyes widen as she watched the woman with lemon blonde hair dancing in the circle. In a black dress sequined with gold that covered her from neck to ankle, the woman moved with an athletic grace that simmered with the promise of sensuality. The coins on the scarf tied around her waist tinkled as she circled her hips to the beat.

  Libby clapped and shouted her appreciation, her own hips mimicking the dance.

  The dancer must have noticed, too—she grabbed both Libby's wrists and pulled her into the ring. The dancer pulled off her hip scarf with a jangle and quickly tied it around Libby's waist. The audience shouted their encouragement as Libby attempted to follow the movements that the dancer showed her. Libby fumbled and laughed her way through it.

  Rasyn’s discomfort grew at her inappropriate behavior. She had no grace and less dignity. She thought that 'kindness' was the greatest value for a ruler? Common—that was the only word for her. She would never understand why Imaran had to be on the throne.

  He watched as Libby began to get used to the dance's movement and shook her hips with something like style. The man next to Rasyn turned to his companion. "I think the green eyed one would dance better in bed."

  Before he gave it a thought, Rasyn found himself striding into the circle and catching Libby's wrist in his hand. She gazed up at him, a puzzled look in her eye.

  "Come." He tugged her away, through the crowd that parted for them.

  He felt dozens of male eyes, darkened with desire, followed the sway of her backside in the hip scarf as she returned to him.

  Despite his annoyance, a fierce, protective desire threatened to overwhelm him. He wanted to kiss her pomegranate-stained lips, to show the world she belonged to him. But he couldn't. In Abbas, that would be so shocking that he'd likely get arrested for indecency.

  As they walked away, he rested his palm against the heat of Libby's lower back, shooting a killing look over his shoulder in case anyone should be watching too closely.

  A tiny, dark alleyway caught his eye. He pulled her into it.

  "Why did you allow that? You must not humiliate yourself that way."

  She wrenched her wrist from him. "You're the only one humiliated. Why is it embarrassing to have fun in public?"

  "Those people saw parts of you that should remain secret."

  She made a show of looking down at her clothes. "I'm covered from head to foot, so I know you're not talking about my body. Do you mean my feelings?"

  A perfect version of himself smirked at him from over her shoulder. Even in the darkest alley, he couldn't escape those damned posters. "Do you think Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar is permitted to express himself freely?"

  "He should be," she said. "You should be. I guess you aren't, not when you have to disguise yourself just to go to the market."

  Rasyn felt his anger drain away, replaced by awareness that the alley had barely enough space for the two of them, forcing him to press himself against her, her softness melting into his hard body.

  The thrill of risk zinging up his spine, he lowered his mouth to hers. Visions of her gyrating hips had him grinding his own into her. The air, fragrant with dust and spices, wasn't as exotic as Libby's own soap-scented skin. She responded wildly, as if the dance had peaked her own desire, welcoming his tongue with her own. He teased and tasted her, stoking the fire between them until he thought he would lose control and risk making love to her there, with the rest of the world only steps away.

  Reluctantly, he broke the kiss, stroking his hands down her soft cheeks. This was his chance.

  "Libby, would you like to see the desert tomorrow? I want to show you how the stars shine far from the city lights." His voice was so raspy with lust that he barely recognized it.

  She paused, her whole body going tense. He knew what was going through her mind. She'd said no before. There was no way she should give in to him now.

  She smoothed his robe across his chest, swiping at some imaginary dust. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt the heat of her fingers through the fabric as if t
hey were on his bare skin instead. After a moment, she sighed and gave him a smile tinged by irony, as if she recognized she was doing the wrong thing. "I'd like that."

  Relief washed over him. It fit his plans perfectly.

  Chapter Eight

  The trip to the desert didn't happen the following day. A servant woke them early, with the news that Rasyn should come to his uncle right away.

  He was gone all day.

  Libby spent it wandering the palace and relaxing in the gardens. Rasyn returned without his usual glowing smile, and unwilling to talk. The concern that he wore like a cloak made her think that the King of Abbas was sicker than anyone let on.

  After they’d made love, a long, slow dance of give and take, Libby had been aware that he had lain awake for hours. She didn’t bring up going back to New York. It seemed too selfish.

  When she awoke in the morning, her bed was empty. She found Rasyn and his cousin at the breakfast table. Even with slight dark circles under his eyes, he looked handsome in a pair of designer jeans and a beige cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. When he dressed like that, she forgot that he was so far above her, and her heart ached just to look at him.

  Imaran scowled at her. A slow heat crept up her neck, burning from the inside out.

  Rasyn seemed not to notice, but casually read the newspaper and sipped his coffee.

  "Cousin." Imaran laid his gold-embroidered linen napkin across his plate. "Could I trouble you to meet with me?"

  "Certainly. When?"

  "Now."

  The ice in his tone made Libby fight a shiver. Something was definitely off.

  "Love, do you mind if we put off our trip a little?" Rasyn folded his paper, his face a blank mask.

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  After they'd gone, she stared at the breakfast on her plate. It was so odd to see such an ordinary thing like toast served up on hand-painted gold-rimmed china so delicate that the light shone through it. In a way, she felt sorry for the plain, utilitarian toast. It must feel incredibly out of place.

  Though it was probably gauche, she leaned across the table and flipped through the papers at Imaran and Rasyn's places, hoping to find some English reading material.

  Nothing.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood in warning. They'd had English papers for the last two days, so why not today? There was no reason for it.

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Unless there was something in the papers they didn't want her to see.

  Rasyn wouldn’t do that, she assured herself. Then she remembered; he'd done it already. He hadn't told her about the Princess's allergy. So maybe he was hiding something now.

  Whatever it was, she needed to know.

  The quiet click of a door slipping back into place interrupted her thoughts. The palace servants seemed like ghosts to her, doing their jobs silently, then disappearing. This one had been and gone without her even noticing.

  Libby grabbed the newspaper and dashed after him. He wore the uniform of all the palace servants, beige pants and a matching tunic. Before she could catch up, he went through a nondescript door and was gone.

  Libby followed him through the door. The assault on her senses made her close her eyes. The smell of onions frying and sweet herbs filled the air. Dozens of uniformed servants cooked, washed an endless array of dishes, and picked up trays loaded with stainless steel domes. The heat made her sweat.

  Even halfway across the world, a busy kitchen was just the same. For the first time since she left New York, she felt at home. She stood for a moment, just breathing in the experience.

  A hush fell. A dozen wide-eyed servants stared back at her, most of them frozen in mid-action.

  "Oh, hi. Does anyone speak English?" she asked. "Ingleesi?"

  Libby beamed as a familiar face appeared. "As-salaam alaikum, Umm Tariq."

  "Wa alaikum as-salam." The woman followed her greeting with a string of words.

  Even though she didn't understand the Arabic, Libby knew the language of servants as well as anyone. Umm Tariq had offered to help her.

  "Ingleesi. I need someone who speaks English."

  "Aiwa."

  Libby hoped that meant yes as she followed Umm Tariq past a row of gleaming industrial stoves.

  Umm Tariq barked an order and the activity in the kitchen resumed, except the noise level reduced to low whispers. Libby couldn’t help noticing that more than one shot her a cold look.

  Umm Tariq led her through a door, and she blinked when she found herself outside, under a watery blue sky with a blazing white-gold sun pouring heat down on her. Instead of the polished palace gardens, she faced a rocky road leading toward a service gate in the high wall of the palace. An ancient-looking truck, beige with desert dust, idled nearby. A man in faded jeans and rolled up shirtsleeves leaned into the trunk.

  "Jarah." Umm Tariq walked toward him.

  He turned to face them and Libby recognized the dark mole just under his left eye. Her stomach sank in pure misery. She'd wanted a translator, but did it have to be the waiter she'd tripped at the reception? That explained the icy looks from the staff.

  His jaw clenched as he recognized her, too. Umm Tariq spoke to him in Arabic, but Jarah's gaze stayed on her. When Umm Tariq finished speaking, he nodded.

  "You wanted someone who speaks English, miss?" His lips turned down as he spoke, as if tasting something bad.

  "They fired you, didn't they?" she asked.

  "What is that to you?"

  "It was all my fault. I'll ask Rasyn to give you back your job. I'm so sorry."

  Confusion marked his face. "Why would you care about a servant?"

  "Because I didn't get fired when a kid tripped me at my last job. I dropped a tray of drinks all over the floor."

  "You were carrying drinks?" Jarah folded his arms across his chest.

  "I'm a waitress."

  Jarah's eyes went wide. "You're a servant? How did you meet Sheikh Rasyn?"

  Libby told him, leaving out the more personal parts, of course. She paused occasionally to let Jarah catch up the translation for Umm Tariq.

  "Why were you looking for someone to speak English?"

  She passed him the newspaper she'd been carrying under her arm. "Can you tell me what this says?"

  Jarah pursed his lips, not looking past the front page. He saw something, definitely.

  "Please," she said.

  Finally, Jarah nodded. "It says that Parliament has passed a bill that takes any man who marries a commoner out of the line of succession."

  Libby went numb. She couldn’t feel the sun on her skin or smell the chemical exhaust of the truck.

  "Oh." The words seemed to form by themselves. "I think that's because I spilled soup on the princess. It's probably a good idea."

  Yes, yes, it was a good idea, wasn’t it? Parliament was doing the right thing, ensuring Rasyn didn't make the kind of mistake that could ruin his life. It was right. They were being smart. And it made her feel like crap on a stick.

  Jarah handed her back the papers. “You do not have to worry about me. I have already found a new job at the orphanage. I am taking the palace's extra food there. It is a custom."

  Her ears perked up. Knowing that, she didn’t feel as bad for Jarah. The pay was probably worse, but now he had a chance to really make a difference in the lives of people who would always remember him for it. Suddenly, she couldn’t face the idea of spending the morning alone and useless in the palace.

  "Do you need some help?" she asked.

  ***

  "Tell me you've found her." Rasyn's voice came out like a growl, and made the pair of servants flinch as they walked toward him and Imaran in the palace corridor.

  The look that the two men gave each other told Rasyn that the news wasn't what he hoped. He closed his eyes against the headache throbbing between his temples.

  The taller servant spoke. "Several people saw her—" He hesitated. "Saw her leave the p
alace six hours ago. In a truck."

  Six hours. His headache exploded in his brain. Libby wasn't stupid. She wouldn’t go off with strangers. Unless they offered her a chance at the one thing she'd wanted from the beginning, to go home. But she hadn't taken her luggage.

  "Someone get me the U.S. embassy on the phone," he ordered.

  As the two servants hustled off down the hallway, he could only pray that she was safely at the embassy. He didn't allow himself to consider the alternative.

  He felt his cousin's hand grip his shoulder. "Maybe it's for the best."

  Rasyn whirled on him. "You have no idea—"

  "What it is like to lose someone I love?" Imaran's eyes were cool. "You know that I do, as well as you do, anyway. But this is not like you. A woman you met less than a week ago could never mean this much to you. You've never been a man of strong passions, and this woman is not your type."

  Libby wasn't his type. She wasn't sophisticated or polished. She wore her heart too openly, smiling when she was actually happy and letting her tears flow when she was sad. She was exactly what he needed—for his plan.

  He never should have let her out of his sight. Now that Parliament had passed a bill essentially forbidding him from marrying her, a clear apology to Damali, he had to do it more than ever.

  He shoved aside the thought that any woman without royal blood in her veins would take him out of the succession now, and was about to scramble the militia to look for her when he caught a familiar glint of auburn hair cross the hallway in front of him. Rasyn strode toward her, as quickly as dignity would allow. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, he heard the footfalls of his cousin behind him.

  Within seconds, he'd turned the corner. Libby. His heart buzzed with relief. He grabbed her by the arm and swung her around. For an instant, her green eyes registered pure shock and her lips opened in surprise.