The Sheikh’s Accidental Heir (Sharjah Sheikhs Book 2)

by Leslie North

  Zaid shook his head. “No. No threats, brother. You still have no idea how to handle our father. You let him bluster, you let him shout—and you send the very first ultrasound of his next grandchild along with the names you have picked out. A baby will turn him soft, and he will mutter then that this American tricked you into marriage, but he will be resigned. But don’t come home until the baby is here and ready to be presented to him.”

  15

  Melanie stood at the back of the aisle, waiting for the music to cue her approach. Her mother sat up front, wearing a tight red dress with golden embroidery, and Melanie had gone for a soft, pink gown. She did not want to wear white, as Nasiji’s wedding planning had once decided. And this was going to be a very American wedding. George was giving her away, Sid, Terry and Angie were handling the catering—and Angie was crying right now and up front as maid of honor. Ahmed stood with his two brothers.

  Ahmed’s father had refused to attend the wedding, but the sonograms of the baby—now a small bump and kicking today—had at least softened enough that he had set two hundred thousand dollars into a college fund for the child.

  A harpist began to play, and the butterflies in Melanie’s stomach dispersed. The time to think about her wedding was over. It was go-time. She took the first step down the carpet set over the grass. Her mom’s garden looked beautiful, lush with flowers and decorated with lanterns, with white chairs set out for the guests and ribbons fluttering. Her servers lined up to watch the ceremony, and tears stung Melanie’s eyes.

  Khalid’s wife, Casey, stood up at the front along with Angie.

  And Ahmed—well, this time she had no doubt that he wanted to marry her.

  The escape back to New York had been something of an anticlimax. She’d expected large men in dark suits to jump out and grab them. Instead, it had been a long drive, a long flight, an even longer flight after that and then a quick trip through customs. Once in New York, Ahmed had explained he now must watch his money for he was using his own.

  “I have only a half a million to get us started. The rest, I fear, is invested in properties.”

  She had stared at him. “How much is invested?”

  He’d shrugged. “If I liquidate, I will only raise five or six million. If we keep the buildings, the income over time will be much better. Some of them need renovation, and I want to show you the two I am thinking of for galleries.”

  She’d nodded and had swallowed hard. She wasn’t just married to a prince—a sheik—she was married to a very rich man. She hadn’t expected that. She’d taken him back to her apartment and had hoped he wouldn’t think it was slumming and beneath him. Instead, he’d settled in quite happily. And started renovating one of the brownstones he’d acquired to become their home.

  Her mom had given Ahmed the cold shoulder at first, but who could resist the man’s charm? And those deep brown eyes.

  Ahmed waited for her in a tailored black tuxedo, a faint smile curving his lips. They already had a name picked out for the baby, who should be along in a few months. Caius Martin Al-Qasimi. Once Caius appeared, she’d been warned that the sultan would want them to visit.

  Hands shaking, she started down the aisle.

  Ahmed had proven he really did have an instinct about business. He’d been right about MM Catering specializing in gallery openings, art events and business meetings.

  MM Catering was going to turn a profit this year and their blend of Western and Middle Eastern favorites had started a new trend.

  She’d put off a second wedding until she was certain the first one would stick.

  But her mom had kept pushing.

  So had Ahmed. What choice did a girl have when both her husband and her mother ganged up on her?

  And the baby started to kick.

  She put a hand on her stomach. She’d wanted to get to the point where she could take the time off for a real honeymoon without having to worry about whether her business would survive or not. She’d wanted time to make certain Ahmed wanted to stay around.

  She was now sure of both things.

  It was time to stand up in front of their families and friends and make this staying together forever official.

  It seemed this Cinderella really was getting her happy ever after, and Ahmed had even bought her glass shoes—well, silk encrusted with crystals—to cement the deal.

  She reached Ahmed’s side. He looked at her with enough love in his eyes that a shiver slipped over her skin.

  “Family and friends, we are gathered here today to join Ahmed Al-Qasimi in matrimony with Melanie Martin.”

  From there, the ceremony became as much a blur as her first wedding had been. Ahmed had to nudge her when it was time to say ‘I do.’ She smiled up at him and said, “Qabul, qabul, qabul.”

  I accept.

  He grinned back and then said, “I do.” Then he leaned closer and asked, “Do I get to kiss you now?”

  She smiled. “Only if you really mean it.”

  “Oh, I do. As I mean every kiss that I give you, my wife, my own, my very sensual American.”

  Epilogue

  Melanie was nervous about leaving Caius with Casey and Khalid. And with the sultan. It was Caius’ first visit to Sharjah—and her and Ahmed’s first time back since their wedding. She’d been nervous about her reception—and a little worried the sultan might throw Ahmed into jail, take Caius and extradite her ass back to New York.

  Instead, the sultan had taken one look at the fat, pouting and travel-weary baby, who was about ready to throw a royal tantrum and the man had broken into a stiff smile. “Ah, he looks just like Ahmed did at that age.” The sultan had swept Caius from Melanie’s arms, tossed him up, caught him and tickled the boy’s belly. Gurgling laughs—not screams—had followed. And yet she was still nervous about leaving her baby boy.

  Ahmed slipped an arm around her waist. “Will you stop frowning? My father has what delights him—a grandson and a potential heir to the throne. And we have three days of babysitting. After my father, it will be my uncles and aunts who must see the boy, and Khalid’s Casey adores babies. You have made her day by letting her spoil our son.”

  Melanie shook her head. The palace seemed overflowing with people—relatives, no doubt. A band was playing traditional music, which sounded off key to her, but it was the sultan’s party after all. He had made a few concessions to his sons.

  The food offered up included lamb, beef, and a dazzling display of pastries. Melanie glanced at her husband. “Our son is going to be overfed, spoilt and impossible once we get him home again.”

  Smiling, Ahmed said, “He is home, my sensual American. He will grow up in two worlds, with a foot in each.”

  She glanced at him. “And will he grow up responsible—or more like you?”

  Ahmed shook his head. “That will be up to him. For I am not going to make my father’s mistake of ruling his life. No, I will make a whole different set of mistakes with him that are entirely my own.”

  The sultan had given over the baby to the line of waiting aunts and came over to Ahmed. Melanie watched, a breath caught in her chest. She knew that Ahmed still wanted his father’s respect—but things were different now. Ahmed no longer needed that. The sultan gave Melanie a glance and faced his youngest son. “That trick you played—letting me think you were marrying Nasiji.”

  “Was no more than you deserved, Father, for trying to force me into something not of my choosing. I did warn you.”

  For an instant, the sultan seemed what he’d always been—a hard man, his jaw set and his eyes flinty. But Melanie could see the signs of age on him, the sag to his jaw, the broadening nose that now seemed to stand out on his face, the lines around his eyes. Slowly, he gave a nod and a tight smile. “That you did.” He turned to Melanie. “Does he behave himself as a husband and a father should? You have no complaints?”

  “And if I do, what? You’d beat him with a stick?”

  The sultan face Ahmed—father and son. She could see Ahmed better no
w in the older man—the same strong nose and cheekbones, the stubborn chin. Their stares met, and Melanie held her breath. And then a tiny smile lifted the sultan’s mouth and he shook his head. “No, I think Ahmed too large now for beatings. But that does not mean he would escape without a stern lecture. A good woman is to be prized above all things, my son.”

  Ahmed smiled and put a hand on his chest. “I live to do my father’s bidding.”

  The sultan huffed out a breath. “No, you live to be the bane of your father’s life, but I will let that pass for now. We have guests, and it would please me if you would do more than stand in a corner with your lovely wife.”

  Ahmed gave a laugh. “I think that is the first time you have ever asked me to circulate at a party. With pleasure, Father. Come, wife, you have people to meet and a smile to paste into place.”

  For the next two hours, Melanie bowed, listened to endless Arabic—she only understood one word in three and didn’t have enough verbs to carry on a conversation. The baby seemed to dominate all discussion, but business crept into things, with others asking Ahmed to ask his father for favors. Ahmed seemed both pleased at such an idea and irritated.

  Escaping at last to the food set out, he told her, “I never had such sympathy for my brothers, or such a wish to still be the son who is ignored and treated as if he can do nothing right. Now I seem to be the son who is golden, and I see my brothers basking in the company of lovely women while I must talk until I am sick of my own voice.”

  She laughed. “Quite a change from when I met you in New York—you were the ultimate escape artist.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Good. Let’s see if we can recreate that moment and find our own party. I find all this respect and good behavior to be…wearing.”

  She shook her head at him, but he led her from the party. The noise of the music and laughter and conversation faded. He took her up stairs and down corridors and up even more stairs. Finally, he opened a door and they stepped out onto the flat, tiled rooftop. She was very much reminded of how she had once escaped a catered business event, heading out onto a terraced balcony, only to have Ahmed follow her.

  Stopping, she looked up. The sky had turned purple and stars seemed splashed across it in a line. The stars were brighter here than in New York, the air crisper. They had to be four floors up and from here, she could see out over the waters of the Persian Gulf. To the west, the last light of the setting sun glimmered off the dark waters. She couldn’t hear the surf, but the air carried a tang of salt as well as the desert dryness. Melanie smiled. The sun was probably only rising on her home in America.

  Ahmed wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Mrs. Ahmed Al-Qasimi. I don’t think I will ever tire of saying such a thing. Mrs. Ahmed Al-Qasimi.” He kissed the spot behind her ear.

  “It feels…” She let the words trail off as she thought over what she was feeling. “It feels right,” she finally said. “Like this is how my life is supposed to be.”

  His arms tightened. “I will say the same thing. This is very right. What do you think of the new building I am buying? A good one, yes? And I am looking now to buy in Sharjah. There is no need to sneak around anymore behind my father’s back.”

  “No, instead he’ll spoil our son.” She turned and faced him. “And you know I know nothing about buildings. But I’ve been thinking we should set up a division of MM Catering here in Sharjah. Oh, and I got a letter from Nasiji. She’s settled in Paris and is starting a cooking school.”

  Ahmed laughed. “Nasiji knows how to cook?”

  “No, but apparently Jamul does and adores good food. She swears he is going to get fat, so she sends him to the gym every day.”

  Ahmed shook his head. “Poor Jamul.”

  “Poor Jamul, nothing. He signed up for it and is probably as happy as a cat in cream.”

  “Perhaps we should visit them. Take a second honeymoon?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t know the first one was over.”

  Ahmed glanced around them. “Listen. There is no Caius demanding our attention. Instead, he is wrapping my father around his little fingers.”

  Melanie smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Just what are you suggesting? That we ignore this breathtaking view?”

  “Oh, I was thinking of taking your breath in other ways.”

  “Really? You know, New York is probably just waking up right now. And you’re right, our son should know both this world as well as his American world.”

  Ahmed gave a low hum. “There is something poetic in that, though I cannot seem to find it.”

  Leaning down, he kissed her. He straightened and said, “I told you I was lucky—and I was more than lucky to follow you out of that hotel suite and then to seduce you.”

  “You seduced me, did you? I thought it was mutual.”

  “No, I definitely worked my charms on you to bring you to my arms.”

  She smiled. “Then you’d better do it again. I have jet lag nipping at me, and I keep thinking about a nice, soft, big bed.”

  He grinned. “So it shall be.” Lifting her up, he carried her back inside and down the stairs. She didn’t recognize the room he took her into. Candles lit the way—dozens of them—reflecting bright, yellow glows in mirrors on the walls. She was surrounded by reflected light and her own image.

  Ahmed settled her onto the bed, draped with dark, luxuriously soft covers. He lay next to her, looking sleek and lazy as a well-fed cat. A very large, well-fed cat. She put her hands on his chest and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, her tired fingers unable to undo even one.

  “Let me help,” Ahmed said. He reached down and made short work of the buttons, stripping off his shirt and then hers. Her skin ached for his touch. Her nipples hardened just at the thought of how he could make her body sing.

  “Help some more. You’ve been so good to me,” she said sleepily. “What did I do to deserve a prince like you?”

  “Oh, you deserve far better than me,” he answered quietly. He undid her bra and tugged off the long shirt she had worn, exposing the black lace panties she wore just because she knew they drove him wild.

  He ran his smooth, firm hands back up her legs slowly, kissing her thigh as he wrapped his fingers around the waistband of that thin scrap of lace. He slowly pulled them down until she was naked on the covers.

  “You’re being a bad boy—you do know that’s what got you into this to start with?”

  “Oh, yes, I do know.” He kissed her gently rounded stomach, sending trembling ripples of pleasure through her. She parted her legs, eager for him.

  Sitting up, he pulled off his trousers and stretched out next to her, as naked as she was. His fingers drifted over her hardening nipples.

  She drew in a shaky breath. “Ahmed, are you going to torture me?” She reached out to him, seeking his smooth, muscular skin.

  “I’m here, habibti. I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed her, and his lips drifted down to her neck. He sucked hard and then nibbled, leaving her trembling.

  Reaching down, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and stroked his hard cock and the velvety skin. “I want to feel you inside me. I wanted that the first night I met you. I still want it. I’m going to be seventy and still wanting you. Do you know, I dream about the way you filled me—so perfectly. So effortlessly. You do things to me no one ever has.”

  She pulled him toward her opening with one hand and spread her lips open to take him in. He sat up on one elbow and pulled her to face him. She threw a thigh over his hips. He pushed into her ever so slightly. Her fingers were wet and she could smell her arousal—warm and sea-scented. Taking her hand, he brought it to his mouth and licked her fingertips. “You taste of heaven, my angel.”

  She giggled. “You always get so poetic when we have sex.”

  “Ah, no, habibti. This is us making love—beautiful, sensual love.” Leaning forward, he kissed her. She gave a soft moan. He moved his mouth lower, down to her right nipple. Latching onto the hard, aching n
ub, he sucked it deep into his mouth.

  She moaned and grabbed his hair. He thrust into her, pushing in slowly. She could feel each inch of him, reveled in the sensation. Pleasure washed through her in long waves. He moved his mouth to her other nipple, his tongue circling the hardening skin. As he sucked, his teeth lightly grazed her, sending a sudden jolt over her skin and deep into her, intensifying the sensation. She was aware she was looser down there than she had been before giving birth, but Ahmed still seemed to love her body.

  He lifted his head and ran his hands down her arms to her wrists. He pushed her onto her back, rolling with her and pulling her hands above her head. Then he sat up, slowly sliding himself home. He waited just a moment and then pulled away.

  She couldn’t stop herself from moaning.

  “You like that,” he said, a wicked smile playing on his lips.

  “You know I do. And I don’t just like it. I love the way you feel inside of me.”

  He held her wrists on the bed as he pressed himself as deep into her as her body would allow him to go. She moaned even more loudly and opened herself even wider for him.

  Ahmed stopped again and pressed his hips against hers, rocking himself against her. She was trembling with need, hovering on the edge of her orgasm.

  Wrapping her legs around his waist, she pulled him against her. “More. You know I always want more.”

  He pushed in and pulled out—so slowly she lost her words. She could only moan nonsense at him, gasp out breaths and shudder. He kept working his hips, rubbing himself along her most sensitive places inside and out, driving her higher.

  Tilting her head back, she cried out his name, pleasure crashing around her. She bucked underneath him, her muscles tightening around him in nerve-shattering spasms.