Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6)

by Annabelle Winters

  The Sheikh turned his head for a brief moment, smiling at her before turning back to the road as he pulled onto the country highway that led to his home. Fran frowned a little now as she thought back to something that had come to her the other night with him, that perhaps they were thrown together to learn something from each other, to grow together, to overcome together, to . . . to come together?!

  Fuck it, she thought with a laugh as she smelled the pinewood forest, inhaled that deep scent of eucalyptus and spice, took in the erotic musk of her man’s semen. And all of it smelled clean and pure, just like she felt clean and pure, just like she decided she was clean and pure, that it was her decision, her choice, her mind, her goddamn body.

  And as the Sheikh’s silver Range Rover sped down the deserted country highway, Fran reached for his arm and spread her legs, placing his hand right between her thighs as she pulled up her blue sundress and pushed down the waistband of her black panties for him. For him yes, but mostly for her.

  And she moaned without shame as the sun beat down on her bare thighs through the windscreen, whimpered without blame as her king’s long fingers curled up inside his queen’s cunt, and called out his name as she came, came hard, came clean, came like a queen.

  28

  “What if he takes a queen,” said Goatbeard, almost to himself, his voice barely registering on the tired Longbeard, who had been about to say they should call it a night and pick it up in the morning.

  The Regents Committee had been called into session after the fatwa had been written the previous day, and the meeting had been a stressful, shameful one for the four bearded ones. The truth about their shame had to be revealed to the twelve other Regents, though thankfully the identities of the women did not need to be disclosed in the fatwa itself.

  It had been over twenty-four hours since the fatwa had been signed off by the Regents and released to the Islamic world. The document had not been translated into English, and the Regents secretary was instructed to refrain from sending it to any publications with a major online presence. So the fatwa would appear in Arabic text only, printed on real paper in just three conservative Islamic weeklies with circulation limited to just Saudi Arabia and a few of the more conservative kingdoms in the region.

  The Regents wanted the word to spread very slowly. The Sheikh was not in hiding, and he could be easily found in America. They did not want every madman with a gun taking a shot at him and then converting to Islam to collect the bounty—the amount of which was not disclosed, in the hope that it would further limit the number of takers. Yes, the Regents wanted it done quietly while maintaining their separation from the deed. No hired assassins or anything like that. Plausible deniability. The fatwa did not even explicitly mention that Zaal needed to be killed—simply that it was the duty of any Muslim so inclined to make the exiled Sheikh answer for his violation of Quranic scripture. The Sheikh had violated Allah’s laws by touching another man’s woman, and the violation had been committed four times. Simple and concise. Easily interpreted by someone who was in the fatwa-bounty business, while giving the Regents room to maneuver in case the CIA came knocking.

  Of course, the CIA would not come knocking. Longbeard had made sure the fatwa got leaked to a known CIA informant in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Hopefully that would make any CIA contact of Zaal’s hesitant to even offer protection, let alone try to retaliate once the Sheikh had been made to answer for his violations. This would be clean, Longbeard had told the four head Regents triumphantly. Clean.

  “Queen?” Longbeard repeated, rubbing his bleary eyes and blinking at Goatbeard. They had been catching up on some routine Regents business which had been pushed aside earlier because of the fatwa, and Longbeard was confused at Goatbeard’s question. “What if who takes a queen.”

  “Sheikh Zaal,” said Goatbeard, looking up from his papers. “Zaal may be exiled, but his blood is still royal. Nothing can change that. What if he takes a woman in America. Marries her. Fathers a child. The child would be part of the line of ascendancy. And in fact it could be argued that his wife, the mother of Zaal’s heir, could have a claim to be Sheikha until her son or daughter is old enough to rule! Ya Allah, I have heard of something like this almost happening in the kingdom of Khawas. Sheikh Rizaak married that American bank teller, that hostage from the robbery. It was all over the news. I believe it was their strategy to marry and—”

  “That cannot happen here,” snapped Longbeard. “Our laws are simple, with no loopholes like that. Zaal can marry ten women and father a hundred children, and not one of them will have any claim to even step into the land of Kirwaan, let alone rise to be Sheikh or Sheikha. The Regents are in full control of this, and only the Regents can overturn the order of exile.”

  Goatbeard sighed out loud and leaned back in his chair. “Which will not happen. There is still almost a year before Yusuf will rise and be allowed to replace four Regents. And even if we are shown the door, it will be months before the other seven who supported the exile can be convinced to reverse their votes.”

  “Even that will never happen,” Longbeard said, his eyes lighting up as he leaned back in his camel-leather swivel and tapped his feet on the thick Persian carpet. “The four of us will still have influence even from the shadows. All we would have to do is to make sure one Regent holds his vote. There will never be a sixteen-person majority on this matter. It is over, my brother. Zaal will be in exile forever. He will die in shame, just like we will.”

  Goatbeard shrugged as he touched a copy of the fatwa that was on the broad teakwood table. He dug his nose and flicked the spoils onto the hand-woven carpet. “Inshallah, Zaal’s forever will not last that long. I wonder which servant of Allah will pick up the fatwa order and collect the bounty. Inshallah he arrives soon.”

  “Inshallah,” said Longbeard as he watched his fellow Regent poke his long nose again. “Inshallah he arrives soon.”

  29

  The cowbell hanging at the front door tinkled as Mister Nosering wiped down the handgun counter, making sure he got that pesky grease-stain that had been there since the morning. The day had been busy as fuck, and although that was good, Nosering’s OCD had been acting up as that grease-stain seemed to get bigger every time he saw it.

  He looked up now, raising an eyebrow when he saw that it was the gas-station owner from down the street. Nosering didn’t like the guy much, but he didn’t hate the fucker either. He was decent enough for an immigrant. Kept to himself, was open on Christmas and Thanksgiving, and didn’t smell too bad.

  “About to close, buddy,” Nosering said as he looked down at the counter and realized he had never even bothered to ask this guy’s name after years of buying smokes from him. Whatever. It’s enough that I’m letting him live in my fucking country, yeah? I don’t need to know his goddamn name. I ain’t inviting him over for dinner. What if he asked for curry-powder on his steak? Bang-bang, baby. I’d double-tap his ass and feed him to my dogs!

  “Good,” said the balding brown man, scratching the massive pot-belly that made him look like a tiny version of that elephant-god. Little Indian Elephant-man, Nosering thought with a sneer. “Close the door and lock it,” said the Elephant-man. “And turn off your video cameras please.”

  Nosering tensed up as he straightened to full height and touched the holstered Glock that was in plain view on his thick rawhide belt. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Now Elephant-man’s eyes went wide and he raised both hands. “Ya Allah! Do you think I am a madman?”

  “Don’t know, and don’t care,” said Nosering, stepping around the counter, hand still on his Glock. “And you spout that jeehadi crap in here and I’ll fucking—”

  Elephant-man smiled nervously, hands out to his sides, everything in plain view, no sudden moves. “That only means My God! Come on! You know me!”

  “Didn’t know you was a Moslem,” said Nosering, relaxing a bit when he realized that this guy clearly wasn’t here to rob the cash register in a fucking gun store. �
��Thought you was Indian.”

  “I am from Pakistan, though India has millions of Muslims, and so being Indian and Muslim are not mutually exclusive,” said Elephant-man with an annoying earnestness that made Nosering want to either shoot this guy or shoot himself. Maybe both.

  “All right. Whatever, man. What’s your business?”

  “Business. Exactly! That is exactly my business! Business!”

  Nosering sighed and folded his arms over his broad chest, flexing his heavy shoulder muscles under that stretched black t-shirt. He watched as Elephant-man slowly pulled out a large Samsung phone with greasy fingerprints all over the screen.

  “Can you read this?” he said, holding up the phone.

  Nosering squinted at the Arabic letters on the screen. It appeared to be a photograph of a small article in some newspaper that someone had sent via text-message. He shrugged and shook his head, tapping the thick heel of his steel-toed military boot on the thin carpet that probably needed to be vacuumed one more time. “Nope,” he said.

  “Exactly,” said Elephant-man. “Which is why we are perfect business partners. A match made in heaven! I am a Muslim, but also a man of peace. You are not a Muslim, but . . .” He glanced at Nosering’s black clothes and military boots, now looking around at the weapons of minor destruction that surrounded them, shrugging and raising his eyebrows for a moment. “Well, what I mean is that we are both hardworking small-business owners, and I think I have an opportunity that will afford us both an early retirement. And we will not have to worry about social security and Medicare. Come, turn off your cameras and let me tell you something about the wonders of an Islamic fatwa.”

  30

  Zaal stared at his computer screen as he opened the attachment that had come through on his email from an address he did not recognize. There was no subject line, and the only text was three words: “No more favors.”

  Benson, the Sheikh realized when he opened the attachment and saw the Arabic document. He read it quickly, his heartrate doubling as he felt sick, wanted to throw up, now wanted to smash something, smash everything!

  Ya Allah, so that uneasiness I felt when talking to the bearded ones was justified. This had nothing to do with politics or ascendancy or the throne or the future direction of Kirwaan. There were no such grand, sweeping forces at play here. The only thing at play was the oldest game in the book: revenge.

  Avenging an insult. Avenging a slight. By God, he knew he was treading on dangerous ground when he advanced on Goatbeard’s wife on the night of the new moon festival, when the city was occupied with the camel races and the goat-meat kebabs. Then Longbeard’s junior wife, the woman young enough to be the man’s daughter, though already an old maid at thirty-four, with three children and those sad gray eyes. Redbeard’s wife was feisty, coming on to him during the fasting season, perhaps the lightheadedness of the fast making her heat rise and giving her a boldness that Zaal had been more than happy to reward. And then Baldbeard’s first wife, his senior wife, the mother of his three sons. That was when Zaal knew he was perhaps crossing a line. The woman was quiet and reserved, but her eyes had beckoned to him like she knew . . . like she knew about the other wives, like perhaps those women had talked and shared stories, shared secrets, secrets that Zaal never revealed but did not ask the same of the women. After all, he did not own them—not past the brief moments when he possessed them, anyway. Perhaps they had broken their silence in a moment of lashing out at their husbands. Who knew. The point was that everyone knew now.

  He forced away the manic smile as he paced the empty house, which seemed big and lonely now that Fran had headed back to her clinic to catch up on her work. He had to admit that the four head Regents were indeed shrewd, wily, sly, dangerous. Dangerous, because when you strike at a man’s very core, at the baseline of his ego, challenging his very manhood by making his woman yield, by making her sigh, making her call another man’s name as she comes in his arms . . . yes, that is oldest motive for murder, is it not?

  Zaal swallowed hard as he stood in the center of the open floor, windows all around, lights blazing on him. The sun had just set, and the sky was dark red, those trees that had seemed like protective cover when he was with Fran now swaying like warning flags, like they were pointing their leafy fingers at him, the exiled king standing defenseless in the crosshairs of fate, a victim of his own weakness.

  Ya Allah, not only is my name on the public record for buying this expensive house, but I am also listed in the telephone book! Someone can drive up and put three bullets in my royal arse, take a photograph, and collect the bounty!

  Well, not just anyone, he thought as he paced the room, feeling like that caged leopard once more. Only a Muslim can collect the bounty. So at least that narrows it down. And from the way the fatwa is written, it is clear that the Regents want to maintain some separation: No mention of death or killing, and just an implication of a reward—no amount specified.

  It did not show up in Internet searches for his name—Zaal would have seen it—and so the Regents must have only put it out in a few Arabic publications in the region. Enough to reach the most serious of Islamic fatwa-hunters without starting a made-for-TV free-for-all in the middle of Vermont. The Regents were probably hoping the deed would be done quick, taking Zaal by surprise even, just another murder in the land of guns and violence. Case closed.

  Yes, the Regents were smart, almost genius. The rape charge was technically correct by the caveman-era laws that a wife’s body is her husband’s property and so she is unable to give consent. The rape charge also made it unnecessary to publicly list the names of the women—which would have been required if the charge was adultery. Most important, though—and this was the part that made Zaal’s toes curl up, made him walk to that long row of windows and begin to pull down the shades one by one, speeding up as the paranoia rose and rose before he managed to get a hold of himself . . . yes, most importantly, the true genius of this fatwa was neatly summarized in John Benson’s note:

  No more favors. No more CIA. You are on your own, great Sheikh.

  Zaal pulled the last shade closed and stood in the center of the room, slowly turning round and round as his thoughts raced. Gradually he pulled himself together, controlled the rising panic, swallowing hard as that calmness oozed back in, the calmness of a general who must make decisions under duress, the composure of a battle-king deciding whether to advance or retreat, to head into the fray or step back into the shadows and wait for his moment.

  It took less than a moment to realize that at least in the short-term he needed to retreat. Police protection was not a particularly useful option. They would send a black-and-white to sit in his driveway? And for how long? A week? A month? Forever? To protect a Muslim billionaire immigrant who had been accused of rape? No, he was on his own. He needed to hide. Ya Allah, he was a sitting duck out here! Miles from the nearest neighbor! They wouldn’t even find his body except by accident! He could not stay here. It was time to run, become a true exile, a real fugitive, the condemned man who was once king.

  And what of his queen? She was in no danger. In fact, she would only be in danger if she was by his side. The only way Fran would get hurt was if she got caught in the crossfire.

  So do I say goodbye? he wondered as he walked to his closet and looked at those custom-made shoes all lined up in neat rows. All three-hundred pairs.

  What if she wants to run with me? We have been inseparable the last few days, and the bond cannot be denied. But it has only been a few days. We are still strangers, are we not? I may have to run for weeks, months, years! Perhaps forever! She will forget about me in time. She will forget about us eventually. These days will stay a happy memory, and perhaps that is how it was meant to be. After all, sooner or later the fantasy has to end, does it not?

  He frowned at those rows of shoes as he wondered if he should even call her, if it was perhaps best if she thought he had taken off, disappeared into the woods, run back to his desert in the east. After all,
what would he say if he called her? Goodbye and I shall send you a postcard, my love? There was no expiration date on a fatwa. Even that writer Salman Rushdie hid like a rat for eleven years—and technically his fatwa was still active.

  No, better to walk away without a word, leave the memory of our pretend-love as it is, let the dream stay unbroken, the fantasy always real in our minds. Perhaps we will meet again in this life. And if not we will laugh about it together in the eternal bliss of the next life.

  The next life, he thought again as now from the back porch came a noise, soft and subtle, the sound of metal on wood. The Sheikh tensed up and straightened his back, every fiber going on alert as he stepped away from his shoe-closet and crouched by the bed, silent like a leopard in the night, his blood pumping but his core staying cool, the warrior in him coming to the forefront like ancient wisdom that can never be forgotten.

  Now he heard the back door creak open, and he felt that beast inside him come to life, a deep, silent rumble discernible in his chest as he closed his eyes and listened for the right moment.

  A shadow fell over the bed, and the Sheikh thought he could actually smell the man, perhaps even taste his presence, every sense in the Sheikh coming alive and making him feel in control, like he was invincible, not just a king but a damned god, the God of War himself, the warrior spirit of the Prophet Mohammed by his side, Apollo and Mars watching with interest from Mount Olympus, Athena the Goddess of War whispering in his ear that she was near, her owl emissary sending her blessings.

  Now Zaal swore he heard an owl screech in the distance, the owl of Athena, and he could feel that sense of vividness emerge, almost like time had slowed and he could rise above it and see what was coming, who was coming.