Privilege for the Sheikh

by Annabelle Winters

  And here I am, in a room with a woman I do not give a damn about, a woman who never loved me but is here to ask me to marry her. What kind of twisted lives are we all leading where we pass by the people who excite us and end up with those who suck the life from us?

  That is why I hate myself, the Sheikh thought. Because I let that woman pass me by. Because I did not fight for her at the time, did not do what my body and soul wanted me to do. Is that the source of all this? Is that one mistake the reason I am sitting here with Marissa, facing my own past, heading towards a future with a woman who is incapable of loving anyone but herself?

  Where is she now, I wonder, the Sheikh thought as he rubbed his stubble and listened to Marissa talk excitedly about how she wanted to convince her uncle and aunt to name her as the heir to the throne, about how it would make the deal sweeter if she could tell them she was marrying a Middle-Eastern Sheikh, creating an alliance of East and West that would look so good on the news—just like it had in recent past with several Sheikhs marrying American women.

  I invoked Sheikh’s Privilege with that woman, he thought as he absentmindedly nodded while Marissa droned on. And so by the traditions of Johaar, I am in fact bound to follow up on my word, follow up and make sure that the marriage I allowed to take place is indeed successful. Because if it is not . . . if it has failed . . . ya Allah, then by the tradition of Sheikh’s Privilege I am bound to her, am I not?

  By God, I am bound to her, came the thought again as he stared at Marissa even though his thoughts were of someone else, an American librarian whose kiss was still fresh on his lips.

  11

  “It tastes fresh,” Lora said, smacking her lips and handing the strange desert fruit to Carmen, who made a face and shook her head. “Come on. You gotta taste it! They’ll be offended.”

  “They’ll be more offended if I puke all over their food stall,” Carmen snapped. “Seriously, get that away from me. I am not eating a cactus!”

  Lora laughed as she paid the vendor and ate the rest of the cactus-fruit in full view of his smiling brown face. Then she checked to make sure Damascus was safely protected from the sun, sighed and made a face at Carmen, and finally looked at her phone. “We’re due back at the hotel in an hour or we miss the free dinner buffet. Where’s our ride?”

  They looked out past the street vendors of the crowded city market of Johaar, but they couldn’t see their hotel shuttle. They’d confirmed the time with their driver, but clearly something had been lost in translation—or more likely in the hand gestures and head-nodding that supplemented his broken English.

  “I wonder if he was instructed to be late so we wouldn’t make it back in time for the free meal,” Carmen said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, I did eat four platefuls of shrimp from their buffet last night,” Lora said thoughtfully. “So that could be it.”

  Carmen shook her head and laughed. “You’re eating shrimp in the desert. Don’t you think that’s a little risky?”

  “Live a little, Carmen.”

  Carmen laughed again. “Death from a parasite is more likely,” she said. “But speaking of living it up, when are we re-acquainting you with Sheikh Amir?”

  Lora froze, unable to answer or even to look into Carmen’s eyes. Thankfully the white hotel shuttle pulled up just then, and Lora hurried towards it without looking back.

  “That is why we’re here, isn’t it?” came Carmen’s voice from behind her.

  “What are you accusing me of?” Lora said, still not looking at Carmen.

  “God, Lora! I’m not accusing you of anything! I’m just pointing out the obvious. I mean, why else would you drag us halfway around the world to the place you got married? Certainly not to relive the memories of the wedding. Which means you want to relive something else . . . memories of something else.”

  Lora snorted, adjusting her sunglasses and looking down at Damascus, who was wide-eyed and alert as the shuttle made its way through the narrow streets of the old city towards the paved roads of the newer part of Johaar.

  “Which is understandable,” Carmen continued from the seat behind Lora. “You just got cheated on and you’re alone with a son. Naturally you’re thinking back to the last positive experience you had with a man.”

  “I’d hardly call the experience with Sheikh Amir positive,” Lora snapped without turning. Thankfully the shuttle was empty besides an old couple seated all the way up front.

  “We all saw that kiss,” Carmen whispered from behind her. “And it’s that kiss that’s brought you back here. I know it, you know it, and I guarantee the Sheikh knows it. Or he will, when he finds out you’re here.”

  “Well, he won’t find out I’m here,” Lora said firmly.

  “Too late,” was the reply, and it was so smug and self-assured that Lora turned in panic and stared at Carmen.

  “What did you do?” she whispered.

  “Well, I never did send him an invitation to your wedding, so I decided I should send him an invitation to your divorce.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Your divorce party,” Carmen said. “We’re having a celebration for you at the hotel tomorrow night. And I’ve invited Sheikh Amir. Hope you brought a nice dress, hon.”

  12

  “That is not a nice dress,” Carmen said, staring Lora up and down and shaking her head all at the same time. “You’ve got great curves and terrific boobs, and you need to show them off, for heaven’s sakes! You look like you’re wearing one of those green recycling bags!”

  Lora put her hands on her wide hips and took a breath. She’d debated even showing up for this ridiculous divorce party Carmen had planned without telling her. But she couldn’t just hole up in her room, because what if . . . what if . . . what if he actually showed up?!

  “There’s no way he’s going to show up to some three-star hotel’s restaurant,” Lora had told herself an hour earlier as she tried on every dress she’d brought with her. She’d paused on her go-to classic black dress that still hugged her curves well despite the post-pregnancy weight she was carrying. But then she saw that she’d packed that green dress, that shapeless thing she’d worn to the strange meeting when she’d shown up to honor the tradition of Sheikh’s Privilege. She’d picked it up, a perverse sense of guilt mixed with insecurity washing over her as she quickly slipped off the black dress, avoiding looking at her post-pregnancy body in the mirror as she pulled the green monstrosity over her head and let it fall past her curves which felt more like bulges these days.

  “He probably didn’t even get the message,” she muttered at her reflection as she brushed her hair. “And of course, the point remains that there’s no way in hell he’s going to show up. Why would he? Why the hell would he even think about showing up?”

  But as she walked past her mostly empty suitcase, she caught a flash of yellow peeking out at her. Lora frowned as she reached for it, and her heart almost stopped when she realized it was her yellow sundress, that very same sundress she’d worn for the tour of the Royal Palace three years ago. And then she remembered the look in the Sheikh’s green eyes as he’d reached for her, the feel of his hard body as he’d pressed himself against her, the taste of his warm lips when he’d leaned in for that kiss as if he couldn’t control himself.

  Should I, she’d thought as she touched the soft cotton, chills running through her even as the memory of that forbidden kiss made her tingle all over, her heat rising as her breathing quickened. But then she blinked and dropped the dress back in the suitcase, walking over to her son’s crib and carefully lifting him out, cradling him in her arms as she tried to push the memories of the Sheikh away.

  “Look at us,” she whispered. “I’m a single mom in my thirties, with a fat ass and another man’s baby. Look at us. Because no one else will.”

  “Look at you,” came Carmen’s voice through Lora’s melodramatic d
aydream. “You look like you’re wearing one of those green recycling bags.”

  Lora frowned, wondering if Carmen had made the same remark twice or if she was losing track of time, perhaps losing track of reality. “That sounds about right,” Lora muttered, that perverse feeling of who-gives-a-shit coming in strong. “I’m basically a recycled woman, so why shouldn’t I wear a recycling bag.”

  “OK, that’s a terrible joke,” said Carmen, laughing as she took Damascus from Lora’s arms and gestured towards the bar. “And it doesn’t even make sense. Because if you’re recycled, it means you’re starting fresh, becoming something else, becoming someone else. Now go get drunk while we wait for your prince to arrive. This is your divorce party, dammit!”

  Lora closed her eyes and nodded as she let Carmen take her son. She had to admit, Carmen had done a pretty good job filling the small private room of the hotel’s restaurant. She’d made friends with a European tour-group who’d been staying at the hotel, and the little room was filled with Germans and Scandinavians and some Eastern Europeans, most of whom had gotten drunk in their rooms before they’d even arrived at Lora’s “Divorce Party.”

  “He must have been a real arsehole,” whispered a middle-aged Eastern European woman as Lora got to the makeshift bar at the far end of the room. “And a fool as well. Not to mention he cannot be a real man. A real man does not let his woman and child go without a fight. I spit on him. Come. We do a shot of vodka and we spit on him together!”

  Lora laughed and shook her head, shrugging as she waited for the bartender to fill the shot-glasses. She turned to the woman and smiled. “Where are you from?” she asked.

  “Monestonia,” the woman answered. “It is a small kingdom near the Czech Republic. Me and my sister, we come here to see this kingdom of Johaar and the Sheikh Amir. There is rumor he will marry the Princess Marissa and join our kingdoms together. Like a fairytale. Very exciting.”

  Lora blinked as she stared at the woman. She remembered the name Marissa from three years ago. That was the Sheikh’s fiancée—the woman who’d apparently betrayed him. She blinked again as her head spun, a strange feeling of dread creeping into her, starting with her toes and working its way upward.

  She frowned as she turned to the bartender, deciding right then and there that she might as well get drunk out of her mind, because she felt out of her mind already. But the shotglasses were empty, and the bartender was standing frozen, looking past the two women towards the front of the room.

  “Bartender,” Lora snapped. “Our shots, please.”

  The bartender barely looked at her, but when she asked again he blinked twice and shook his head. “Although alcohol is permitted at private gatherings in hotels, we cannot serve it in the presence of the Sheikh,” he said.

  It took a moment for Lora to understand what he was saying, and as the realization hit, she noticed that the room had gone dead silent. Slowly she turned, that feeling of being in a dream washing over her as she sensed his presence before she even saw him.

  But then she saw him, and it was indeed him: green eyes and dark red lips, thick black hair and broad shoulders. She blinked and stared, her knees feeling weak, her heart beating like a drum one moment, almost stopping the next.

  Everything had stopped, including the background music, it seemed. Had there even been background music? Who the hell knew. All Lora knew was that she was shaking and shivering, feeling waves of heat rush through her even as chills snaked up and down her back.

  Breathe, she told herself as she forced her eyes to stay open long enough to look into his. Then their eyes locked, and it was like she knew him even though she didn’t. It was like she loved him even though she couldn’t. It was like everything made sense even though it couldn’t possibly.

  What do I say to him, she thought desperately as the anxiety ripped through her, almost bringing her to tears. Oh, God, what do I even say to him? How do I explain why I’m here in Johaar again? How do I explain it to myself?! What did I expect would happen? Oh, God, what do I say?

  And then she realized she wasn’t going to have to say anything. Because without a word the Sheikh strode across the room like he owned everything and everyone in it, and before she knew what the hell was going on, he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in close.

  Then, as cell-phone cameras flashed all around them like this was the red-carpet of the Cannes Film Festival, he kissed her. By God, he kissed her.

  13

  The moment his lips touched hers the Sheikh knew there was no going back. He hadn’t planned to do it, and a part of him knew it was a mistake, but it was done and now there was no turning back. Perhaps that visit from Marissa had gotten him turned around, and he did not even want to think about the Princess’s rage when she heard about this. But this was happening, and he knew he had to go forward with it, with her, with this woman whom he barely knew but was now bound to him by an ancient tradition that he had invoked on a whim. So as the cameras flashed and the gasps and whispers buzzed to fever-pitch around them, he kissed her again until he felt her push against his chest as she struggled for air.

  “Welcome back,” he whispered, taking in her scent and shuddering as he felt himself overcome with arousal. He looked into her eyes and saw that she was somewhere between mortified and furious, and so he turned his head and addressed his chief attendant.

  “Clear the room,” he commanded. “Everyone out.”

  For a moment he thought he should have his men seize everyone’s phones and delete any photographs or videos of the kiss, but he dismissed the idea. Chances were that the images had already been tweeted and instagrammed and Facebooked, and besides, there was a part of him that wanted the world to know that he’d chosen this woman, chosen her in public, without giving a damn about what people thought or said.

  But he did care about what this woman thought and said, and it was now time to address that. This party was now going to be just the two of them.

  The room was cleared quickly and efficiently, and only as the last few people were ushered out did the Sheikh notice the tall white woman with the child in her arms—the child that looked very much like Lora Langhorne. She has a child, came the thought, and he frowned as the implications of what he’d just done roared through him like a tidal wave.

  “I . . . I can’t believe you just did that,” she stammered, her breath warm against his cheek. “You just kissed me in front of thirty people. They were taking pictures. Oh, God, I can’t even . . . oh, God, what’s happening . . .”

  “I am following through on my commitment,” said the Sheikh, still holding her close like he knew her, like he loved her, like he owned her. “I should have stopped your marriage, and now it is my responsibility. You are my responsibility.”

  “You’re crazy,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This is crazy. You can’t just . . . I mean, I can’t just . . .”

  “I know I can’t, but I have. And now here we are.”

  “I guess so. Here we are,” Lora said, shifting on her feet and tugging at the sides of her dress.

  The Sheikh grinned as he stepped back from her and looked her up and down. “This green dress is growing on me. Did you make it yourself?”

  Lora snorted without meaning to, folding her arms across her body and shaking her head. “Don’t look at me. I’m grotesque,” she said, half-laughing. “And I’m not sure if I’m more insulted at the implication that I look bad in this dress or that my dress-making skills are that bad.”

  The Sheikh paused a moment, raising an eyebrow. “Good point. I will think on it.”

  Amir could feel the tension between them start to rise again, and he took a breath. They had still barely spoken to one another, and the last time was three years earlier. But where to even begin a conversation about what was happening, what had happened, what was going to happen? Why was she even back here, just as her marriage was ending? Was she
hanging on to that kiss from three years ago just like he was? Were their memories of that kiss just overblown and exaggerated because of all that had happened in their individual lives since then? Who knew?

  Ya Allah, we cannot just sit down and talk this out, Amir thought as he reached out and touched her hair without even realizing he was doing it. She flinched at first, but then she looked up into his eyes and stood still as he slowly caressed her smooth cheek. He felt himself stiffen with arousal as he slid his hand to the back of her neck, his fingers sliding into her thick brown hair from behind. He could hear her breathing quicken, see her ample chest rise and fall beneath that green dress, sense her arousal spiraling upwards along with his.

  This conversation began with a kiss, the Sheikh thought as his mind spun and he realized he was not going to be able to hold himself back. And so it has to be continued with a kiss, through touch, through movement. Already his face was close to hers, and he raised his left arm, grazing her breast with the back of his hand, feeling her nipple stiffen as she gasped and shuddered and leaned in closer.

  Then before he knew it he was kissing her again, deep and with everything he had, his left hand firmly grasping her breast as his right hand closed tight around the back of her neck. She tasted sweet, he thought as he pushed his tongue deep into her warm mouth, pinching her nipple as he pressed his erection against her, feeling her open her thighs ever so slightly for him.

  “We should talk about this,” she whispered through her gasps, but the Sheikh shook his head and slid his right hand down along her back, cupping her rear and moving her back against the wall.

  “We are talking about this,” he whispered back. “Just not with words. The time for words will come, but that time is not now.”