“Who was your mother?” the Sheikh asked, blinking in confusion as he felt that wall in his psyche shake, knowing that just by asking the question he might be taking the bait, getting drawn into a negotiation, letting this woman get inside his head. After all, he knew nothing about her, did he? Nothing about how she’d handled herself both physically and mentally in the criminal underworld of Atlanta for the past two decades. She must be in her late twenties, not yet thirty, but she had scars on her forearms and knuckles, faint lines on her forehead and around her eyes . . . eyes that had a startling depth behind them. This was not some sheltered child of a rich American gangster. This was a woman who wasn’t going to back down, who wasn’t going to break—not easily, at least.
“I never knew her,” Maddy replied, her eyes still locked in on his. “All I know is that she died shortly after I was born. Because of your father.”
“Because of my father, or at the hands of my father?” the Sheikh said, smiling as he felt the calm return to him. “Earlier you said my father killed your mother. So which one is it? Did she die because of my father, or did my father actually murder her? Pick a lie and stick with it, little girl.”
Maddy snorted, crashing her open palms against the cage with such force the Sheikh almost backed up in reflex. “Why don’t you unlock this cage and then call me a little girl, you fucking coward?”
Imraan leaned in, his green eyes narrowed. “This cage is for your protection, not mine, little girl,” he whispered. “Soon you will find that the best part of your day is when I throw you back in your cage to lick your wounds.”
She blinked, and the Sheikh could see the color drain from her face for a moment. But she didn’t break the eye contact, and Imraan cocked his head and swallowed hard. “That scared you, did it not?” he whispered in that same tone. “But there is a part of you that likes fear, is there not? You recognize its power, yes? You relish its power, do you not?”
Maddy took a step back, blinking again. Score one for me, the Sheikh thought as he felt his jaw tighten even as he sensed a stiffening in his pants.
“And you relish your power, don’t you? Though your power is only in your swollen head,” she spat. “Unlock this cage, and you’ll find out how little power you actually have when it’s just the two of us.”
Imraan’s face twisted into a half-smile, and he stepped back, folding his arms over his chest and looking her up and down. She wore faded black jeans that hugged her wide hips and showed off the rounds of her ass, the contours of her thick thighs and heavy calf muscles. Her blue top was equally faded, and as she straightened her back he caught the outline of her nipples pressed against the cloth, pushing it out to where he could tell they were large and round, pert and erect. Was she aroused right now? Her round face was flush with color, her eyes locked onto his. The Sheikh knew there was a fine line between sex and violence, and he could sense that this woman had walked that line before—though he could not be sure which side of it she preferred.
“You did not answer my question,” he said softly, slowing his breathing as he felt the need to take control of the pace of what was happening here. Never fight your enemy the way she wants to fight you, were the immortal words of Sun Tzu in the Art of War. That is what this woman is doing, is she not? Trying to draw you onto a battlefield where she thinks she has the advantage. Perhaps she believes you will hesitate to use force against her. Perhaps she believes she can seduce you. Perhaps she believes she can straight-up defeat you in a fight! Certainly those scars on her arms and fists show that this little girl never stopped fighting, and clearly she has won more often than she has lost. Besides, old man Morris’s “clients” would certainly not be above using their fists against a woman. Had this woman taken hits before? Did she relish the pain as much as she relished the fear? Had she learned the dark art of harnessing the power of pain along with fear?
Only one way to find out, thought the Sheikh as he glanced at the titanium lock on the cage. Only one way to find out.
“Four, three, nine, six,” he said, feeling a tremor go through his body, every muscle tightening and releasing even as he felt that inexplicable arousal get stronger. He could feel himself going to that dangerous place where violence and sex merged into one, that dark place which had beckoned to him in the past, was calling to him once again.
“What?” she said, frowning before following his gaze to the lock and its combination keypad. She blinked, and then she reached between the bars for the lock.
“Think very carefully before you make that choice, little girl,” said the Sheikh, his eyes focused on hers as he slowly took off his heavy jeweled ring and placed it aside. “There is no one here but us. You step out of that cage, and I cannot guarantee you will be the same woman when I put you back in there.”
Maddy snorted as she pressed the first number. “It’s gonna be you in that cage when we’re finished here,” she said, a half-smile showing on her tight round face, a glint of madness flashing in her brown eyes. She glanced up at him, hitting the last three numbers in rapid succession, like she had made her choice and didn’t want to second-guess herself, didn’t want to give in to the fear the Sheikh could see in the depths of her eyes. “And I can guarantee that.”
And then the gate sprung open and she was on him, fists flying, teeth bared, an animal through and through, wild and primal, full of fire, red with rage.
The Sheikh caught her in mid air, one hand grabbing her throat, the other slapping against her buttocks and pulling her into him to take away the momentum of her blows. He twisted her around as she gasped for air, slamming her against the wall and trying to pin her there with his body.
She hit him in the face as he did it, her knuckles getting him on the lower lip as he roared in pain. He could taste the fresh blood, metallic and warm, and he roared again as he tightened his grip on her throat. She laughed and spat at him even as she gagged, and finally the Sheikh released his chokehold just enough to let her breathe.
Then, as he felt his head spin from the blow he’d taken, as the adrenaline coursed through his veins, as this woman laughed, spat, cursed, and thrashed all at the same time, he licked the blood off his lips, smiled, and damned well kissed her. Hard, with authority, slamming his lips against hers, forcing his tongue into her mouth until she opened up and let him in, he kissed her.
By God, he kissed her.
5
She would have bitten off his tongue, but the force with which he slammed his lips against hers made her gasp and open wide for him. And then the arousal ripped through her, and before she understood what was happening she was kissing him back, spreading her legs as she felt him grind against her crotch, his heavy frame still pinning her against the wall of the plane’s hold.
No, she thought. Absolutely not. And she grabbed his thick black hair from behind and yanked as hard as she could even as she tasted his blood in her mouth, the aroma somehow taking her to a place that scared her as much as it aroused her.
She pulled his hair again, and then jerked her head back and quickly forward, slamming her forehead into his nose. The man yelled in surprise and pulled back, and then Maddy went wild, hitting him in the chest and abdomen, landing uppercuts to his chin as the heavy man staggered back, raising his muscular arms in a boxer’s defensive stance as she pummeled and punched.
She knew her blows to his body were having no effect. The man was all muscle, hard and lean, thick and immovable. He stayed in his defensive stance, weaving and dodging her blows as best he could, his arms coiled tight. But he didn’t strike back, even though Maddy knew she was opening herself up and giving him clear shots to her face.
He can end this fight with one clean strike to my chin, she realized when she saw him almost take the shot but then clench his fist and hold back yet again. But at the same time, I can end it by bringing my knee up between his legs. Neither of us are taking that shot. Why not?
Still
Maddy was punching, for a moment feeling like a little girl again, pummeling a heavy bag that barely moved from the impact of her tiny fists. She screamed as that sense of powerlessness rose up, but yet she didn’t take that low shot, just like he was holding back with his fists that were the size of sledgehammers. Then she got him once more on the lip, and finally he roared and grabbed her by the hair, flipping her around and pulling her down to the rough carpet of the plane.
“Enough, little girl,” he snarled in her ear from behind. “Now you will see who is in charge. Here is your first lesson.”
He tightened his grip on her hair, his fingers all the way down by the roots. The pain felt good, and Maddy smiled and screamed at the same time as he pushed her down face-first, raising her bottom and smacking her hard on her rump, again and again until she felt the sting of his slaps even through her jeans and underwear. She felt him slide his fingers between her legs, rubbing her roughly as she gasped in shock at the heat rushing through her, the wetness flowing out of her almost like she’d peed herself.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered, her eyes going wide as she felt him unbutton her jeans from beneath and then pull them down over her ass, spanking her so hard she knew his fingers would leave marks. “Fuck you!”
“Silence,” he commanded from behind her. “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to, when I allow it.” Then he leaned forward, pulling her head back by her hair and whispering against her cheek: “And do watch your language. I am a king, you know.”
Maddy gasped as she felt his warm breath against her cheek, and she breathed deep of his masculine scent. He was so strong, so big, so in control . . . control that she knew he’d exerted by not striking her when he had the chance, even though she was giving him everything she had. Once more she considered sliding out from under his grasp and punching him in the balls, ending this her way, with this self-proclaimed “king” writhing on the floor. But she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t do it.
Still, Maddy wasn’t going to just nod her head and submit either. “America is a democracy, last time I checked, you Neanderthal. My ancestors died on a battlefield so they wouldn’t have to listen to some king.”
“Ah,” said the man from behind, still holding her hair, his hardness pronounced against her raised bottom, those black jeans of hers still pulled halfway down her thighs, nothing but her panties separating his body from hers. “So now this is a battlefield and you are fighting for American freedom?”
“Something like that,” she muttered, almost laughing. But then she gasped again as she felt his right hand slip between her buttcheeks from behind, his thick fingers running down along her crack, carefully sliding her panties down with their motion until she could feel the cool, dry air against her naked skin. Slowly he released her hair from his viselike grip, pushing her down flat on her stomach. She complied, not sure why she wasn’t fighting. Perhaps it was the sudden change of pace, the unexpected lighthearted joke, the way he was caressing her smooth ass with his big hands, spreading her rear cheeks and rubbing her crack with his thumb and forefinger in a way that made her want to moan out loud.
He smacked her ass again, gently this time, then harder, three times on each cheek until she could feel her buttocks shudder and shake. She knew he was hard as a rock behind her, and her breath caught as she wondered what he was going to do, where he was going to do it, how hard, how deep, how long.
Oh, God, I’m aroused as hell, she realized, and just admitting it made a fresh wave of wetness ooze from her exposed pussy until she could feel the slickness dripping down her thighs. She was flat on her stomach, jeans down past her knees, panties down over her ass, wetness flowing between her legs. This was arousal like she hadn’t experienced in years, if ever. Her fists still hurt from hammering at his rock-hard body. Her buttocks still stung from his merciless slaps. She felt herself smile again when she thought about how she’d made him bleed, how she’d chosen not to kick him in the damn balls. It made her believe that she hadn’t broken, hadn’t given in, hadn’t submitted. It made her believe that they were even, that whatever happened now was all right, was OK, was in her control.
Her smile widened as the man pulled her jeans all the way off, then slid her damp panties down past her ankles. Now she was naked from the waist down, exposed and vulnerable, wet and ready. She moaned as she prepared to turn, to spread her legs, to show him his prize, what he’d won by surviving one round in battle with her.
“Lesson number one,” he whispered from behind her, leaning forward and pressing his weight down on her from behind even as his hand slipped between her legs, his fingers resting on the lips of her wet vagina but stopping there. “I am in control. I say when, how, why, and for how long.” Then suddenly he was off her, and as she shrieked in surprise he grabbed her by the hair, pulled her to her feet, and before she knew what was happening he’d pushed her back into her cage and slammed the gate shut.
She stared at him in shock, the arousal turning to hatred so fast she almost fainted. She slammed her palms against the bars, but he’d already snapped the lock back on. She desperately punched the numbers to the combination, but the electronic lock simply beeped and flashed red.
“What the hell,” she muttered, punching the numbers again, sure she was remembering them right even in her rage.
“The lock has a memory of several different combinations,” the man said nonchalantly. “It cycles through the combinations. Very smart system, don’t you think?”
Maddy spat at him again, reaching through the bars as she tried to grab at least her jeans if not her panties. But the man pulled the clothes out of reach, shaking his head as he smiled and folded her jeans. Then he placed her panties on top of her jeans and took a breath.
“My name is Imraan, Sheikh of the Kingdom of Wahaad,” he said quietly as he tucked her jeans and panties under his arm and stood to full height.
“Whoop-dee-doo,” said Maddy, gritting her teeth and sitting down, drawing her legs up into her body to cover herself. She wanted to kill him, pure and simple. She wanted him dead. “How nice for you, you goddamn freak.”
The man smiled, his green eyes narrowing. He swallowed hard, his eyes closing as if he was in sudden pain. He rubbed his head, and when he opened his eyes again he looked like a different person. His eyes were unfocused, like he was in a trance. He blinked again and snapped back into focus, a look of shock passing across his handsome face, as if he’d remembered something . . . something he’d always known. “Actually it is you who are the freak, as you call it. A child of sin. The worst sin of all.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Maddy said, drawing her legs closer to her as she felt those old memories tugging at her insides.
The Sheikh rubbed his eyes, that look of shock even more pronounced on his face. He swallowed hard and smiled, but Maddy could tell he was doing his best to appear composed. Something was going on in this man’s head. He was remembering things, she could tell. Things that perhaps he didn’t know he knew. “Humiliation,” he said quietly. “I have to destroy your father the way he destroyed my father and mother, humiliate your family the way you humiliated mine.”
Maddy stared at the Sheikh. “I barely remember you at all. How could I have humiliated you when I could barely walk?”
“Your birth itself was a slap in the face to the Royal Family of Wahaad,” said Imraan. “Your very existence destroyed the legitimacy of the House of Wahaad. Lowered my father’s omnipotence in the eyes of his people. Brought about the suicide of my mother.” He paused for a moment, his jaw tightening, those eyes narrowed to slits that shone green in the dim yellow light. “And the suicide of your own mother.”
Maddy almost passed out as images and flashbacks screamed through her frazzled mind. But none of them made any sense. None of what this maniac was saying made any sense. And none of what she was feeling made any sense.
“You . . . you knew my mother?” she stamme
red.
The Sheikh smiled, shaking his head slowly. “The old bastard never told you any of it, did he? Never told you what he did. Never told you who you are.” The smile faded, and again the Sheikh rubbed the back of his head, his eyes losing focus for a moment.
It was all Maddy could do to slowly shake her head. “No,” she whispered, pulling her naked thighs so tight against her body she could barely breathe. “He just told me that something happened when we were in the Middle East on holiday. Some mix-up with local customs, and my mother was . . .”
“Your mother was what? Put to death by my father?”
Maddy blinked. “I don’t . . . remember. He used to say that when I was young, when he was still drinking. But he’d always clam up when I asked him what he meant, why a Sheikh would have my mother put to death. Then when he stopped drinking, the stories stopped. He never brought it up again.”
The Sheikh took a breath. “Did you ever notice that your skin tone is slightly darker than your father’s?” he said after a pause. “Your features a bit sharper, your hair a bit blacker?”
Maddy glanced at her bare arms and naked legs as if she was looking at herself for the first time. “I suppose. I never even saw a photograph of my mother, so I never thought about the hair or my nose or whatever. And we’re all a bit tanned down south, so I didn’t really think much of that either.”
“Well, perhaps you should have. Though to be fair, your mother was not particularly dark: She was half Arab, half German.” He took a breath. “But she was all Wahaadi. A part of the proud Royal House of Wahaad. A Sheikha of the Royal House, in fact.” He shook his head again, his jaw twisting as he finished what he had to say. “Maddy, you are the bastard child of the second Sheikha of Wahaad, my father’s second wife. A child of infidelity and betrayal. A child whose existence destroyed my family name, humiliated my father, broke my mother, the First Sheikha of Wahaad.”
Maddy blinked in confusion as she stared at this green-eyed monster in front of her, his face twisted with the anger of a little boy consumed by his emotions. “So I’m your . . .” she began to say, swallowing hard. “You mean we’re . . . related?”
Ransomed for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 13) Page 3