Ransomed for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 13)

by Annabelle Winters

  That warmth began to take over as she stared into his eyes, and she felt tears rolling down her round cheeks as she nodded absentmindedly and then slowly turned to her father. “I forgive you,” she said softly, not sure why she was saying it, not even sure if she believed it. But the words were coming, and she let them. “I forgive you, dad. But I need to understand what happened. We both need to understand what happened. It’s time, dad. Tell us. What happened? How did I end up back with you in Atlanta? Why did both the queens commit suicide? How did Imraan end up becoming Sheikh? Who the hell hypnotizes two children into forgetting their childhood?”

  Morris took a slow, shuddering breath, looking up at the dark ceiling and then down at the floor as he exhaled. “There was someone else involved. Another man. An American who was in the Middle East around the same time. He was supposedly setting up a consulting business to help American companies work with Middle Eastern governments, but it turned out he was just beginning his career with the CIA. His name was John Benson, and what happened in Wahaad twenty years ago was his first big win. We all made deals back then: I got my daughter back, and Benson became a star in the CIA by getting rid of an oppressive Sheikh and installing his son on the throne.”

  Imraan frowned, his hand going up to his jaw. He rubbed his dark stubble, grimacing as he began to pace. “So Benson had my father and his two queens killed? Faked my father’s accident? Made it look like the Sheikhas killed themselves in a suicide pact? Then he put Maddy and myself through some CIA hypnotism program so we’d forget what happened? And he gets a promotion and we all live happily ever after.” He nodded, folding his arms across his broad chest and exhaling. “Perhaps I should begin to torture you to see how much more ridiculous your lies can get, old man.”

  Morris snorted. “I like that line: We all live happily ever after,” he said, ignoring the Sheikh’s threat and shaking his head. “You have no idea, Imraan. No goddamn idea.”

  25

  Imraan had no idea if Morris was lying or not. The Sheikh was usually good at reading people, and all signs pointed to Morris telling the truth: steady eye contact, no facial tics, no involuntary tapping of the feet, no clenched fists. His breathing was steady, almost like the man was supremely relaxed, even relieved! Was it possible this story was true? Hypnotism? The CIA?

  “Why?” Imraan said. “Why would the CIA even care about the tiny kingdom of Wahaad? We are barely on the map.”

  Morris shrugged. “It was a different map back then, I guess. Or perhaps they were building the damned map. But hey, I’m a goddamn bookie from the streets of Atlanta, not a political genius. All I know is that this guy Benson was there, and he was working on some kind of deal with your father.” He looked at Maddy, his eyes softening for a moment before he glanced down at the floor. “In fact it was Benson who came to me . . .” He hesitated, swallowing hard as his eyes misted up. “Benson came to me with the truth about what was happening, what those sick, twisted people were doing to my daughter. And—”

  “Don’t pretend like you were any better!” Maddy snarled, taking a step closer as the Sheikh tensed up. He saw the way she had been glancing at the dagger in his hand, and knew he needed to stay alert. This woman was as unpredictable as he was—as unpredictable as all of this was. “You walked away. You left me there! You’re worse than they were!”

  “I left, but I came back,” Morris replied, his eyes still hazy with the mist of tears. “And I would have killed them all if I had the chance. Including your mother. Hell, I would have killed her first!”

  Imraan’s jaw tightened and he exhaled hard. “So who did kill them? Some unnamed CIA assassins? Where are their bodies? Burned? Buried?”

  Morris shook his head, his eyes narrowing as he glanced up at the Sheikh. “Benson was just starting out with the CIA back then. He didn’t have the authority or the influence to order hits and cover-ups—especially not on a Sheikh and his queens! He was a finesses guy, a dealmaker. And he made a deal. With all of us.”

  “What are you saying?” Imraan said, his breath catching in his throat.

  “It’s not what I’m saying,” Morris whispered, his eyes lighting up for a moment almost like he was enjoying this. “It’s what I didn’t say. I never said they were dead, Imraan.”

  The Sheikh blinked as he processed it all, and one look at Maddy told him she was stunned as well. He watched her expression slowly harden, her throat move as she swallowed hard. He could feel what she was feeling, almost like he could read her mind, sense her emotions. She wasn’t just shocked. She was exhilarated, thrilled, almost drunk with a sudden feeling of twisted joy.

  Because if the old Sheikh and his wives were alive, it meant that they could be killed.

  Imraan almost choked as he felt a maddening need for revenge send sparks through his body, and he glanced over at Maddy and saw the way she was looking at him, the corner of her full lips twisted into a smile. Ya Allah, they didn’t share any blood, but they shared something deeper, something darker, a common beginning that had turned them into the twisted people they were. She was fantasizing about the same thing he was, wasn’t she?

  “Where?” said the Sheikh. Just one word. “Where?!”

  Morris closed his eyes and shook his head. “Somewhere in Europe. Benson never told me. That was the foundation of the deal. He let them move millions of dollars to anonymous Swiss bank accounts and then disappear. A fake plane crash for your father. Suicide for the queens. The orphan son gets the throne. And the daughter . . . well, it was like she never existed. Everyone goes their separate ways. No one talks. No one remembers anything.”

  “Why?” Maddy said. “Why would this guy do all of that? And how? How could he convince the old Sheikh and his wives to give up their kingdom and go into exile for the rest of their lives? What did he have on them?”

  Morris shrugged. “Nobody told me shit. This is all I know.” Then he looked up at the Sheikh. “But you can ask your father himself. Maybe Gaurina and Khalifa too, if they’re still with him.”

  “How do I find them?” said the Sheikh.

  Morris glanced over at Maddy and then back at the Sheikh. “Who do you think kidnapped her to begin with, Imraan? The old man wants her back. I don’t know why, but I can damned well guess. He was a madman then, so there’s a helluva good chance he’s still a fucking lunatic. He knows you have her, and I doubt he’s just going to say to hell with it and give up now.”

  The Sheikh frowned, turning away from Morris and beginning to pace. What was Morris suggesting? That Imraan use Maddy as bait? Let his father kidnap her once again, this time from the Royal Palace of Wahaad, so they could follow the trail back to Europe or wherever? But Imraan had sworn to protect Maddy. Could he possibly risk losing her just for revenge?

  “It’s not just revenge,” came her voice from behind him, and the moment he turned he knew what he’d see in her eyes: determination, strength, and madness. Pure madness. “It’s justice. They don’t deserve to live happily ever after, and we’ll never be able to live in peace if we don’t finish this. This is our story, Imraan. This is our path, and we have to walk it to the end. I’ll do it. I’m going to do it. They'll come for me here, and I'm going to let them take me.”

  “No, Maddy,” he said, shaking his head even though his blood was rising along with hers. “The risk is too great. What if I lose the trail?”

  “Simple. Don’t lose the trail,” she said, taking a step towards him, her smile challenging him.

  “What if I cannot get you out in time?” the Sheikh said, his own smile coming in strong as he felt her madness infecting him.

  “I survived those monsters once. I’ll survive them again. Just try not to take twenty years to find me this time, though.”

  The Sheikh blinked as he looked at his stepsister—really looked at her. Ya Allah, she is mine, came the thought again. Mine and mine alone. And she is right: this is our story, our jour
ney, our happily ever after. And the path to light sometimes goes through darkness, the journey through peace sometimes winds its way through violence.

  Slowly Imraan nodded his head, his mind racing as he wondered how long it would be before his father’s men made their way past his palace walls. He’d never worried about security too much: Wahaad was wealthy, peaceful, and mostly crime-free. The Sheikh had stayed away from controversy both within his borders and outside them. There were two armed guards at the front gate, but they were mostly for show. Imraan was almost certain they’d never fired their weapons in all his time as Sheikh. As for security within the Palace . . . ya Allah, it barely existed beyond the smiling attendants, most of whom wouldn’t know how to fight their way out of a paper bag!

  He blinked as he looked at Maddy again, and then slowly he nodded. “All right,” he said softly, his words catching in his throat when he realized that he felt real fear in that moment. She matters, he thought, not sure if he felt panic or joy. By God, she matters!

  He took a breath and then turned towards Morris, glancing at his chaffed wrists and bound ankles. “I’ll untie you,” he said quietly, taking a step towards the seated old man. But just as he got close he felt the movement of air, and he turned just in time to see the door flung open as men with black head-scarves carrying silenced handguns stormed in.

  The man leading the charge put two bullets into old man Morris’s chest before the Sheikh had a chance to even breathe, and before he could throw a punch he was surrounded and told to get down on his knees.

  “Khadhha. Takhudh ealaa hadin sawa,” said the leader of the invading group, nodding at his men as they grabbed Maddy and tied her wrists as she stared in shock at her father taking his last breath before his head slumped down and he hung limp, still bound to the chair. The masked leader looked back at Imraan and gestured towards the door with his gun. “Your father would like to see both of you at your earliest convenience. This way, please.”

  26

  “Please. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  The voice sent a chill down Maddy’s spine, and she felt every fiber in her body tense up as she forced herself to look upon the man who’d stolen her childhood from her, the man who’d now stolen her father from her . . . the man who was going to die by her hand, if it was the last thing she did.

  She sensed Imraan tense up as well as he stood beside her in the sparsely furnished great room of the old French house where they’d been brought. Those armed guards had never left them alone, and their guns had always been drawn, always pointed at both Imraan and Maddy. There had never been a chance at escape during the flight from Wahaad to the private terminal in Paris on an unmarked jet; but then again, escape wasn’t the plan.

  Imraan stayed quiet beside her, his green eyes unblinking and focused, riveted on his father’s wrinkled old face. They shared those green eyes, but almost nothing else, Maddy thought as she glanced at father and son. Perhaps genetics was not destiny after all. She hoped to God it wasn’t, because she and Imraan were going to have to trust each other—especially since they’d never had a chance to talk about what they were going to do here.

  “We are comfortable,” Imraan said coolly, replying for the both of them, taking a step toward his father as every gunman in the room trained his weapon on the young Sheikh. “How do you feel, Father? Comfortable as well?” He glanced around the room. “You certainly look comfortable. It is not the Royal Palace of Wahaad, but it seems spacious. The electricity bill is probably a bit lower, yes?”

  The old Sheikh snorted, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at his son. He still had not even looked at Maddy, she realized, and that sent another chill down her spine for some reason.

  “Ah, Imraan. You always were quick with the wit,” he said, snorting again as he shook his head. “Perhaps that is why your stepmother enjoyed your company so much.”

  Imraan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. “That is not the reason she enjoyed my company so much,” he said without hesitation.

  Maddy frowned as she glanced over at Imraan, wondering what game he was playing—if he was playing a game at all. Was he trying to get a rise out of the old Sheikh? Was he trying to stand up to his father? Or was he simply saying what came to his mind, improvising, winging it, finding his way through the darkness of his memories as she stood by his side, both of them facing the monster who’d created them—or at least one of the monsters.

  The old Sheikh grunted, his eyes shining dark green as he nodded as if to acknowledge that perhaps his son had grown into a worthy adversary. “So you remember,” he said softly. “Good. Perhaps you will get a chance to remind the Begum Gaurina of her youth before this is all over.” Then he took a breath, and for the first time he trained his eyes on Maddy. “Just as I will get a chance to remember my own days of youth and power. Yes, my sweet Madeline?” He smiled, showing those all-too-familiar yellowed teeth that made Maddy’s blood run cold. “Do you know it was I who named you? And legend has it that naming a thing gives one power over it. Power forever.”

  “I go by Maddy, not Madeline. And I am not a thing,” she said, surprised at how steady her voice sounded even though her insides were churning like storm waters. “As for power . . . well, let’s see what you got, old man.”

  She could tell that Imraan turned to her when she spoke, but she kept her eyes trained on the old Sheikh. She wasn’t sure what game she was playing either. It was clear what the old man wanted, and it was equally apparent—given the number of armed men in the room—that the end result was going to be a bullet in her head if she tried anything stupid. So her only chance was to get him alone, to see if she could get him to make the mistake of stepping into a room alone with her. Perhaps he still thought of her as that powerless little girl. Maybe he didn’t notice that her legs and arms were strong, her back straight and tight, her knuckles bruised and healed over so many times it was impossible to count. Maybe, like so many delusional men, he overestimated his strength and underestimated hers. Maybe, just maybe . . .

  “You remember all of it, do you not, sweet Madeline?” he said, the focus of his eyes making her shiver so hard she wasn’t certain she could do this. He grinned, glancing at Imraan and then back at her. “I am glad. I wanted that to be part of the deal I made with Benson, but he refused, the soft-hearted fool. I wanted you to remember me. All of me. Every inch.”

  Maddy almost leaped across the room, teeth bared and claws drawn, but the steady gaze of Imraan made her hold her ground. They were a team, she realized, suddenly hyper-aware of her stepbrother looking at her as she fought her feelings, wrestled her memories, did her damned best to stay in the game.

  She took a breath and composed herself, tossing her long brown hair over her bruised shoulders and glancing up at the mad old Sheikh. “Well, I barely remember anything. It was so long ago. And so . . . inconsequential.” She swallowed hard when she saw the old Sheikh flinch. She’d have to keep pushing. She could break him, she knew. Break him without touching him. Then . . . then she’d get her chance to touch him. Her way, not his. Break him her way, not his. “Not to mention that I’ve had so much better since then,” she said, throwing her head back and smiling, glancing over at Imraan, fluttering her eyelids and looking back at the old Sheikh. “Let’s just say that the son has exceeded the father on at least one measure.”

  She could see the color rush to the old Sheikh’s dark face, and she knew she’d gotten to him. If there was any reason and common sense dictating the old Sheikh’s actions, they’d been pushed to the background as his anger rose, his wounded pride took over, his delusions of grandeur mixing with his illusions of power, making his ego grasp at the chance to prove himself once again.

  Her vision clouded over when she saw him step forward and grab her by the hair, but she stood her ground and held her fists close to her body. She saw the armed guards tense up, one of them call out something in Arabic to the old Sheikh. Bu
t the old king was beyond reason, and he shouted at his guards in Arabic as he pulled her towards the back rooms of the old French house.

  “No,” she whispered, but this time she wasn’t talking to the old Sheikh but to his son, to her protector. She’d seen Imraan’s face contort in anger, his eyes glaze over with rage. “No,” she whispered urgently to him as she let herself be led away from the group.

  Maddy glanced at the armed guards and then back at Imraan, trying to tell him with her eyes that he needed to do his part. He needed to get out of that room as well, away from the sights of ten men with guns. She couldn’t do a thing to the old Sheikh knowing that Imraan was at the mercy of his guards! Oh, God, would he understand? Would he understand what he needed to do while she was doing what she needed to do?!

  And just as she was pulled out of sight of Imraan, she saw his face go calm, his eyes narrow, his jaw tighten. There was the slightest nod in his head, and a long, slow blink as if to say good luck, God bless, and I love you.

  Then she heard his voice just as he disappeared from view:

  “Where are you?” came Imraan’s voice, loud and clear. “Where are you, Gaurina? Where are you, my beautiful stepmother?”

  27

  She stepped out from behind a curtain as if it had been planned, as if this were all a stage and she was the lead actress. She’d aged, but her presence still made Imraan’s breath catch as those memories of her emerged so strong he found it hard to breathe.

  He blinked as images of her naked breasts came rushing to him, her dark red nipples pushed into his teenage face as she stroked his young, hard cock. Ya Allah, he thought as he felt himself stiffen even at the sight of her now, twenty years later. I am beyond repair, am I not? I hate her but I want her! I love the daughter but I still want to push my cock into the mother! What special kind of hell will I burn in when it is my time?! The same hell my father is destined for?!