CURVES FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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Hey! I hope you enjoy this book! Curves for the Sheikh is the first in my new series of Sheikh Romances featuring curvy ladies and sexy Sheikhs! Flames for the Sheikh is out October 21st, and Hostage for the Sheikh comes out November 5th. Both are available for pre-order right now!
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Copyright © 2016 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
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CURVES FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
Wendy Williams squinted as she looked out through a grease stain that adorned the window of Artie’s Diner. The stain was shaped suspiciously like the pudgy face of the annoying pre-teen who had been darting all over the place, threatening to cause serious accidents involving mozzarella sticks, patty melts, and the diner’s signature sandwich: Artie’s “World Famous Duplex—The WFD,” which was two half-pound burgers, one stuffed with cheddar cheese, the other stuffed with bacon, served with a fried egg, coleslaw, and french fries, all of which were jammed INSIDE the bun. Arturo, the Greek-American owner of Artie’s Diner, came up with the WFD name back in the day when WMDs—Weapons of Mass Destruction—were all over the news. The diner staff, of course, had turned WFD into everything from the sweet “Wisconsin’s Favorite Dish” to the playful “Way to Find Dysentery” to the staff favorite: “Wish I was F-ing Dead.”
But today was shaping up to be mildly interesting in the bland Milwaukee suburb of Whitefish Bay, Wendy thought as she squinted once more and watched the three jet-black limousines pull into the half-empty parking lot.
“Hey, is the president in town?” Wendy asked no one in particular, even though she could smell fried onions and knew that Betty, the short order cook, had left her station and was standing right behind her.
Betty was on her way out for a smoke break, which she always took out front instead of in the back near the garbage cans. Artie didn’t care. This wasn’t the kind of place where the staff were expected to be invisible, even though it felt like they were invisible most of the time.
“Nah,” said Betty, unlit cigarette bobbing from her lips as she spoke. “That ain’t no president’s entourage. See that logo on the cars? That’s a Mercedes, hon. A Benz. Them cars are German, love. The American president don’t drive around in no GERMAN cars! Hell, no.”
Wendy raised an eyebrow and turned to Betty, a half-smile breaking on her round face. “Actually,” she said, recognizing that her voice had moved up one octave to a pitch that her last boyfriend (five years ago now!) had categorized as annoying, “the Chrysler company acquired the Daimler-Benz corporation in a stock-and-cash transaction several years ago, so technically the Mercedes has been an American car for a while now.” Wendy frowned as her memory served up something she had read a few weeks ago when completing an assignment for her part-time business class. “Wait,” she muttered, kind of talking to herself now. “But then Chrysler spun off the Benz division, which went public again, so maybe the Mercedes IS in fact a German—”
“Oh, lord, Wendy. Will you stop? You makin’ me feel stupid now,” Betty said with a head-shake and a look of mock exasperation. “C’mon outside for a smoke.”
“I don’t smoke, remember?” Wendy said. “But it’s slow, so I’ll come outside with you. And for the record, you aren’t stupid, so no one can make you feel stupid.” She followed Betty outside, taking a deep breath of Wisconsin’s clean, early summer air. “No one that works here is stupid.”
Betty snorted and shook her head once again before lighting up and puffing twice. “Listen to you. Saint Wendy. Never a bad thing to say about nobody.”
Wendy showed a tight smile, but stayed silent. Saint Wendy. No one would have called her that a few years ago. She wouldn’t have LET anyone call her that a few years ago! But that was then and this was now. Now she was Wendy Williams, part-time business student at Milwaukee Tech Community College. And, of course, Wendy Williams, full-time waitress at Artie’s Diner.
She was about to make a remark about that kid who was tearing all over the place, but those black German limousines were front and center right now, and this was clearly more interesting.
The first car’s doors opened—ALL the doors at once, as if someone inside had given the order to GO NOW or something—and like in a bad Hollywood movie, four tall, dark men in black suits and mirrored Aviator sunglasses tumbled out, scanning the lot as if searching for terrorists or perhaps a parking space.
“Holy mother of God,” Betty muttered, stifling a laugh as she nudged Wendy. “You seein’ this shit? These guys for real? Where do they think they are—freakin’ Beirut?”
Wendy cracked a smile, but her attention had already shifted from the over-the-top bodyguards to the second car in the caravan. One of the blacksuits had nodded out an all-clear, and the driver of the second car emerged and walked around to the large back door.
Wendy couldn’t see through the thick black tinted windows, and a part of her wanted to roll her eyes and turn her back to the over-the-top show. But she couldn’t help being intrigued. Besides, Betty wasn’t going anywhere before finishing her smoke, and you don’t leave a friend alone when there might be terrorists hiding behind trash cans on the outskirts of Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
“I guess it’s all clear,” Wendy whispered to Betty, who had one hand covering her mouth to stifle her chuckles. “The King of Wisconsin can step out now.”
As if on cue, the blacksuit opened the back door and stepped away, head bowed slightly, as if there really might be a king in the car. The king’s short legs were visible now—designer jeans with carefully crafted rips and tears. Nike Air Jordans that looked way too big. And the stench of Drakkar Noir cologne mixed with Axe Body Spray.
“That don’t look like no king,” Betty said, rolling her eyes before Wendy could get there. “And what is that smell? Jeez!”
“Drakkar Noir,” Wendy said in a matter-of-fact monotone. “Fragrance of choice for teenage studmuffins from the Middle East. Or at least it used to be, ten years ago.”
“Round the same time period as them there Air Jordans,” Betty whispered. “Yeah, he ain’t no King of Jordan. More like Kid Jordan.”
Wendy snorted out a laugh, turning away from the scene to gather herself before turning back. The little king was in full view now, and in the bright sun it was apparent he wasn’t as young as he dressed. Still, Wendy liked the Kid Jordan wisecrack, and she giggled again as she watched him: short and stocky, manicured beard, gigantic sunglasses with gold rims, black hair done in a hideously over-the-top perm that was almost certainly not meant to be ironic.
The only thing about Kid Jordan that was
n’t over-the-top styled or designed in some weird mixture of hip-hop and urban-country sensibilities was his red University of Milwaukee sweatshirt, the logo of which was almost entirely covered by two thick gold chains, one of which appeared to shine almost as if there were real diamonds studded into the gold . . .
Kid Jordan smiled in the sun and put a cigarette to his lips, smiling wider as a blacksuit swooped in to light it. The kid puffed confidently and then coughed, almost sending Betty into another laughing fit.
“Go on, get your smoke on, kid. You can do it. Just like the big boys do, yeah?” Betty started to pump her fist like a fan at a football game. “Yeah. Come on. Come on. Come on.” She watched as Kid Jordan coughed again and then tossed the cigarette away, causing a blacksuit to hurriedly pick it up and stub it out. “Oh hell, this ain’t no king,” Betty said. “Just an overgrown college kid with too much of Daddy’s money. C’mon Wendy. Break’s over. Nothing more to see here. This ain’t no king.”
Wendy nodded as Betty got rid of her cigarette and turned back towards the door to Artie’s Diner, but some movement near the rear door of the third black limousine caught Wendy’s attention, and she hesitated for just a minute.
The door of the last car opened now, slowly, revealing a well-polished black dress shoe. Hand-made bespoke from Italy, Wendy told herself quietly. Simple and elegant. No show, no flash, just quality. Quality that costs over five thousand dollars PER SHOE.
Black trousers visible now, but Wendy had caught just a flash of color first. Green and gold socks. Interesting. But so were those pants—tailored to perfection, snug around the man’s hips and waist, tight around his buttocks, perfect length so the center crease just about kissed the tops of his Italian shoes. No belt. These weren’t off-the-rack. They were made for him.
White shirt in a simple, fitted cut. No front pocket. High quality Egyptian cotton. Top three buttons undone—just right for summer. No comment on the contours of chest visible between the large open V of the shirt. No comment on how flat and tight his stomach looked in that fitted white cotton. No comment on how the shirt sleeves were snug around his broad shoulders and thick arms. No comment because Wendy was looking elsewhere right now . . . right into the man’s eyes.
No sunglasses, and as the man emerged from the car and straightened to full height, he looked over at Wendy, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at her for what felt like a very long three seconds. Finally he blinked twice and looked away for a moment before glancing back at her again, a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth.
“Sorry,” he called out from across the parking lot as Wendy stood there frozen, feeling uncharacteristically awkward in her dumpy waitress uniform that was tastefully decorated with egg yolk and barbecue sauce at the moment. “I did not mean to stare like that. You looked familiar for a moment. But I am mistaken.” Smooth accent—definitely Middle Eastern but the man had spent time in England, Wendy was sure. He smiled wide now, brilliant white teeth that took nothing away from the warmth of his smile. A brief hesitation, like he was waiting for Wendy to say something, and then he pointed at the Artie’s Diner sign and looked back at her. “You are open, yes?”
Wendy nodded, head going up and down until she reminded herself to stop moving her head and instead quickly say something and then get her butt back inside.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re open. We’re always open. Come on in.”
And she walked back into the diner, heart pounding for no discernible reason. She barely noticed Betty, who was still at the door, holding it open, a half-smile on her bright face.
“Now there’s your king,” Betty said as Wendy brushed by her.
“Huh? What?” Wendy said, feeling a strange rush, a need to look at herself in the mirror to make sure there wasn’t any egg on her face (literally). It was a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time, and it was . . . annoying. “What?” she said again.
“You heard me,” Betty said as she put her hairnet on and slipped behind the grill counter. “And heads up. I think the entire royal family is going to be in your section.”
2
It was 3 p.m. on a Tuesday in June, and the diner was mostly empty except for three regulars staring into coffee cups and one college kid who was using Artie’s free Wi-Fi while nursing a bottomless glass of Dr. Pepper. There were just two other servers working, and one of them was already handling the regulars. The other was nowhere to be seen, and so Wendy took a deep breath and grabbed all the menus she could carry and fought that feeling to check herself in the mirror as she walked towards the exotic entourage that had just entered Artie’s Diner in Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin.
“Anywhere you like, guys,” Wendy said without making much eye contact. “Place is pretty much yours, as you can see.”
“Yo, we gotta sit in a booth,” Kid Jordan said, his voice almost comically deep, clearly an affectation as he tried to hide his native accent under swagger and bombast. “You HAVE to sit in a booth to get the full American diner experience.”
He was talking to the tall man in the hand-made shoes and Saville Row clothes, and Wendy glanced up at the well-dressed, older man once again, taking in his sharply handsome features, light brown skin, thick black hair. He was clean shaved, but Wendy could see that his cheeks and chin were slightly less tanned than the rest of his face, which meant he had a full beard not too long ago. The man was looking at the booths lining the large front window, and Wendy blinked and took another long look at the way his pants hung on his tight waist, the way his broad upper back stayed absolutely straight while still giving the impression that the man was relaxed and at ease.
“What do you recommend?” the man said, turning his head quickly and catching Wendy gazing at the curve of his buttocks. He smiled as if he had WANTED to catch Wendy, and his green eyes almost twinkled as the smile spread across his face. “To get the full American diner experience, I mean. What do you suggest?”
Wendy swallowed hard and blinked as she looked into his clear eyes, holding the gaze for a long moment before blinking again and nodding at Kid Jordan. “Your son’s right,” she said in a confident voice that almost surprised her. “Gotta sit in a booth to get the full diner experience. Sit in a booth, and order the WFD.”
“WFD?” the man said, the smile turning quizzical.
“YEAH!” Kid Jordan said, almost jumping for joy in a way that made Wendy wonder what he was on. “That’s the shit I TOLD you about, yo! The WFD! Shit is the BOMB!”
Kid Jordan stepped up to Wendy now, standing close to her and waving over at Betty behind the grill. “Yo, throw those patties on the grill, sister. WFDs for the HOUSE!”
Betty shook her head in a “not worth it” way and turned to the meat cooler behind her. Wendy was about to turn so she could put the menus on the large sunlit booth by the window, but Kid Jordan was still all swagger and he casually put his arm around her shoulder and said, “Great suggestion, hon. Now go on and get us some Cokes.”
Wendy tensed up as Kid Jordan’s hand moved down her bare right arm, finally brushing against her back as she casually stepped away from him. She couldn’t hold back the frown of annoyance, but she did hold her tongue. This was a diner, and you got all types in here—mostly late nights and weekends, but Tuesday afternoons too, clearly. Wendy knew how to handle herself. Besides, she needed this job: business classes weren’t free, and it was pretty much impossible to get a REAL job with not much more than a high school degree and an employment history full of items that began with “Waitress” or “Server.”
The men began to take seats around the large booth, and Wendy waited, fuming inside, reminding herself that a few years ago she might have swung with a closed fist at any uninvited contact from a man, and perhaps that part of her wasn’t completely dead. But she was working on herself, and she had come a long way. Let the anger pass, she told herself. It’s not a big deal. Just chill, girl.
The anger passed, and Wendy put on a fresh American smile and walked over to the group of most
ly bearded, dark-skinned men. The bodyguards still had their sunglasses on, and so did Kid Jordan. The kid’s glasses had mirrored lenses, and although Wendy couldn’t see his eyes, she was pretty sure he was staring right at her chest as she bent over to distribute the menus. She had been a bigger woman for several years now and was generally very comfortable with her curves—comfortable enough that she could handle, and sometimes appreciate, the passing look. But Kid Jordan made her skin crawl, and she quickly straightened up, looked pointedly into his mirrored glasses, and then walked away slowly, feeling many sets of eyes on her round ass as it moved beneath her yellow waitress uniform.
“Alththadi latifa,” Kid Jordan said loudly, drawing some grunts and a couple of chuckles from the others. “Walakun ‘asfal kabiratan w ‘annaha ghyr aldduhawn. Wa’awwad ‘ann mumarasat aljins maeaha. Marrah wahiduh.”
Wendy was still within earshot, her back to the group, and she immediately recognized the language as Arabic. She blinked and inhaled deep as she tried to remember the Arabic she had picked up at those catering gigs in Chicago. It took her a minute of concentration, but something finally clicked, and all that learning flooded back into her memory.
“Nice tits,” the kid had said. “But big ass and she’s kind of fat. Still, I’d do her. Once.”
Wendy almost lost it, and she would have turned and retorted in Arabic if she had been more confident that she could speak it with some fluency. But the fact that she couldn’t speak the language well made her hesitate, and the hesitation was long enough for her to pick up the rest of the interchange.
“Wa’annak ln aizdira’an lilmar’at fi hduri marratan ‘ukhraa. Hal hdhaan wadh? Hal hdhaan wadh!” The voice was sharp, even angry, the words spoken with authority, and a hush went over the entire group, including Kid Jordan.
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 1