Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1)

by Annabelle Winters

  “You will never speak about a woman in that manner when in my presence. Is that clear? Is that CLEAR?!” the man had said, and Wendy turned slightly, taking in the sight of the tall man staring down the kid, who was clearly scared of the older man. All the swagger and bombast seemed to have left the blinged-out kid, and he was downright sulking right now, it seemed, a dark, glowering look on his round, bearded face.

  “You’re my brother, not my damned father,” said the kid in English now, his voice almost a growl.

  “You’re lucky I’m not your father,” the man replied, his voice back down to a controlled, calm cadence that gave Wendy that annoying tingle once again as she listened to his smooth Arabian accent tinged with a hint of what sounded very British and proper. “Now shut up while I look at this imposingly large menu.”

  Kid Jordan mumbled something and started poking at his phone in silence. The tall man opened one of the large laminated menu cards, and almost immediately all the bodyguards did the same. It was a funny sight, Wendy thought, all these well-dressed international men staring at glossy photographs of patty melts and bread-bowl soups. Welcome to America!

  The Middle-Eastern men studied the items and descriptions, making a few comments to one another in Arabic. Soon the sunglasses started to come off, and by the time Wendy served them tall glasses of chilled Coca Cola, the men were smiling and chatting in soft voices, joking and nodding, taking photos of the menu, a selfie or two. The tall man was joining in the side conversations, but was mainly focused on the menu, his brow furrowed as he read through it like it was an important document.

  Finally he stood up and looked around, walking briskly over to where Wendy was standing, near the serving window. She straightened up and smiled as she saw him come over, blinking and taking a step towards him.

  “You need something, sir?” she said pleasantly, smiling up at him as he came close, very close, so close she could smell his subtle cologne—hints of musk, sandalwood, and perhaps even tobacco leaf. “Can I get you something?”

  The man frowned as he opened up the menu and pointed. “This World Famous Duplex hamburger has bacon in it, yes?”

  “Yes,” Wendy said, immediately realizing that if these men were Middle Eastern, then they were probably Muslim, and Muslims do not eat pork. A good waitress might have made the connection earlier and perhaps asked them before putting in the order. Or would that have been racist, she wondered now. Who knows. “Yes, one of the patties is stuffed with bacon. Is that a problem?”

  Wendy could tell that Betty had stopped throwing more burgers on the grill and was listening in annoyance, but Betty wouldn’t say anything. This was a waitress problem. A Wendy problem.

  The man touched his chin, stroking it for a moment before he seemed to realize he didn’t have a beard any more. He looked down at the menu again, then over at his men, and finally back toward Wendy. He nodded and shrugged, his gaze briefly resting on Wendy’s mouth before moving back up to her eyes.

  “It could be slight problem,” he said. “My . . . family is Muslim, and pork is forbidden. So unless you want to see ten grown men fling their food to the floor and then cry like babies as they beg Allah’s forgiveness, perhaps it would be best if we could just replace the bacon patties with regular beef.” He glanced over at Betty and then back at Wendy. “Of course, I will pay for the double order. It is my oversight.”

  “OK, I understand. And I don’t think Betty’s got all those patties on the grill already, so we shouldn’t need to charge you double,” said Wendy. She took a breath and blinked so she could break the eye contact, clumsily reaching out and taking the menu from the man. “Sorry about that. I should have realized that you were from the Middle East. I mean, I DID realize that you were from the Middle East, but I—”

  “What did the other guy look like?” the man said suddenly, and he reached out and gently touched Wendy on her right hand, just above her index finger, holding the contact very delicately. “This knuckle was broken once, yes? Some years ago, I think.”

  Wendy clenched the fist and drew her hand away, blinking hard as she looked down and swallowed. None of your damned business, a part of her wanted to say. Another part of her wanted to tell this stranger everything, immediately, right goddamn now, and the feeling was so sudden and so strong that Wendy almost gasped out loud, almost shouted out loud, almost turned and ran.

  As if he could sense her panic, the man held his gentle gaze and reached for her hand again, running his thumb over her knuckle, doing it just once as he looked down at the crooked knob of bone. “It was not set properly,” he said, smiling full as his eyes darted up to her face again. “Ah, you rich Americans with your poor health care system. I could have done a better job myself.” He held up his left hand now, clenching the fist and looking down at it. “In fact I did do a better job myself. See? And this was just from watching American soap operas. E.R.! You have seen it?”

  Wendy looked at his fist. She could barely see the bone irregularity, but it was there all right. Along with years worth of scars that crisscrossed the outside of his fingers. Wendy had some of those herself, and she looked into his eyes once again, furrowing her brow like she was asking him an unspoken question, perhaps asking the universe an unspoken question.

  She touched his hand now, just like he had touched hers—just like he was still touching hers. So now the two of them stood for a moment in that strange pose, each of them with a finger on the other’s knuckle, a sort of surreal embrace.

  “That’s an old show,” Wendy said, her voice low and husky as she wondered if she herself was in an old TV show suddenly.

  “What?” he said, like he had no idea what was going on.

  “E.R.,” Wendy said, finally laughing softly and stepping back, shaking her head as that strange moment passed. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone watches it. Certainly not your son.”

  The man’s smile changed form, but it was still a smile, and now he laughed once and touched his forefinger to Wendy’s hand one last time before drawing back. “That was ten years ago, but yes, E.R. was old even then. So maybe I am a bit old. But not old enough to have a son who’s twenty-one, I don’t think. Samir is my brother, and I am here for his college graduation. I was not a teenage father, you know. That would be a bit too much, even for my admittedly conservative little nation.”

  Wendy had gotten over the initial shock of what she was feeling, and the man’s smile and demeanor was putting her at ease. The way Betty had sighed with pointed exasperation before slamming the cooler doors a couple of times indicated that she had picked up on the changed order and was taking care of it. The rest of the Middle Eastern group seemed occupied with themselves, and no new customers had walked in. It took Wendy less than a second to make the assessment that hey, maybe she could stand here and keep talking for a bit.

  “Not that conservative of a country,” she said, pointing at the man’s smooth chin. “You’ve shaved your beard. I thought Middle Eastern men were required to keep beards as part of their faith.”

  The man touched his face again, his eyes widening briefly, one eyebrow rising up. “Yes. Yes on both counts. I shaved this morning, just before we landed in Milwaukee. I do it sometimes when I travel to the West. I like the feeling of a smooth face sometimes. It is smooth, yes? Feel.”

  “Feel?”

  “Yes. Feel my face. Here.”

  Wendy blinked as the man took her hand and brought it up to his face. She ran the back of her hand against his smooth brown skin, blinking again as she wondered if anyone else was seeing this. “Very smooth,” she said softly. “You did that on the plane? No turbulence, clearly.”

  The man laughed. “Well, my barber did it. And actually our descent was quite bumpy. But the man is a professional—which is a good thing when someone is shaving your neck with a straight-edged razor.”

  Wendy heard herself laugh spontaneously, and just like that they were talking, talking and laughing, smiling and joking, and the smell of Wisconsin beef and f
ried onions was in the air as they talked about razorblades and turbulence, bacon and cheddar, the art of stuffing a burger patty, the craft of being a professional barber, and time bounced along and suddenly out of the real world came Betty’s voice:

  “Order up,” she called to Wendy. “Your order’s up.”

  Wendy nodded without turning. She waited for the man to finish his sentence and then she gestured with her thumb as she smiled up at him. “Gotta go,” she said. “Duty calls.”

  He nodded and took a step towards his table, but then he turned back to her and said, “I’m Zahain.”

  “Wendy Williams,” she said, the words coming out far too quickly, she thought.

  “I know. It is on your nametag.”

  Wendy touched her nametag and shrugged as Zahain turned away from her and headed for his men. “Oh, and thanks for what you said back there,” she called after him, just loud enough for him to hear.

  He stopped and half-turned, a puzzled expression on his face. “What did I say back there?”

  But now Zahain was close to his table, and his men were looking their way, and the burgers were getting cold on the counter, and Wendy just grabbed the largest tray she could find and began loading it. Zahain waited for a moment, still looking over at her, until his expression changed a bit, hardened a bit, and he took his seat amongst his “family” and sipped his Coke and waited for Wendy, Wendy the waitress.

  3

  Wendy had just served the last bodyguard his World Famous Duplex (modified version) when Kid Jordan broke the food-focused silence on the table by jumping to his feet and stepping dramatically away from the booth. He ripped his sunglasses off his face, revealing bloodshot eyes that told Wendy she was right about him being on something. A vein bulged slightly off-center on his forehead, looking like a dark worm under Kid Jordan’s brown skin. He looked older suddenly, and no longer comical.

  “Hey, what the hell is this?” he shouted, pointing at Wendy and then his burger and then back at Wendy again, like it was some kind of dance move. “Where’s the bacon, yo? Hey, waitress. Where’s the goddamn BACON?!”

  Wendy just stood there frozen, her jaw already tightening, fists already clenching. Call me a bitch or a whore, she thought. I dare you. I want you to. Please. Oh, pretty please. She glanced steely-eyed at Kid Jordan, but the kid’s eyes weren’t tracking together and he looked away quickly and put his sunglasses back on as he reached for his burger and pulled off the top of the bun.

  Wendy looked past him towards Zahain now, and she saw that the older man was looking at her clenched right fist, her fist with the broken knuckle, and Zahain had a tight smile on his lips, a touch of what looked like admiration in his expression. He appeared lost in thought for a moment, and Wendy lost track of the moment herself as she saw the faraway look in his dark green eyes.

  The lost moment was real, because the next thing Wendy noticed was Kid Jordan standing right up in her face, that burger patty in his hand, his mouth twisted into a sneer. He was saying something, something about how Wendy should show him where the damn bacon in this dumbass patty was, but Wendy couldn’t quite hear what he was saying.

  Her blood was rising, and now Kid Jordan was right up close, and she could smell the heat of his toxic breath, and she could feel droplets of his spittle on her, and now he reached out and grabbed her arm, grabbed her arm, grabbed it tight, and she swung, Wendy swung, she swung hard and she got him in the face, breaking his sunglasses, connecting with the bridge of his nose, and it felt good, so DAMNED good, and Kid Jordan went down immediately, went down hard, went down like he needed to go down.

  Not again, thought Wendy as the room began to spin with movement and sound, chaos and confusion. Not AGAIN!

  4

  TEN YEARS EARLIER

  “You’re a little young to be a mother, ain’t ya?”

  “None of your damned business. Now move, or I’ll make you move. Hear?”

  “Whoa! And you’re WAY too young to be acting that sassy with me. But I like it. Stay a while and play, won’t ya?”

  And he grabbed her arm, grabbed her arm, grabbed it tight, and seventeen-year-old Wendy went numb, went blank, and she swung, she swung hard, with everything she had, and she got him under the chin, and she felt his jawbone move with the force of her blow, and it felt good, so DAMNED good, and the man went down quickly, went down hard, just like he needed to go down.

  “Where’s Cindy?”

  “Your daughter? She’s with a female officer and a counselor in the next room. She’s fine.”

  Seventeen-year-old Wendy looked around the holding cell. It was dusty but smelled OK at least.

  “Cindy’s my sister,” Wendy said quietly, almost absentmindedly as she blinked away the cobwebs. Blacked out again, but it seemed like things were OK. She didn’t mind being in a holding cell. She knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d never done anything wrong, because anything she did to protect her sister was all right. It was all right. All of it.

  The cop looked at the closed gray metal door of the cell and then back over at Wendy. “Girl says you’re her mother, but sister sounds right, I guess. You look a little young to be a mother.”

  Wendy struggled to her feet, blinking in slight amusement as the paunchy, middle-aged cop took a step back away from her. This wasn’t the precinct she usually got hauled into—probably because she was on the far side of town at her new dishwashing job. It was at a low-budget Italian restaurant and the pay sucked, but at least they didn’t care if Cindy hung around during Wendy’s shift.

  Cindy.

  “I am her mother except for the fact that I didn’t give birth to her myself,” Wendy said. “Now am I being charged or can I go?”

  The cop shifted on his feet and then he shifted his equipment belt a bit and finally he shrugged and nodded. “We brought you in ‘cause you were going berserk out there and no one could calm you down. Sure did a number on that guy. Can’t say I feel sorry for him, but jeez, kid, you broke his jaw, his nose, and . . . well, I think we stopped you just in time.”

  Wendy swallowed and shrugged. She didn’t like to hurt people, but she had done it before and she knew she’d do it again if she had to. She clenched her right fist as the memory of what happened started to come back, but almost immediately she cried out in pain as she felt the friction of bone shards cutting through flesh as she tried to move her right index finger. “SHIT!” she screamed as she doubled over, and it wasn’t the pain so much as the fact that her right fist had been compromised. “Oh, SHIT!” she shouted again as the cop poked his head out the door and called for assistance.

  That shattered knuckle could never be put back together, but it didn’t matter, because it took Wendy three days to teach herself how to lead with her left.

  5

  “You lead with your left, I see.”

  Wendy looked up and saw Zahain looking down at her. He wasn’t smiling, but Wendy couldn’t help but think that Zahain’s expression was perhaps softer and more relaxed than circumstances might dictate—assuming that hazy memory of her fist connecting with Kid Jordan’s nose was accurate. She couldn't remember anything after that, though. She had blacked out again, like she used to as a teenager. Crap. Was she in a holding cell again?

  But the smell of lavender incense floated to her, and Wendy realized with a start that she was home, in her studio apartment on the outskirts of Milwaukee. She was home, in her bed, with Zahain sitting right beside her, looking into her eyes. What the HELL was going on?

  She tried to sit up, but Zahain was in the way and besides, her back hurt a lot right now. It had been years since Wendy had swung her arms and fists like that, and now she felt a weird embarrassment wash over her as she wondered if she had pulled a muscle or even slipped a disc in her back. She was carrying a bit more weight on her now, especially around her chest and hips, and probably the fifty hours a week of balancing food on unwieldy trays wasn’t helping her back.

  So she groaned and fell back into her pill
ow, blinking at the sight of Zahain’s emerging smile, perfect and pearly white against his dark red lips that were full and thick, standing in high relief against his light brown skin. Wendy started to speak, meaning to say things like, “Why am I home? What are you doing here? And why the HELL does my back hurt like a bitch?”

  But the only words that came out, as if by reflex and years of conditioning, were, “Where’s Cindy? WHERE’S CINDY?”

  Now Betty came running in, and Wendy looked at Betty, and Zahain looked at Betty too, and Wendy tried to get up again but she couldn’t and so she groaned and winced and shouted, “Where’s Cindy?” again.

  “What y’all looking at me for?” Betty said, eyes wide as she held her hands up and took a step back. “I never heard of no Cindy. There’s that Mindy girl who used to work at Artie’s, but she got fired weeks ago. No Cindy though. You’re tripping, Wendy.” Now Betty stepped forward, leaned close to Wendy, and clapped her hands three times like she was exorcising a demon or something. “Yo, WAKE UP, hon. It’s just you and me and the Sheikh in here!”

  Wendy glanced over at Zahain, a frown crinkling her smooth round face. “You’re a Sheikh?” she said, almost absentmindedly though the fear began to surge through her as she connected all the dots: caravan of black Mercedes limos, team of bodyguards, the tailored clothes, Arabian accent with that touch of Cambridge or Oxford. Of COURSE he was a Sheikh. Which meant Kid Jordan was sort of a Sheikh too, right? Or a prince? Royalty, anyhow. Not good.

  And now it hit her. Holy SHIT I just broke a Middle-Eastern prince’s nose in front of ten witnesses! He may have been asking for it, and I may have been justified, but this could get a lot more complicated than just the police! It could be an international incident! Will his country ask for me to be extradited to his Sheikdom or whatever, where I can be stoned or hung by my thumbs or put in the stocks for three weeks as the children point and laugh at my fat ass turning red in the brutal desert sun?