Shut up and relax, Wendy thought as that familiar feeling of panic rose and fell and rose again until she squashed it like she had learned to do. That’s the paranoia and it’s silly and unrealistic and dangerous if you let it get to you. Wendy closed her eyes and hyperventilated until she got her breathing under control. It always happens after one of these spells, so just sit quiet and let it pass. It won’t get to you.
Cindy’s not here, she remembered as the paranoia passed and everything came into focus again and Wendy felt like herself again—at least the self she’d been turning herself into over the past few years, ever since Cindy turned eighteen and moved on to bigger and brighter things.
“Did the cops come to the diner?” Wendy said, glancing at Betty.
Betty shrugged and shook her head, glancing at Zahain before looking meaningfully at Wendy.
“Zahain?” she said, turning to the Sheikh now, the questions finally bubbling up. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Where’s your brother? Why aren’t the cops involved?”
“My brother is at the Emergency Room at Milwaukee General. The police are not involved because they were not called. You are here because I brought you here. For your own protection, but also for everyone else’s protection, I think. There is some fire in you, Wendy the Waitress.”
Wendy the Waitress, she thought as she stared up at Zahain as he spoke in his British-Arabian accent, his unwavering gaze fixed firmly on her face. Wendy the Waitress and Zahain the Sheikh. So is that what this is, Sheikh Zahain? You’re here to rescue me? You feel sorry for the dumpy waitress from Wisconsin? My chivalrous savior?
Please. That was Cindy’s dream—to be “rescued” by a rich and powerful man. It was Cindy’s dream and she’s living it, but it’s never been my dream, and it’s never going to be. I stand up on my own. I rescue myself.
So she sat up now, back-pain be damned, pushing Zahain’s arm away as she swung her legs off the bed, pausing to catch her bearings before attempting to stand up.
“Why are you here instead of at the E.R. with your brother?” she asked, her back to the Sheikh.
“Samir will be fine. Broken nose and two black eyes. He will be fine,” Zahain said quietly, his voice soft in Wendy’s ear as he leaned in so close that she could feel his warm breath on her bare neck. “He might need a little makeup for his graduation pictures, but he will be fine.”
Wendy ignored the report of the damage she had caused. She’d heard it all before, many times. Broken noses healed just fine—so did jawbones, cheekbones, and kneecaps.
“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said, the words coming out soft as she felt Zahain’s presence just inches away. It annoyed her to feel what she was feeling, the pull of an attraction that felt primal and raw. Yes, it annoyed her because she knew how attraction made you weak, compromised your judgment, and made you give up control. “I asked you why you’re here instead of at the hospital?”
Zahain paused for a moment and took a silent breath. Wendy listened to him inhale and exhale. The air flowed smooth and silent through his body, she thought. He doesn’t smoke, and he’s in very good shape.
Now suddenly a wave of self-consciousness and insecurity washed over her, and she wondered why she had asked him that question, “Why are you with me instead of with your brother? Why are you sitting on MY bed instead of next to a hospital bed on the other side of town?”
Was she secretly hoping he’d say, “Because I want to be next to you, Wendy Williams. I knew it the moment I saw you. I have traveled through deserts and plains, across oceans and mountains, through forests and valleys, all the way to Wisconsin just to find you. And now that I’ve found you, I can’t let you out of my sight!”
The thought started out with an internal eye-roll, a tinge of self-directed snark, but as she finished that thought she felt a strange chill go through her, and her breath caught in her throat as she sat there almost frozen, her small apartment suddenly feeling miniature and claustrophobic.
Is that what you’re hoping he’s going to say, she asked herself as that feeling inside refused to go away.
Is it?
6
Zahain watched her as she sat there with her broad back to him, that yellow waitress uniform all crumpled and stained. He could smell her gentle, feminine musk—a subtle mix of cheap body spray and her own perspiration that was affecting him in a way that scared him, scared him because it took him back to those days when self-control was not a word in his vocabulary. Yes, those days when the women flowed just like the booze did, just like the drugs did, just like the cars zipped by, the vacations rolled on, the parties raged on, the madness continued unfettered.
He had heard the question just fine, and it was a perfectly legitimate question, one that he was asking himself as he forced himself to take his eyes off her. “Why are you here, Sheikh Zahain? Why are you in this small, one-room apartment, sitting at the foot of this woman’s bed, this woman who is some waitress that you barely know? Your brother is in the hospital, and though you barely know him as well, he is still family, and family is everything. So why are you here with this woman, Zahain? Why?”
She was attractive, no doubt about it: soft, feminine beauty that still could not hide the hardness inside her, curves that made him feel weak and wild all at the same time, lips that were full like a desert sunrise, heft and presence in both her body and the character she projected when she walked, when she talked, when she clenched her fists, when she swung.
Thinking back now, he had seen it in her early on: the fire inside, that strength, resilience. In a way she reminded Zahain of the women he would pull into his life ten years ago—women who were hardened by experience, beaten down by circumstance, toughened by turmoil.
It sounded mad when he thought about it now, and perhaps it was mad. Perhaps HE was mad. But after his father, the great Sheikh Farrar himself, died when Zahain was just eleven, the child found himself supreme leader of a small oil-rich nation nestled in the deserts between Bahrain and Abu Dhabi, untouched by war or strife.
Puberty hit soon after, and it was women, women, and more women. By the time he was fifteen, he was spending most of his time in his opium dens and private harems. The young Zahain was charming and confident, sensual and clean, and soon his reputation spread as someone whose harem you WANT to join!
The women always came easy, even when Zahain traveled to England for college. He moved effortlessly through the elite circles of Oxford, the young Sheikh rubbing shoulders with royalty from England, Europe, and Asia as the parties raged on.
The madness lasted all through his twenties, and Zahain was almost thirty when he met Magda. She was twenty-one and hopelessly addicted to smack, trading blowjobs for a single hit on the windswept streets of Moscow. Zahain was drunk and bored, and he took her back to Farrar with him as a “project.” He was going to rescue her, he decided. “Fix” her, whatever that meant.
A year later Magda was clean, healthy, and on her way to a new life, and Zahain suddenly thought he had found his calling. After all those years of thinking that his mighty Arabian cock was Allah’s divine gift to women, he was now going to REALLY be God’s gift to women. He was going to seek out women like Magda, women who needed to be “rescued” and “fixed” . . . yes, he would find them and fix them! Heaven be praised!
Oh, the arrogance, the delusions of grandeur, the sheer madness of my pride, Zahain thought as he returned from his daydream and took another breath as he focused on the view he had of Wendy, her back still to him, her dark hair matted and wild from the way she struggled with his bodyguards as they tried to stop her from quite literally beating poor Samir to a pulp on the floor.
So is that why I am here, Zahain asked himself as he clenched his fist and resisted the urge to reach out and straighten the tiny knots in Wendy’s long brown hair, touch her soft shoulder gently, lean in close and whisper to her in that voice that the younger Zahain would use with great effect. Do I think that this woman, this waitress called Wendy,
is someone who needs to be “rescued” by the Great and Powerful Zahain? Is that stupid delusion still alive within me? Is that dangerous arrogance still at work inside? Has five years of introspection and penance not been enough to rid me of my demons of delusion, my monsters of madness? Five years of solitude. Five years of celibacy. Five years alone. Ya, Allah, what do I have to do to find my way back to reality, back to a life I can embrace and be proud of?
He moved slowly now, preparing to stand up and apologize before leaving the room. Little Samir had been threatening everything from instant death by scimitar to suing her “up the tits” by his team of lawyers, and since the boy was technically an adult, it was going to take a bit of work on Zahain’s part to make everything go away for this spunky waitress Wendy.
But wait, Zahain thought now as Wendy turned and looked at him impatiently, her soft round face glowing in the evening light shining through the clean window panes. Her light brown eyes searched him without hesitation, and he found himself locking in on her gaze in an easy, natural way that make his breathing quicken.
Yes wait, Zahain told himself. You’re doing it again, you goddamn fool—assuming that this woman Wendy needs rescuing, needs fixing, needs your royal help. Look at her eyes, Zahain. They are clear and focused. She is not some addict from the streets of Manila. She is not some teenage whore from the sidewalks of Slovenia. She doesn’t need to be fixed or rescued. She doesn’t need your help or your protection. She doesn’t need you.
So what is it that brought you here, Zahain? Lust, desire, need? Five years is a long time to be without a woman, but it was your choice and your penance.
Then could it be that you are approaching the end of your penance, Zahain . . .
Is that what is making you uncomfortable, making you breathe hard, making you feel hot and restless? Could it be that Allah has led you to her to teach you that final lesson, the ultimate lesson of your five-year penance? Will she be the one to show the arrogant and powerful Sheikh Zahain, heroic rescuer of women, that not every working-class single woman is weak and in need of a man’s help to make her whole, to make her complete, to make her happy?
Will she—this curvy waitress with the broken knuckle—be the one to teach you the lesson that ends your penance, ends your self-inflicted solitude, brings you back into the world of the living? Is she the one? Or do you just WANT her to be the one, so you no longer have to keep searching?
Yes, Zahain, he asked himself again as he prepared to answer her question. Which is it? The real thing or an illusion? Truth or delusion? The true path or just a shortcut that could take you farther away from the destination?
Only one way to find out, he decided as he took a deep breath, glancing past Wendy into the blood red glow of the setting sun. Yes, just one way to find out: Drag her into the wilderness with you and see if she can find her way back. If she can, then perhaps she will bring you with her, Zahain.
So Zahain stood up to his full height, blinking and looking away as he caught sight of Wendy’s cleavage from above, shaking away the thought of how long it had been since he had touched a woman’s breasts, cradled her cups, kissed her—
“I brought you here because I do not want to involve the local police just yet,” Zahain said quietly as he folded his arms and pushed away any thoughts that might weaken what he had just now, in a moment of spontaneous madness, decided to do, insane as it might be. “You have assaulted and insulted a member of the royal family of Farrar. As such, you will answer to the royal council for your offence, and they will decide on a punishment as per our interpretation of Sharia law.” He looked at his gold Rolex watch and nodded. “Samir should be discharged by tonight. Tomorrow is his college graduation, which I will attend. And tomorrow night we will leave by private jet for my nation-state of Farrar. It is a beautiful little country, and I wish you could be visiting under circumstances that are not so foreboding, but nonetheless, here we are. Good day to you, Wendy Williams. My car will come for you tomorrow at four in the evening. Please be ready.” He smiled and then turned and nodded at Betty. “And thank you for your help, Betty. That American burger looked wonderful, by the way. It is too bad I did not get to eat it.”
Wendy stared up at Zahain, her mouth hanging open for a moment before her jaw went tight again. She was thinking, Zahain could tell. Her eyes were searching his face for some kind of tell, some sign that he was joking.
But Zahain knew there would be no sign. There would be no sign, because he was not joking. Everything he said was true: She had in fact assaulted and insulted a young man who would be Sheikh someday. Such an offense was under the God-given jurisdiction of the Farrar Royal Council, no matter where the offense was committed. Of course, the Royal Council was headed and completely controlled by Zahain himself, but there was no need for Wendy the Waitress to know that. Not yet, at least. For now Zahain wanted to see what this woman from smalltown Wisconsin was made of, how she would handle what had to be a terrifying situation, no matter how ridiculous and unbelievable it might be.
So, Zahain thought as he straightened up and turned his attention back to the woman on the bed before him, what will you do? What will you do, Wendy the Waitress?
What will you do . . .
7
Betty got the first word in, and it sounded something like, “Pffffffft!”
“You’re trippin’ on your own bullshit, man,” she said, half-laughing as she looked at Wendy and then over at Zahain. “This ain’t no Sheikdom of yours. This is AMERICA, man. We have LAWS. There’s shit called EXTRADITION. This is freakin’ kidnapping! You can’t kidnap someone just coz you’re some big deal in your sandpit over in the goddamn desert. Uh, no. You can’t just kidnap someone, you medieval-ass piece of—”
“He’s not kidnapping me,” Wendy said quietly, looking at Zahain as she spoke. No, he’s not kidnapping me; he’s blackmailing me, she thought. But she held on to the thought and stayed quiet.
The Sheikh stood in silence as he looked down at Wendy. He had that strange faraway look in his eyes as he gazed at her, and Wendy couldn’t shake the feeling of being pulled in, drawn in . . . into what, she didn’t know.
Into madness, Wendy told herself as she looked away from the Sheikh, ignored Betty’s huffing and puffing, and gazed out through the window. The sun had set by now, and the sky was a deep purple above the gentle suburban landscape, green manicured hillocks, the startling blue of Lake Michigan in the distance.
She blinked now, and the darkening green outside momentarily looked yellow, the light yellow of clean, smooth sand, and it was all sand outside suddenly, the suburban hillocks looking like rolling dunes in the dusk, and the faraway lights of the Westside Mall were now the twinkling colors of minarets and mosques, and Wendy was there, it felt like. She was already there.
“I do not kidnap people,” Zahain said, the words coming out slowly, almost like the Sheikh was being very careful about what he was saying.
“Liar,” Betty said from the corner. “You’re a damned liar. And a freak. And a—”
“He’s not lying,” Wendy said, and she was back to the real world now, her sharp mind returning focus and control to her intelligence and sense of practicality, burying the strange sensations bubbling up from deeper within, her subconscious perhaps, maybe even her soul, whatever the hell that was. “But he’s not telling the full truth either,” she muttered under her breath, like a note to herself.
Neither Zahain nor Betty heard, and Wendy stood up now, not missing the way the Sheikh instinctively glanced at the fullness of her chest, the curves of her hips. He blinked and calmly looked away, but not before a rush of color showed on his brown face.
A wave of heat rushed through her now, and she was almost angry at herself for it. What are you doing, Wendy, she asked herself furiously as her jaw tightened with the effort it took to regain her sense of calm, her cool confidence, her grip on what was unfolding here.
“You know that your brother put his hands on me first,” Wendy said finally
, her confidence rising as she spoke. “There were witnesses. You won’t have a chance in court.”
“My brother touched your arm to get your attention,” Zahain said quickly, his eyes narrowing. “Your reaction was clearly over-the-top. I think Samir will have more than a chance in court.”
“There was no police report,” said Wendy stepping closer to Zahain as she felt her blood rise. “No evidence of anything. He-said, she-said. It won’t get far.”
“My men captured the entire incident on video. There are several videos, in fact—all of which will stand up to any inspection by experts on whether they have been tampered with. And Samir can still get a police report lodged tonight or tomorrow. That would be within twenty-four hours of the assault, and—”
“Oh, please. It was self-defense, not a goddamn assault!” Wendy said, cutting him off as she took another step towards the man, her heat rising to the point where she wasn’t sure if she was angry or—
“Have you seen the video?” Zahain said, and now he took a step forward, reaching into his front pocket and pulling out a phone covered in an atrociously tacky gold-and-silver case.
“Wow, that’s ugly,” Wendy said, not sure where the words were coming from. “Who made that cover for you? Your second wife? Or was it a collaboration between all four of your wives?”
She knew she had crossed a line the moment she said it, but it was too late now. It was one thing to insult a man and a completely different thing to insult his culture and traditions. Wendy knew that taking four wives—however insulting, oppressive, and disgusting that was—is an age-old Middle-Eastern tradition. Yes, it was outdated and needed to change, but it was still a part of the man’s culture, and Wendy had read many interviews with Middle-Eastern women who actually supported the practice. What was she thinking? This wasn’t her style—insulting a person’s culture and background, perhaps even his family.
Zahain looked down at his phone, frowning, and Wendy wondered if he was actually taking her comment seriously. She felt horrible suddenly. Should she apologize? What had gotten into her? Why was she so turned around?
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 3