But now that conversation was all Zahain could think of as he thought back to the first time he saw Wendy the waitress, standing outside that American diner in Wisconsin, her yellow uniform stained and crumpled, her round face appearing strikingly attractive to him, her strong curves making him ache for her in a way that was beyond simple lust. And as he thought about it, Zahain realized that he had experienced a strange, heightened awareness to her presence for every moment after that.
Then there was the way he had instinctively held back when Samir stood up and began to shout in the middle of the diner, when he grabbed Wendy's arm—it was almost as if Zahain knew that the strange incident needed to happen so he and Wendy could be flung together, flung together by fate on the way to their destiny.
And she felt it too, Zahain was certain. He did not know too much about her, but Zahain could sense that this woman was not someone who hopped into bed with every attractive man who showed an interest in her. He could sense that she had been deeply shocked at the way her own body was reacting to Zahain, and in fact she would never have gone through with it if she wasn’t the sort of person to trust her own instincts with absolute faith.
Ya, Allah, Zahain thought now, his hand shaking as he put the hookah back down on the short wooden table. Maybe the old man was right. How else to explain why it feels so natural to want a child with this woman I barely know. How else to explain why she accepted me so readily when it is not in her nature to simply let a man have his way with her. Yes, maybe the old man was right. She is the one, Allah. The woman with the wisdom and confidence to carry the bloodline of Farrar forward, guarantee its future.
23
Wendy the Wise and Powerful looked at her toes again. They seemed far too pink, incredibly round, and perhaps even a bit stubby, now that she thought about it. Can your toes be fat, she wondered as she lay there in bed. Yes, they can. OK, my toes are fat.
She was on that same bed beneath the blue sandstone ceiling. The Sheikh had stayed with her for hours, the two of them intertwined and entangled, their naked bodies pressed up close, hearts beating together. He had made love to her again, and thirty minutes later once more, that last time gathering her up in his arms and positioning her above him as he sat upright and hard in the middle of the bed, his muscular back and stomach holding him straight like a board as Wendy descended upon his ramrod-straight cock, his strong arms holding her steady, long fingers digging into the flesh of her bottom as he raised and lowered her heavy body with ease, her own weight driving down on him in a way that made her feel him so deep inside her, so goddamn deep.
The orgasms came like storm-blown waves, desert sandstorms, wind-driven rain, and the two of them held each other, kissed each other, clawed at each other like wild animals as the ecstasy threatened to break them but only strengthened that strange, otherworldly bond that was making it seem perfectly natural for Wendy to sit here on the bed right now, lying on her back, legs raised like she had read in some magazine article about what to do when you’re trying to get pregnant.
Trying to get pregnant.
Wendy had never been particularly taken with the idea of being a mother—raising Cindy had been enough. She had never truly felt a deep yearning to have a child. Yet now, suddenly, like out of nowhere, in the strangest way she did feel like this was the right thing, happening the right way, the way it was supposed to happen. Who cares if it was all happening backwards? Who cares if she still didn’t have a good idea of what the hell was going on here. Was the whole “You must answer to the Royal Council” a setup? Just some game for the Sheikh’s amusement? Does he have fifty other women in bedrooms just like this one, all of them carrying his seed? Am I in a goddamn horror movie now? Are his attendants going to put me in some incubator until I give birth and then execute me after they carry away my child?
But the speculation only made her giggle, and suddenly Wendy laughed out loud, feeling like a madwoman as her body shook and shivered, the peals of laughter echoing off the walls and ceilings, making it sound like there were ten women laughing, a hundred women, perhaps every woman in the world.
She laughed for what seemed like a long time, and then finally, still smiling, Wendy rolled herself out of bed and stood up. Both feet on the heavy Persian silk carpets now—oh, so soft. Sheets wrapped around her naked body—sheets that smelled of sex, both his and hers. Lavender was still in the air, and now she was certain that the Sheikh had noticed her love for it and ordered its essence to be infused throughout this room. The thought made her smile, and she ignored the opposing thought that only hopelessly foolish women with unrealistic notions about fairytale romances thought like that.
She shuffled towards an elaborate dressing table made of dark stained rosewood, absentmindedly reaching for the top drawer’s brass handle, ignoring the possibility that the jewels studded into the corners of the handle might actually be real emeralds. The drawer slid open silently, like it had been oiled to perfection, and Wendy looked down casually, expecting it to be empty.
But inside she saw a purple plastic hairbrush, an old manicure set, a half-used stick of lavender lip gloss, moisturizer, sunscreen, and a pair of purple sunglasses. And all of them were hers. From her apartment.
For a moment she almost fell over in shock, imagining the Sheikh sending over a team of men to break into her place and go through her things, bringing a selection of personal and intimate items. That’s awful, she thought for a moment. What a psycho!
But then she turned and saw that battered old roller-bag of hers, and it was neatly placed up on an old wooden chest, and it had clearly been opened and was now empty. So Wendy exhaled and quickly pulled the rest of the drawers open, and sure enough, there was all her stuff, tastefully folded and placed just right, the smell of lavender keeping them safe and warm for her.
“Oh, my God,” she said out loud when she realized that she had packed all those items herself, and all that happened was that some attendant must have unpacked the bag and put things away when Wendy was out of the room. “I am seriously losing my shit. I am seriously freakin’ LOSING it!”
And now she exploded into tears, standing there in front of the mirror, feeling ridiculous with those sheets draped around her, her hair messed and wild, eyes red from everything that was happening. The tears came hard and fast, her body jerking as she sobbed, her stomach seizing as she bent over and wailed.
“Oh, God, someone please tell me what is happening!” she cried out to no one. “Oh, God, please!”
And then she felt his warmth behind her, and he held her like she needed to be held, pulled her into him, his thick arms tight around her body as she shuddered through her sobs. She didn’t know when he had walked in—perhaps he had never left. But it didn’t matter now. Somehow, it didn’t matter.
And when she finally looked up into the Sheikh’s eyes, she saw a single tear roll down his handsome face, and she looked up and kissed him, and he kissed her, the two of them tasting the salt of each other’s tears, and it made no sense, Wendy thought. No sense at all.
Then Zahain took her past the bed, on to a sprawling white chaise that looked like it had once been Cleopatra’s, and he pulled her close, held her tight, and finally began to speak.
“Here’s what’s happening, Wendy,” Zahain said as she listened. “No secrets. Here it is. All of it. Unfiltered and unaltered. This is me, Wendy. This is us.”
24
“Of course he is sleeping with her. You have disturbed me for this earth-shaking news, Aya? I should have you beheaded simply for being so stupid. Oh, Allah. Why am I back here in this shithole with you imbeciles!”
Samir turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow as he glared at the burkha-clad attendant who had entered Samir’s chambers during the hours of rest.
This woman, Aya, had served Samir’s mother, the First Mother, and Aya had practically raised Samir, was almost a third parent to the boy. Samir’s first spoken word had been “Ma,” and it had been uttered to Aya one morning
when she was alone bathing him. Aya, the loyal servant that she was, never told the First Mother of it.
Samir’s disrespectful words meant nothing to Aya, even though she spoke English just fine. At this point in her life, with death already looking over her shoulder, she was not inclined to judge or reprimand the young prince, her little Samir, the chubby little boy who had looked up at her and called her “Ma!”
No, in fact Aya had only been hanging on to life to see what she knew was coming soon—Samir’s ascendancy to the throne of Farrar. It would not matter to Aya as far as riches or status went—after all, she was well taken care of, and she worried little for what others thought of her. No, the yearning was there because watching Samir become Sheikh would signal the completion of her cycle of service on this earth. It was how she viewed her life, her mission in life, her purpose for living.
And so she had stayed outside the American woman’s chambers all day, watching, listening, curious as to why, after so many years, Sheikh Zahain was bringing a woman to the Royal Palace, putting her in a bedroom fit for a queen, and visiting her again and again with a raw passion that even Aya had never seen in the Sheikh—and Aya had seen Zahain with a lot of women over the years.
This one was not as beautiful as some of the others, Aya thought, but the more she observed Wendy, the more Aya saw something in her that made her stay by her perch outside those chambers, watching and listening, the pieces fitting together in her mind that was as sharp as ever.
And the last conversation she had overheard sent a ripple of alarm, a tingle of electricity, a surge of fear through the old woman: the royal bloodline, a child born while Zahain is still Sheikh, the pull of destiny . . . more that just the words of casual lovers, yes?
So Aya had hurried to Samir to reveal all, to warn her little Sheikh-in-waiting that although he would take his rightful place on the throne soon enough, there were events being set in motion that would ensure that Samir would be not just the first but also the last Sheikh to come from the First Mother’s bloodline. And that would not do. This was about duty and responsibility, Aya knew. It is clear what I must do.
But now, as the old woman watched the disinterested Samir roll around on his day-bed, shamelessly scratching his crotch, flipping channels on his flat-screen TV, muttering things like “shithole in the desert” and “cannot wait to get the hell out,” Aya wondered what the boy would do with the information she was about to reveal. Either he would not care at all, being that he was selfish and short-sighted. Or he would care too much, which could be unpredictable. Aya did not even want to think about how far Samir might go if he was actually worked up into an indignant rage about what his brother was doing. No, perhaps the information needs to be held onto for a while. Sometimes a secret needs to stay a secret for a little while, yes? That is how a secret becomes more powerful.
And so Aya, at the very last moment, shut her mouth tight, took a step back, bowed her head, and apologized to Samir for the interruption. Then she turned and walked out of the room, something inside her saying that perhaps death would have to wait a little while longer, because she still had work to do on this Earth.
25
Three weeks passed, and it might as well have been a lifetime, as far as Wendy was concerned. She and Zahain had spent every day together, walking through indoor gardens under glass domes, swimming in crystal-clear pools on the flat outdoor terraces of the sprawling sandstone palace, drinking sweet tea under the desert moonlight, all the while holding hands like lovers do.
Their passion seemed to be rising with every encounter, and although the Sheikh did not spend the night in her chambers, he arrived first thing in the morning, often getting there early and watching her sleep from above. Those were her favorite mornings, when she opened her eyes and saw her lover smiling down at her. She would call to him and he would come, swift as the desert wind, taking her into his arms as she reached for him.
The sex was raw, unbridled, just insane, and as the two of them got more familiar with one another’s bodies, with what the other liked, wanted, needed, CRAVED, they were taken to levels of ecstasy that seemed cosmic, otherworldly, magical, their climaxes often rolling in together, both of them howling, shouting, roaring, SCREAMING as they clawed at each other, bodies thumping, skin slapping, warm wetness all over, eruptions, explosions, convulsions . . .
It was a dream, a fairytale, a fantasy, and it wasn’t even Wendy’s dream or fairytale or fantasy, she thought on the twenty-third day, when she sat with Zahain in one of the many gardens on the palace grounds and watched two peacocks at play, the birds performing their ancient dance, a ritual perfected by evolution and made beautiful by the gods. And as she watched the male peacock spread its magnificent tailfeathers and lower its beak at its mate in an almost menacing gesture, Wendy felt a sudden fear go through her when she realized that fantasies are not reality, fairytales are make-believe, and all dreams end when you wake up.
How would her dream end, she wondered as she looked toward Zahain, took in his sharp features, the full beard that he had grown over the past few weeks, heavy and thick but soft, with fine streaks of red woven into the black as if by an artist. He was wearing his traditional flowing Arabian robes, and he truly did look like a king of old, Wendy thought as she watched his dark eyes follow the movements of the two birds on the natural stage before them.
She had listened to everything he had said that night, three weeks ago, when he told her about his father, the caliphate, the hierarchy to ascendancy, the old Sheikh’s dying request that Zahain father a child while still on the throne . . . father a child with . . . her?
“Yes, you, Wendy,” he had said that day, his body close to hers, their shared warmth making her believe in words like destiny and magic and “meant to be . . .”
So if it’s meant to be, then there’s nothing to be worried about, is there, Wendy thought as she tried to figure out why she was feeling so strange suddenly, after three weeks of the most peaceful, exciting, open, and romantic moments of her life! What’s happening, she wondered as she felt her gut wrench and her stomach seize.
And now she was doubled over on the grass, her head heavy and spinning, and before she knew it her eyes glazed over and she hunched forward as Zahain held her steady while attendants came running, calling out in Arabic.
“Just relax,” Zahain was saying, the concern in his voice obvious but still under control. “Let it come. You’re fine, Wendy. Just relax and let it come.”
And she let it come, heaving and coughing until she was done, until the feeling passed and she was able to lean back, lean into Zahain as he dabbed at her mouth with a fresh cloth dipped in warm water fragranced with lime.
She looked up at him through tear-glazed eyes, blinking and trying to smile.
“Wow,” she said weakly as Zahain carefully stroked her hair, touched her cheek. “Who knew morning sickness could come at night.”
26
In some ways she had known as early as that night in Paris, their first time together. But it was one thing to “know” and something totally different to KNOW!
And now she KNEW. Now it was real. She was pregnant. PREGNANT!
They looked at the test results alone, the two of them huddled beneath the blue ceiling of the bedroom that Wendy had grown to love. They used a test kit that looked very much like something you’d get at Walgreen’s—no doctors or anything yet. Not yet.
The sticks all went pink, the markers sliding to “Yes!” and sending Wendy into the strangest realm of surreal joy as Zahain leaned over her shoulder, the two of them standing in front of that jewel-studded mirror that had reflected the true selves of so many over the centuries. Wendy lifted her light purple tunic and glanced down at her belly that was tanned and smooth now, after weeks in the Farrar sun.
She giggled as Zahain placed his warm hands on the curve of her stomach, caressing her firmly so it wouldn’t tickle too much.
“Oh, look,” Wendy said, glancing at Zahain’s reflection i
n the mirror and then down at her not-flat belly. “I’m already showing!”
The Sheikh smiled and kissed her neck, squeezed her round little belly once more as she squirmed, and now his large hands moved up and he cradled her full breasts, gently massaging her nipples until she could feel them harden in expectation, the dark red peaks pushing against the thin muslin of her tunic.
She wasn’t wearing a bra, and now the Sheikh lifted her tunic and slid his hands beneath, and Wendy gasped as she watched her own reflection, watched the way the Sheikh’s hands looked as they massaged her bare hanging breasts beneath that tunic, his thumbs and forefingers plucking at her rock-hard nipples as she felt his hips press against her buttocks, his erection tight against her soft bottom.
“Is this really happening, Zahain?” she asked as she felt his hands slide down, clutching her smooth belly again, caressing her sides. “Are we really going to have a child, Zahain?”
His answer came in a kiss, his lips smothering hers as he leaned over her shoulder, one hand on the front of her stomach, the other crossed over her chest, pulling her into his hard body. He nodded as he kissed her, every part of him crying out, “Yes!” . . . every part of him exuding a mixture of calmness and unbridled joy, his touch reassuring that small part of Wendy that still needed reassurance, that still could not believe it, that still wanted to run.
They made love in front of the mirror, the two of them gazing at their reflection, Zahain’s right hand never leaving his queen’s round front, his other hand deftly lifting her flowing skirt from behind as she leaned forward on the heavy wooden dresser and spread for him, spread for her king.
He felt harder, longer, thicker than ever, and Wendy groaned as she felt his now-familiar girth fill her once more, and she looked into the mirror as he started to thrust, her gaze falling on her own hanging breasts as they began to swing with the motion, and she glanced up, into her own eyes, now the eyes of her lover, and the heavy dresser was creaking as the Sheikh flexed inside her, sending a shiver of heat through Wendy as she arched her back down, stretched her neck out, pushed back into Zahain as he plunged deep into her again, and now they were in rhythm again, like they always seemed to be, and the mirror was shaking, the drawers rattling, Wendy’s heavy breasts swinging wildly, nipples looking gigantic in the soft light and shadows, and she could feel the power in Zahain’s hips as he thrust with firmness, pushing deep, his length curving up, so deep, and ohgod now she worried if it was safe, and she was shaking as she felt him go so deep, so GODDAMN deep, and was it safe, is it OK, what about the baby, oh no, it’s fine, pregnant women have been having sex since the beginning of time, it’s fine, it’s good, yes, it’s good, oh yes, oh God, ohgod, ohgod, ohgod, OHGOD!
Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1) Page 9