Curves for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 1)
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The path that chose Cindy’s happiness over her own.
And so she pulled out paper and pen, turned to that same old dresser, and began to write. She wrote long and she wrote hard, and when she read the letter even she believed what she had written. She sealed the letter and wrote his name across the flap. She left it there, in front of the mirror, that mirror that bore silent witness to it all.
And she stood and walked to the far end of the room, where that same roller-bag stood, the one with her name on it, the one with an address in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
She packed quickly, quietly, not letting the tears make their way out. When she was done, she looked around the room one last time, her lower lip trembling but the tears staying locked in, locked in tight.
And then she was gone, leaving nothing but that letter and the sorrowful hint of lavender.
She was gone.
38
“Wait, what? You’re back in Wisconsin?! Are you kidding me? What’s going on?”
Wendy sighed and looked at the phone. She had been dreading the conversation with Cindy—perhaps dreading it more than any conversation right now, as crazy as it seemed. Dreading it so much that she knew she couldn’t have this conversation right now. She’d have to just grin and bear it. Smile and lie.
The Sheikh’s private jet had been ready and waiting in the darkness, Aya standing silently by the pilots, neither of whom looked familiar. They were not the same pilots who had flown Wendy and Zahain over to Farrar . . . to Farrar via Paris.
The pilots flew her to Frankfurt, where Wendy caught a commercial flight back to the United States. The ticket was waiting for her—just as Aya had promised.
And now here she was, back in her apartment. Everything looked the same. Everything smelled the same. It was like she had never left. Perhaps she had dreamed the whole thing. Oh, if only . . .
“Cindy, listen. I’m exhausted and I can’t explain it all right now. We’ll meet when you’re in the States next. I promise. It’s complicated, but it’s not a big deal. Trust me. I’m fine. I’ll explain everything. Seriously, Cindy. There’s nothing wrong. No big deal. Just trust me, OK?”
Cindy was quiet at the other end, as if deciding whether to believe her or not. Then the exhale, a sigh of resignation, and finally a loud groan of disappointment.
“Aw, but I was SO looking forward to coming out to the Middle East, Wen! Paul does so much business there, and I’ve never even SEEN the region!” Cindy paused. “Well, Paul barely goes there either, I suppose. He’s kind of a broker in these oil deals, so mostly he’s traveling to the countries that are buying oil, not the ones that are selling it!”
Wendy nodded even though Cindy couldn’t see her. She suddenly knew a lot about Cindy’s husband, Paul. And a lot about his business too. Brokering oil deals for smaller countries in Eastern Europe and South America, where he would link the local country with a Middle Eastern supplier and get paid a percentage of the deal as a finder’s fee. Paul worked with a lot of different small countries that needed oil. But he worked with just one Middle-Eastern supplier of oil. Just one supplier. His entire livelihood depended on that one supplier, a nation called Khawas, a small, independent country in the Middle-East. And Paul’s contract was coming up for renewal this year . . .
“Hey, sis? Sis? Wendy!”
“Huh? Yeah. Yeah, Cindy. Sorry.”
“Sis,” Cindy said now, sounding like a grown-up suddenly. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, right? I mean, the marriage is still on, right? This has got nothing to do with you and Zahain, right? I mean, if—”
“We love each other,” Wendy said, the words coming out with utmost sincerity because she was in fact sincere. “That much I can tell you without a doubt, Cindy. That much is real, Cindy. Hey, listen, I gotta go now, OK? Getting a call on the other line. It must be Zahain checking to make sure I’ve reached home safely. Call you soon, ‘kay? Love you, Cin!”
Wendy hung up and fell back into the couch. It was uncomfortable. She thought she could feel one of the springs poking her rear. It hurt. Everything hurt. Everything was hurting. Everyone was hurting. Wendy was hurting. She knew Zahain was hurting. Yes, everyone was hurting. Everyone except Cindy, who would never know what Wendy had just done for her.
This is the last time, Cindy, Wendy told herself as she struggled to her feet and walked to the bathroom, which seemed awfully cramped suddenly. The last time. This is all I have, Cindy. I’ve given everything so you can have the life you dreamed of. So at least one of us has the life we dreamed of.
And it’s fair in a way, I suppose, Wendy told herself as she stepped into the shower. After all, that life was your dream first, wasn’t it? And so if it’s either you or me who gets to live that dream, then it’s gotta be you.
So have at it, my baby sister, my little Cin. It’s yours.
And even though the water sprayed against her face with force, it could not wash away the taste of salt as Wendy hunched her naked shoulders, hugged herself, and finally let the tears come.
39
The Sheikh was thirty-thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, his usually smooth forehead creased from a deep frown that hadn’t left his face for hours, his jaw set tight as wire. His silver jet cut through the air at 600 miles an hour, headed for the United States, as the Sheikh stared at Wendy’s letter lying before him, creased and crinkled. He had read it a hundred times, even though he could scarcely bear to get through it the first time.
My Dearest Zahain,
I hope I can explain myself in a letter, my love. You know, I barely made it through high school, though now my business class professor says I have a logical and clear writing style, so maybe I’ll do fine here. I’m trying to make this easy, but there’s no easy way to make it easy. Does that make sense? I didn’t think so.
I want to say that I don’t love you, but I know you’d never believe it. I want to say that this is what’s best for us, but I know you’d never believe that either. So all I’m going to say is that this is what I want. This is what I want, Zahain. Do you believe that?
Hah! I know you don’t believe that. But see, I don’t need you to believe it. All I need is for you to respect it. It’s what I want, and I am asking you to respect that.
So what do I want? I want what I’ve always wanted, Zahain. My independence, my self-sufficiency, and my freedom to do whatever I damn well please. And right now what I damn well want to do is be on my own, like I’ve always been, to have this child on my own, and to see what the future holds for us—for my child and for me.
I know this is unfair, Zahain. After all, it is your baby too. But God knows life isn’t fair. That’s cruel, I know—but like that professor said, I am logical and clear, and that seems pretty clear to me, if not logical.
I know you will come after me, Zahain, but it’s not going to make a difference. My mind is made up, and I know you well enough to believe that despite the anger you must feel, the indignation that’s no doubt coursing through you, perhaps even the rage that’s mixing with your pain to drive you close to madness . . . yes, I believe that eventually you will come to respect my decision.
I know this because I know you truly love me, Zahain. You love me in a way that’s pure and unselfish. I’ve felt that love too, and so I can recognize it in you. It is eternal and unchanging, and it will be there once the anger, the grief, and the confusion fades away.
So farewell, Zahain. I know you will try everything in your power to bring me back. Perhaps you will even try to kidnap me like those Sheikhs from those old movies. Lock me away in your palace while my belly grows large and round with our child. I cannot stop you, I know. But think, Zahain. What happens next? You will keep me prisoner against my will? You will ignore what I am clearly and honestly asking you to do for me? Is that the kind of love you have for me, Zahain? The kind of love where I am a possession? Because if that is how you feel, then the love you feel is not so much for me as it is for yourself, is it not? So in a way perhaps you neve
r truly loved me. And where does that leave us, Zahain?
I am rambling, I know. Some of that logic and clarity is being left behind, I realize. So I will end with this—a simple statement that I swear on our unborn child’s life is true:
I have made my choice, Zahain.
I have made my choice.
That is all.
—Wendy.
The Sheikh rubbed his eyes once more as he tossed the letter down on the empty seat beside him. In a way he wished she had simply said she didn’t love him. That way he’d know he could simply burst into her tiny apartment, pull her close, and prove to both of them that yes, she did love him even if she chose to say she didn’t. But this letter was complicated, confusing, deeply troubling.
He did in fact believe that last sentence: That she had made a choice. And he did believe that if her mind was truly made up, nothing would sway her. But what took her to this point, Zahain wondered as he cried out in anguish, standing up and punching the wall of his plane in fury. Wendy had made a choice, yes. But who had given her that choice to make?
The answer was clear, although Zahain was loathe to admit it, especially after those long, heartfelt conversations he had had with his brother, conversations that had convinced Zahain that the two of them really were family, that they really were brothers. Or at least could be brothers. But now Zahain felt like a fool, and it was all he could do to calm himself down, to tell himself that getting to Wendy was the only thing that mattered right now. Samir could be dealt with later.
And he would be dealt with later, Zahain told himself. Ya, Allah, Samir would be dealt with.
Samir, he thought as he stared out the window, clenched his fist, tightened his jaw, allowing himself a moment of unfettered rage.
Oh, Samir, what have you done?
What have you done, Samir?
What have you done?
40
“What have you done, Aya?”
Aya stood before the young prince, watching him as he panted and puffed, his flabby chest heaving as he blinked away the sweat from his eyes. Samir was running—jogging, really—on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gymnasium that was outfitted with weights that were shining with the gold trim that the ostentatious prince had decorated the room with. Samir had been spending more and more time in here, Aya had noticed, and a part of her had been impressed, perhaps relieved, maybe even optimistic that the prince was finally taking himself a bit more seriously.
“I have done nothing, Samir,” Aya said now, holding up a fresh towel for Samir as he stepped off the treadmill. “The American made her own choice.”
Samir mopped his brow and drank deep from the tall glass of cold lime juice that another attendant had placed before him. He smacked his lips and wiped his mouth. Then he looked down at Aya again.
“I am not a fool, Aya,” Samir said. “She left in the night, without informing Zahain. How would she have done that on her own? How would she have made it onto one of our private jets without anyone knowing? Someone helped her leave, Aya.” He paused, not quite accusing her but getting very close. “Or perhaps someone convinced her to leave.”
Aya shrugged. She stayed silent. A part of her was nervous, wondering how Samir would react if he knew the full extent of her involvement. But another part of her was proud of what she had done, what she had done for her Samir, the prince who was in her mind a son, a child of her own.
Does he think of me that way still, she wondered now as she looked at his youthful face, his round double-chin, those eyes that were sunken but still contained some of that childlike spark in them, she thought. Does he even remember how he called me Mama all those years ago? Would he understand that I did what I did because of love? A kind of love he is too foolish to even recognize, let alone feel.
“Speak, Aya,” Samir said now, his voice trembling with an anger that was building in intensity. “Zahain is mad with rage, insane with fury, and I need to know what is going on before he gets back from America. So speak now, Aya, or with Allah as my witness . . .”
The old woman’s eyes blazed with focus now, and she stared at Samir. You would threaten your own mother, she wanted to scream. But she held her tongue, like she had done so often, and simply shook her head, still holding eye contact with Samir.
A part of her wanted Samir to finish his threat, and another part of her almost relished the idea of the prince actually carrying it out. What, would he have her flogged? Her hands and feet bound in stocks? Buried to the neck and stoned? Or perhaps Samir would have the courage to step up and strike her right here, in these very rooms where she had once cradled his fragile little body, lovingly oiling his tiny brown limbs, combing his thick black hair, singing sweet lullabies to the only son she’d ever known.
Do it, Samir. Strike me down. It matters not. I have done my duty, and I am ready for the next world. Go ahead, Samir. Your ingratitude and spite only makes my sacrifice greater. It only proves that my love for you is beyond reproach.
Samir stood in silence, watching her eyes as she stared back at him. Aya could not tell what the boy was thinking, but there was a light behind his eyes she had not seen in a long time.
Perhaps it is only because he is sober for once, she thought with some disgust. But as Samir’s expression changed, she saw a glimmer of recognition on his face. Like he saw something that perhaps had escaped his notice all this while.
“Oh, Lord,” Samir whispered now, blinking and breathing quickly as if the realization was making him feel faint. “You thought you were doing this for me, didn’t you, Aya? To preserve my line to the throne. My future line. All that talk about ‘Act now! You don’t know how things will change in twenty years!’ That’s why you did it, Aya.”
Aya blinked now, her own breath catching as she studied the prince’s expression. Was he happy? Was he proud? Was he grateful? Oh, Samir! Just one word of thanks. Just one expression of appreciation. Just one gesture of love, and I can die a happy woman. Oh, Samir, please!
Perhaps it was the way she was looking at him, or maybe it was that he had sweated away some of the clouds in his head, but Samir took a deep breath, his expression softened, and finally he stepped forward and touched the old woman tenderly on the shoulder. He kept his hand there, the contact enough to make Aya feel a strange warmth in her old bones.
“Samir,” she said, her eyes welling with tears.
“My dear old Aya,” Samir said, his voice soft but firm. “I owe you so much that I have already forgiven you for what you have done, even though I do not know its full extent. You have my word that I will protect you from any and all consequences—you deserve that much, because I understand why you did it. But I must know EXACTLY what you have done so it can be undone. So talk to me, Aya. Talk to me like you used to.” He paused now, pulling the old woman close, holding her like she had perhaps once held him. “Aya. My dear old Aya. Come. Talk to me like you talked to me all those years ago. All those years ago, when I used to call you Mama. When I called you Mama.”
41
“They are diverting us to Toronto,” the pilot said. “Milwaukee Air Traffic Control said there was a problem with the flight plan we filed, and they cannot allow us to land for another six hours, maybe longer. Tomorrow morning is what they’re saying, since it’s already late. Toronto has cleared us in the meantime. They say we can land there and refuel, but no one will be allowed off the plane. Hopefully MKE will open up a runway for us by sunrise.”
The Sheikh had been standing at the doorway to the cockpit, his face haggard from the lack of sleep. He had been calling Wendy’s phone, but she wouldn’t answer. He had considered hiring someone to physically go to her apartment and make her get on the phone with him, but he had reconsidered. Now, however, with this ridiculous delay in allowing them to land, he was at the end of his rope, and when his on-flight attendants informed him of the issue, he had stormed into the cockpit.
“Set us down in Chicago then,” Zahain ordered. “And I will drive to Milwaukee.”
Zahain clenched his fist and just about held back from punching one of the dials on the instrument panel. He mouthed a silent shout of frustration, and stormed back into the main cabin, reaching for his phone so he could try Wendy again.
The phone was already vibrating when he got to it. It was Samir, and Zahain stared at the called-ID for several long moments as he clenched his fist again, this time so tight that his knuckles turned white with the constriction. A series of text messages came through, but when Zahain saw they were from Samir, he simply deleted them without so much as a glance.
“I am doing you a favor by ignoring you right now, Samir,” he muttered to the empty cabin as he watched the phone vibrate once more until it went silent again. “It is the last favor I will ever grant you, brother.”
42
“No answer. No response to my texts,” Samir muttered as he hung up. “Does anyone look at their damned phones anymore?” He glanced over at Aya, who had just come back into the room. “Did we manage to get them delayed, Aya? Did you find out where they are?”
Aya nodded. “Our airport controllers were able to get them delayed by filing a conflicting flight plan for the same airplane and sending it to Milwaukee, which caused enough confusion that the Americans did not allow the Sheikh to land until they can sort it out. They been diverted to Toronto for the night.”
Samir blinked hard as he tried to think. Toronto. Which meant they wouldn’t get to Milwaukee until early the next morning. Almost twelve hours from now. But that was not enough time for Samir to get to Wendy first—the flight from the Middle East would take fifteen hours. And she still was not answering her phone. Neither was Zahain.