Bad Sheikh's Surrogate Mistress

by Brooke, Jessica

  It was a shame that Jaheer and Elena had to wait in the family quarters and couldn’t be in the hospital room itself. It was just Dr. Galud, a team of nurses, and her and Zahir. Still, it would have amused both their siblings to no end to see the anger and ferocity seething through her. She loved her sheikh, she did, but giving birth was like having red hot pokers shoved through her back, and she still had no idea how a baby was supposed to be pushed through her hips. None at all.

  At least the drugs were helping some. If she’d done this naturally, she had no idea how she’d be coping. As it was, her whole body felt as if it were rebelling against her.

  Another contraction hit full force, and she groaned again, clutching Zahir’s right hand so tightly that she was afraid it might snap.

  He reached out with his left hand and dabbed the cloth against her forehead. The coolness of it helped her a little, gave her a sensation to help distract from the pain. Still, she breathed hard, panting like she’d run the Boston Marathon, even as tears slipped down her cheeks.

  “It hurts, baby,” she said, eyeing Zahir. “It hurts so much.”

  He kissed her, and she reveled in his scent, that hint of cinnamon that seemed to accompany him anywhere he went. “But you can triumph over this, just as you have everything else.”

  “I agree,” said Dr. Galud. “You’re fully dilated, Sheikha Ahmed. One or two more pushes will do it.”

  “I can’t. I’m so tired.”

  Zahir ran the cloth over her forehead again and then kissed her lips. “You can, and you will.”

  “I’m not that strong, and this is killing me.”

  He smiled back at her, and that look made her melt, as it always had. “You’re the strongest woman I know. No one else could survive the scrutiny of the kingdom and my mother, Akmul’s wrath, and can give me the most wonderful heir a sheikh could hope for. You have done all of this, my artiste, and I know you will do so much more. It’s your destiny.”

  Her heart melted even faster at his words. He always had that way with her, that ability to make her believe anything was possible. She wanted to reward that faith, needed to. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and with the next contraction, pushed once more. The pain was a jackhammer in her spine and she felt as if she were being torn in two. Then there was a pop almost, and the pressure around her abdomen eased.

  Everyone cheered—and a baby gave its first cry.

  She settled down against the bed as a nurse cleaned and prepared the baby, as Dr. Galud worked to make sure the after birth was also delivered safely. Once everything was set, the nurse brought the baby to her, and she smiled down at the bundle of joy, at the dark mop of curly hair that marked the baby as an Ahmed instantly.

  “It’s a girl,” Dr. Galud said. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint.”

  The smile was broad and beaming over Zahir’s face. “Nothing can make me happier than seeing my two girls together.” He wrapped his arms around both of them and kissed their daughter’s forehead. “How about Emine? It means ‘one you can believe in’. I think she’ll grow into all that confidence and be a fine ruler for the kingdom, just like her mother.” With that, he kissed her lips, a tender promise to both mother and child.

  She shivered, rarely feeling so complete and overjoyed. She loved this man and cradled the child she’d been desperate for—a complete change from her isolated life only a year ago. Hell, only ten months ago. This was everything she’d ever wanted and even if she’d said it early, it had been so very true—she loved him, and she always would.

  When he pulled back from his kiss, Zahir quirked his head at her. “What’s going on? You look so much like the cat who ate the canary.”

  “I’m over the moon, Zahir. This is the best day of my life, and I love you. I hope you know that.”

  “I love you too.”

  Epilogue

  She wiped at the paint on her nose and groaned when it rubbed off far too much on her wrist, staining most of it a bright violet. Felicia hadn’t been kidding when she’d said that she had never been talented with two-dimensional art. Painting the mural for Emine’s room was a labor of love and testing her confidence. Sculptures she could craft all day long, but she was never sure of her paintings or drawings, always felt they were lacking.

  “Ahem,” Elena coughed as she came into the room.

  She turned and set down her brushes and then wiped her hands on a rag. Then a baby wipe. Then a clean towel. Once she felt that the paint wouldn’t hurt her five-month-old, that it was completely gone, Felicia held out her arms and let her sister deposit Emine in them.

  “What do you think?” She turned to contemplate the landscape she’d unrolled over the walls.

  “I’ve seen better.”

  “I did my best!”

  Her sister winked. “I was just kidding. You know you’re the best. Your version of ‘not good enough’ should be hung in a fu—”

  “Don’t even around Emine,” she said.

  Her sister corrected herself in mid-sentence. “In a freaking museum then. You did an amazing job.”

  “You think Zahir will like it?”

  “He’ll like anything you make. You know he will.”

  “I’m not sure. I just feel it’s missing something.”

  “I think I have an idea on that,” she said, gesturing for Felicia to hand back Emine.

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow at her little sister but complied. “I don’t understand?”

  “You need to put some paint on your hands, leave a hand print, and sign the work. You’re the master artist here, and you should take credit. It’s not real ’til you do.”

  “So you’re an expert now, are you?”

  “I definitely am,” she said. “Who else would you go to for your best ideas? Now I’m going to take Emine to my room. I’ve set up the portable crib because of too many paint fumes in here.”

  “Well, what am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to sign that wall for Zahir because Jaheer and I suck at keeping secrets, and he’s coming here now to see the work for himself.”

  She flicked a spot of paint at her squealing sister’s knees. “You are so dead when you’re not holding my child. I told both of you that it wasn’t ready.”

  “But it is!” she replied. “You did an amazing job, and Zahir deserves to see it. Now hurry up and sign it.” With that, her sister scurried out the door with Emine.

  “I can’t believe her sometimes,” she grumbled half-heartedly.

  In reality, it was sweet how much her sister doted on her niece and how encouraging Elena was. She might have a big mouth, but it was part of her sister’s charm. And without her, things could have gone so wrong with Akmul. It made Felicia shiver to think of it. Spreading a bit of lilac paint on her left hand, she pressed the print on the bottom right corner of the wall. Then she used her right hand to sign her name with her finger. Stepping back, she had to admire her work. She hoped that not only Zahir would like it but that their daughter would grow to love it, as well.

  “It’s gorgeous.”

  She grinned and spun around, squealing herself when Zahir picked her up and spun her around. “You’re just saying that.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  She patted his shoulder with her mostly clean right palm until he set her down. “Do you really like it? I picked one of my favorite poems from The Rubaiyat and illustrated it. It’s not too cheesy, is it?”

  “No, it’s perfect,” he said, admiring the fluffy lamb she’d painted in the left corner. “It’s such a beautiful mix of your world and culture and my own.”

  “Just like Emine,” she said, leaning up and kissing him. “Just like us, together.”

  “Exactly. Now I can think of a few things to do while Elena babysits.” He emphasized his point by squeezing her rear with his talented hands.

  She giggled and then kissed him again, making sure to guide her lips to his ear lobe and tease it between her teeth. He hissed under her ministrations
, and it was gratifying that she knew exactly how to get to the sheikh she loved.

  “What were you thinking, my sheikh?”

  His hand moved to cup her hips and his smile lit up the whole room. “Wouldn’t you like to know, my artiste. Wouldn’t you like to know, but I’ll give you one hint. It’s going to last all night long.”

  THE END

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  ANOTHER STORY YOU MIGHT LIKE

  Sharing a Sheikh’s Bed

  By Sophia Lynn

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  Sharing a Sheikh’s Bed

  By Sophia Lynn

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2016 Sophia Lynn

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  Chapter One

  Olivia took a deep breath, scanning the crowd around her. There were no police officers, which was just as well. She wasn't doing anything technically illegal, but her upbringing had taught her to be properly nervous around law enforcement. When she could avoid them, she would.

  At the moment, however, in the bright sunny bazaar at Zahar, there was no one like that about. Instead, the bazaar was composed mostly of local vendors and foreign tourists, in other words, with people who were intent on having a good time and who might be more receptive to her than not.

  At the moment, Olivia looked like just another tourist, albeit one that was carrying a rather strange pack on her back. She looked younger than her twenty-four years, with a round face and wide coppery eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes. She was small but lush, and most people passing by would only have thought that she was a rather pretty young woman. What she did next was going to change at least some of that perception, or at least she hoped it did.

  She found a small patch of bare ground between two stalls. The nut seller on one side didn't look like he cared whether she lived or died, but the woman selling spices on the other gave Olivia an encouraging smile and nod. It was good enough, or at least she decided it would be. For a moment, Olivia wished that she had her brother's gift for charm and talk. He could have gathered an expectant crowd in just a few heartbeats. However, David was occupied these days, and so his little sister had to make her own living.

  With a care that others reserved for holy relics, she knelt down to open the ancient rectangular case on her back. The warm afternoon sun glinted on her violin, the old wood polished lovingly until it gleamed. Some might have called it a shabby instrument to look at it, but she knew the truth. This violin had been her constant companion since she was too small to use it. Now it might as well have been a part of her body, and she treated it with the same care.

  She stood, fitting the instrument under her chin, and raising her bow, she began to play. The first slow sad notes of the old waltz filled the air, and slowly but surely, heads started to turn. The air was a slow thing, almost dirgelike. She had heard one busker say that he preferred fast songs when he was trying to get attention, but Olivia had never felt that to be true, at least for her.

  Instead, when people heard the first wailing notes of the violin, and turned to see the solemn-faced young woman playing it, it always seemed as if she touched something deep inside them, something that made them sympathetic, eager to help her. She could see it working now. The violin wailed, and slowly, people started to gather around.

  Even when she was concentrating on playing, there was a part of Olivia that was always watching the crowd, gauging its reaction and learning what it wanted from her. She had had her first violin lessons from her grandfather, but her father had been the one to teach her how to manage a large group of people so that the outcome would be in her favor.

  When she finally brought the tune to a halt, a shower of silver coins fell into her open case, as well as several paper bills as well. It was a promising first take for a single song, and she smiled at the audience.

  “Play something fast!” someone called from the crowd, and that answered her next question. With a reserved nod towards the voice, she set bow to strings again, and this time, it was a rollicking traditional dance tune from Budapest that came out. She could still remember the old man who had taught her, the one who had found shelter with her and her family at a motel during a hard winter, and how he had showed her how to play the music of his homeland. It had startled her how lively his songs were, when he was so old and frail and tired.

  Before she was done, many of the people in the crowd were tapping their feet and smiling. Somewhat cynically, she knew what would happen. They would go home to their safe lives, their lovers and their families, and they might mention the violinist that they met that day, the one who had charmed them with a dance tune. They wouldn't think about where she might be sleeping or what she might be trying to do with her life, or how long it had taken her to learn a piece that they enjoyed for just a few minutes.

  She finished the dance song with a flourish, and her case was littered with even more money. It might end up being a good day after all. Olivia was just getting ready to try another fast song when a voice came out from the back of the crowd.

  “Do Orfeo and Eurydice!”

  Her head snapped up, and she looked around in surprise. This was not the place where she would have expected to find a musical fan, but she supposed that there were more unlikely things. The piece he had shouted was one that she was intimately familiar with, and with a defiant toss of her dark hair, she raised her violin again.

  It wasn't a piece she would have picked for the crowd. It was slow, it glided and slipped and moved just outside the range of comfort. In its own shivery and eerie way, it was beautiful, however, and there was a part of her that relished the chance to play it in the warm sun in an ancient souk.

  When Olivia brought the piece to a close with a victorious motion of her bow on the strings, there were fewer people watching, but the ones who were appeared spellbound. One old gentleman, who looked like a professor in his tweed suit, blinked tears from his eyes. She wondered if he was the one who had challenged her.

  “Beautiful, beautiful,” he said, fumbling in his wallet for money. “You should be on the stage, my dear …”

  “That's the idea,” she admitted, grinning at him.

  Dressed in a light blue tunic and jeans, Olivia looked like a student who was backpacking the UAE in her gap year. However, the truth was a little different, and it was far stranger than anything most people in the souk could have managed. Right now, though, all she cared about was that she had made enough money for the moment, enough, anyway, to stop and to have some lunch on the docks of the enormous freshwater lake that bordered Zahar. Her stomach was already rumbling at the thought of the fresh fish on toasted bread that was served on the docks, a meal that had become one of her staples as soon as her family had come to Zahar.

  She was just closing her violin case away when a dark shadow came over her. For a moment, Olivia was frozen with fear. When she glanced up, her worst terrors were confirmed. The man who stood over her was dressed in the khaki of a member of the Zahar police force, and he regarded her with a kind of boredom that still somehow managed to be menacing.

  “Do you have a permit for busking,?” he asked, his voice even, but dark. She could see that he was already reaching for her, and for a moment, her mind went white with fear. She couldn't get arrested. She couldn't. Not for something this simple and small. Not when everything that she wanted was nearly in her grasp …

  Olivia opened her mouth to defend herself, to lie, to say that she had it on her earlier, something, anything that would get her out of the situation she was in. At worst, she was willing to offer up all the cash she had made just to get out of the situation …

  “She doesn't need one,” said a calm voice.

  T
hey both turned, and Olivia looked up into a face that was surely far too handsome to belong to anyone but a movie star. The man was dressed simply in jeans and a white linen shirt that was unbuttoned at the throat. He was dark and slightly hawk-featured, but there was something remarkably sensuous about the curve of his full lips and the faint curl in his slightly shaggy hair.

  “She doesn't?” asked the police officer with some skepticism. Despite his words, there was something more guarded about his posture. Olivia knew that it was the difference between dealing with a little foreigner girl and dealing with a local man who looked like he might have money. She would have resented it more if it didn't look like the man who had approached was going to help her.

  “She doesn't,” he said with a supremely casual shrug. “She is a musician in the country who is looking to audition for the national orchestra, and as such, she has license to play where she sees fit. I would say that it is a coincidence that people began to drop money into her case, wouldn't you?”

  The police officer looked unconvinced, and for a moment, Olivia was certain that the newcomer had pushed it too far. If the police officer didn't believe him, it would have been just as easy for him to haul in two people as one.

  However, the police officer finally nodded, giving the man a slightly uncomfortable look before turning back to Olivia.

  “Keep yourself out of trouble while you are in Zahar,” he said, his voice deep but now somehow unconvincing. He turned, and, there was no other word for it, he slunk into the crowd, and in a moment he was gone, leaving Olivia alone with her unlikely savior.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That could have gotten ugly.”

  The man looked at her with a slight smile. Despite herself, Olivia felt herself warming to him. She knew that there was a good chance that he was just as dangerous to her as the cop was, though perhaps in a different way. She had learned well enough that a man that saved you might only save you for himself, and that most girls didn't get lucky twice.