Shelter for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 9)

by Annabelle Winters

  “Oh God,” she howled as the weight of his body rammed his still-hard cock all the way back into her as the third wave of her orgasm crested and crashed, making her body jerk back and forth uncontrollably until she finally went still beneath him.

  They stayed like that for a long time, and Irene’s thoughts went full circle from panic to joy, from calculation to chastising, from hating herself to loving the madness of what she’d just done.

  By the time he woke, she knew what she’d do next. And so she looked into his green eyes, firmed her resolve, and said what she’d decided she’d say:

  “Don’t tell me your name. Don’t tell me why you’re here. Don’t tell me anything. Just go, and never come back. Just go.”

  14

  The Sheikh watched from the shed as the two police officers stepped off Irene’s front porch, apologizing for waking her, assuring her that she shouldn’t worry, that it was probably nothing. Irene hadn’t invited them in, and Bilaal knew they couldn’t search the premises without her consent or probable cause.

  He’d listened to the officers explain that they were looking for a tall, muscular man of Middle-Eastern ethnicity who’d attacked some folks in the gas station and diner. They didn’t have his name, because the car had been rented in the name of a private company based in New Jersey, whose only registered contact was a law firm in Philadelphia. They were trying to identify him from gas station footage, and they said they’d bring her a still-shot when they had it. No, he hadn’t killed anyone, they assured her, but he was certainly dangerous. They told her it was possible that the man had a photograph of her on his phone, but the men who’d reported it had been drinking so they may have been mistaken. They hesitantly asked about dating sites, which Irene genuinely laughed off, much to the relief of the embarrassed officers.

  “Is there any other reason a Middle-Eastern man would have your photograph, Ms. Inman?” the first officer had asked. “I know Dan traveled a lot for work. Could it be related to—”

  “I don’t think so,” she’d said, her voice shaking in a way that the Sheikh could tell was feigned. He knew that no one in town besides Irene knew that Dan had worked for the CIA, and the Sheikh listened with growing fascination as Irene handled all their questions just right, playing the role of a concerned woman who was oh-so-grateful for the protection and assurance of the police.

  By the time the police left, the Sheikh’s own questions had been answered. He’d been surprised when Irene refused to even talk to him after they’d made love, like she’d made a decision to shut him out. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, he’d thought at first. Maybe she was so embarrassed and mortified for having sex with a stranger that she wanted to just forget about the whole thing, pretend it never happened. Then the police had called to check on her and say they were coming over. She had to have guessed there was some connection. Of course, Irene couldn’t know the real reason. But perhaps her instincts told her it was something neither of them could speak of, not even to themselves perhaps. Not yet, at least.

  And so, when the Sheikh returned to the house, he used her phone and called for his bodyguard to drive an unassuming pickup truck and meet him on a country back-road which Irene told him he could get to from behind her property (in case the police were watching the ranch). Then he sat quietly as she put a fresh dressing on his wound, her face stoic and determined, her eye contact brief and guarded. Finally he put his dry clothes back on and gathered his broken phone and wallet.

  As he put his wallet away it occurred to him that he had an international drivers license and multiple cards with his name on them, all of which would have been on display if she’d flipped the wallet open while he was passed out. It also occurred to him that she could have taken a photograph of his face as he slept and run an image search on Google, which would have easily turned up a match with one of the public photographs of Sheikh Bilaal Al-Khiyani—who was not quite a worldwide celebrity but was by no means “off the grid.” How could she not have looked at his wallet? How could she not have been curious about who he was, why he had come? She must have looked last night. Did she? Or was it possible she truly stopped herself from learning his identity even though it was right there to see?

  This woman is more than I expected, the Sheikh thought as he looked at her pretty face again, willing her to make the eye contact she was denying him. Not only did I underestimate her, but I suspect Dan himself underestimated her. She is without guile but she knows how to keep things to herself, to keep parts of herself hidden. She knew her husband worked for the CIA and was killed overseas, possibly in the Middle-East or the Asian subcontinent. She must have sensed a connection between her husband’s job or even his death and my mysterious arrival, yes? Was she not worried that I was perhaps sent by enemies Dan made overseas? Was she not concerned that I was some Arab hitman sent to take revenge for something Dan had done? In fact, I still might be, for all she knows.

  Ya Allah, he thought as he headed to the back door and turned to look at her one last time. She stood there in the kitchen, those strong curves devastating and deadly in a blue summer dress, bare legs and open feet, brown hair kissing her shoulders. Her left hand was placed gently on the round of her belly as she slowly looked up from the floor and into his eyes, just the hint of a smile on her lips.

  She will be a good mother, he thought as he narrowed his eyes for a moment. A worthy mother. Worthy of bearing my child.

  15

  THREE YEARS LATER

  Irene checked the straps for the third time, pulling at the heavy-duty plastic buckles and inspecting the double-stitched seams for any signs of weakness. It felt secure, and she took a breath and nodded. Then she heaved herself, baby and all, onto the smooth leather saddle.

  Beauty barely moved, she was so calm and perfect. Irene smiled and looked down at the child strapped to her bosom, facing her, mop of dark hair thick like his father’s, eyes of dark ocher, like he’d taken the green of his father’s and mixed it with the brown from his mother. Little Sage would turn three in a few months, and it was time he went riding, she’d decided. Beauty was getting older, and Irene wanted to make sure Sage’s first ride was on her beloved mare.

  “Just to the far fence and back, okay?” she said to Beauty as she took the reins and gently touched her boots to the horse’s sides. “I’ll take you for a longer ride when Doris comes over later this week.”

  Beauty seemed unperturbed, and Sage looked up into Mama’s eyes as the three of them cantered out into the Wyoming sunshine. The twenty-acre ranch was overgrown and getting wild, Irene noticed. But it was all right. Beauty was sure-footed, and there was nothing dangerous out there. Nothing that could take away the life she knew she deserved, the life she took for herself any way she could get it.

  She laughed out loud as Sage’s mouth opened wide in delight as he felt the motion of the majestic horse.

  “Much better than Bronco, yeah?” she said, referring to the wooden rocking-horse that Sage spent way too much time riding. “Soon, my love. Another couple of years and you’ll know what it feels like to have Beauty under you, taking you wherever you want to go.”

  Happiness washed over her as the sunshine bathed the three of them, and Irene almost broke into tears. Her heart felt so full, she worried it might burst right here, taking her away from this dream she was living. This was exactly what she wanted. She had it all, she told herself. Dan’s insurance payout had been put away, and along with her savings it generated enough interest and dividends to cover her expenses. The ranch was her inheritance, all paid off, and the taxes were minimal. There was a monthly pension from the CIA, which Irene put away for Sage’s education. It didn’t feel wrong to use Dan’s money for another man’s child. It certainly sounded wrong when she said it like that, but try as she might, she couldn’t get herself to feel guilty. In a strange way, she felt like this child was Dan's as much as anyone's, that he had something to do with
it, perhaps more than she ever wanted to know. It was all she'd ever wanted from him, and in some way she could now let his memory rest in peace.

  “Now I have what I want, and I am what I want,” she whispered to Sage. “I’m a mother. I’m your mother! Yes? We don’t need anyone else. We never did, and we never will!”

  Sage laughed up at his mother, and soon the edge of the ranch was in sight, the battered high fence looking like it badly needed to be painted. Irene giggled as she pulled on Beauty’s reins to turn the horse around so they could head back.

  “If my biggest problem is a back fence that needs painting, then I’m doing all right,” she said out loud, once again feeling that sense of being overwhelmed with joy. “I’m doing all right. Life is perfect, isn’t it, Sage?”

  And then, just as Sage looked up to gurgle a response, a sharp crack sounded from the cluster of trees beyond the fence, and Beauty crumpled to the ground beneath them.

  16

  The Sheikh clapped along with the rest of the crowd as he watched Mala and her classmates come back out on stage to take a bow. Her class had just put on a production of an entertaining play written by one of the school’s many accomplished teachers, and Mala had played a supporting role that had proved to be a crowd favorite. Bilaal was proud of his niece—indeed, at seventeen years old she was a playful and poised young lady, and he had no doubt she would be a great Sheikha when the time came for her to ascend to the throne of Khiyani.

  The Sheikh felt a peace he had not felt in years as he filed out of the auditorium with the audience, mingling with the parents of Mala’s classmates, men and women he’d gotten to know reasonably well over the past couple of years. Bilaal had been spending more time in Switzerland, paying more attention to his niece, and he could see that she was better for it.

  I am better for it too, he’d realized just a few months earlier, and along with that thought had come a sharp twinge of emotion, a wrenching feeling that came to him now and again, the sense that perhaps there was something to this whole parenting thing, that there was something he might be able to add to the job Irene was doing raising their son.

  Indeed, Bilaal had kept an eye on Irene through proxy over the past two years. He did not use his bodyguards or any hired spies to do it. He didn’t need to, thanks to the very useful over-reach of the CIA’s authority. Yes, John Benson had authorized continued monitoring of Dan Inman’s widow, and every few months the electronic file would be updated with photographs and a brief report. It wasn’t 24-7 surveillance or anything—just a periodic check in. Benson had casually told him about it the last time they'd spoken, when the Sheikh had left the country three years ago and called Benson to ask him to clean up the mess he’d created in Wyoming before his photograph hit the newspapers.

  “I don’t know why I went there,” he’d told Benson over the phone. “I just felt an obligation to pay my respects to Dan’s widow. It seemed like the honorable thing to do.”

  Of course, he didn’t tell Benson that he’d done a bit more than pay his respects, that “honorable” was perhaps not the best word for his motives or his deeds. So the day Bilaal checked Irene’s file and saw the first sign that she was expecting, he waited for the call from Benson, who would certainly have put it together in about two seconds, especially since there had been no men in Irene’s life over the past year.

  But the call never came. Benson knew better. He didn’t judge people, and even though his expertise was other people’s business, he was also a man who knew the value of secrets.

  The tension of being found out had stayed with him for almost two years, but eventually the Sheikh accepted that things had settled, that no one would ever know, that Irene was happy and he was happy, that promises had been kept and things had worked out right, that life was good, life was fine, life was . . . for the living.

  Still, as he watched his son Sage grow up in time-lapse photographs, the Sheikh felt a yearning building up within him. There were times he sat alone in his sprawling palace, wondering why he was staying away. Yes, Irene had told him to leave, but he was a goddamn king, was he not? If he wanted to see his son, he could simply do it, could he not?

  Yes, he could. And finally he decided that yes he would. It had been three years, and by now she might have even figured out who he was. They might be able to have a conversation about their meeting, about their son. But just three days after making the decision to fly back to the United States, his first trip there since the tryst with Irene, the call came from Benson.

  Irene and Sage had been taken. By someone unknown. To someplace unknown.

  “What do you mean you do not have a location on them?” Bilaal snapped into the phone.

  “We don’t watch everyone on Earth around the clock,” Benson said defensively. “The next check-in wasn’t scheduled to happen for at least another month. We had no eyes on the ranch, Bilaal. And—”

  “Blood?” the Sheikh asked, interrupting.

  “No blood on the scene. The horse was shot with a tranquilizer and is in recovery. This was not a hit.”

  “They were taken unharmed,” said the Sheikh.

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  “Who?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” said Benson.

  The Sheikh swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He thought through his long list of enemies. No. There was no way. They were all dead. He’d made sure of that.

  “Bilaal?”

  “I am here.”

  Benson spoke softly. “Bilaal, anyone who knew that you visited Irene three years ago could have figured out that Sage is your son. The woman hasn’t even been in the same room alone with a man in all this time. Anyone watching would have—”

  “You were supposed to be watching!” the Sheikh roared into the phone, almost crushing the receiver in his powerful hands, his rage burning him up because he damn well knew that it was his own responsibility to protect his son, whether or not the mother wanted him around! Ya Allah, what kind of a man was he?! “I am sorry,” he said quickly. “It is not your responsibility.”

  Benson took a heavy breath and exhaled into the phone. “Listen, Bilaal, I don’t wanna know the details of what happened between you and Irene. I have no idea what you two talked about, if there was an agreement, whatever. I don’t look at her finances, and in fact I even stay away from the reports and updates. Now it’s a missing persons case, and the FBI is involved. I can’t take over the investigation, and—”

  “Keep me updated in real-time on what the FBI finds,” growled the Sheikh as his mind raced. “But they will not find anything.”

  Benson spoke sharply. “You know who took them? Bilaal, you need to tell me. We can help. If there is a ransom demand, you need to bring the FBI in.”

  “This is not about money, and there will be no ransom demand. So if you want to help, here’s what I need. Station a goddamn army at my niece’s school in Switzerland. I have ten bodyguards there, and I have already dispatched more. But I want another layer of protection for her: Agents, Interpol, Swiss police—whatever you can do. But keep it low profile. I don’t want her life interrupted. She has one year left, and the school itself is a virtual fortress.”

  Benson didn’t hesitate. “Of course. Bilaal, what is going on? Why do you think your niece is in danger?” He paused. “This is related to what happened after your wife died?” The Sheikh did not answer, and Benson went on. “I thought that business was over and done with.”

  “I thought so too,” said the Sheikh. “But perhaps there is a loose end.”

  “Now that surprises me,” drawled Benson, and the Sheikh caught a hint of sarcasm in the veteran CIA-man’s tone. But Bilaal let it go. He knew he deserved it. Perhaps his own chickens had come home to roost. There was only so long he could run from who he was.

  17

  “Who are you?” said Irene.

 
; The thin young man who’d been silently checking in on Irene and Sage for the past three days stepped through the wall of curtains at the far end of the chambers where she and her son had been imprisoned. It was hardly a prison, though—the only thing qualifying it as such was that she couldn’t leave.

  They’d been given fresh food and clean clothes, private bathrooms and a comfortable bed. Female attendants were present during the day, and even the guards outside that curtained wall were women in black veils. The only man she’d seen was this silent one—barely even a man: he couldn’t have been more than twenty. He wore a shining green turban, sported a goatee that was jet black and coiffed, and had sharp sand-colored eyes that shone like beacons as he’d watched her and her son through those purple and maroon curtains. His eyes looked old, despite everything else about him being young. He hadn’t spoken a word, though, and this was the first time he’d even stepped into the main room with her.

  “By tradition you are not to be in the presence of a man for three days before,” he said quietly, his voice deeply accented but his English clear and pristine.

  “Three days before what?” Irene said, pulling Sage into her blue satin robes and for the first time feeling fear—more fear than she’d felt when they’d taken her and Sage in broad daylight, bundling them into a black SUV and driving them to Canada and this sprawling, almost manor-like home nestled in what could have been the goddamn Yukon for all she knew.

  “Before the nikaah ceremony,” he said matter-of-factly, looking at his fingernails as if he’d just had a manicure. He glanced up with those piercing yellow eyes, unblinking and hard. Now one single blink, a glance at Sage, and then a half-smile as he looked at his fingernails again. “Do you know what that is?”

  Irene frowned. Then it hit her. She’d seen the word in some article she’d read about Islamic traditions, and her breath caught in her throat as she spoke. “Marriage. Nikaah is the Islamic wedding ceremony.”