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

by Annabelle Winters

  And I will give it to him, she knew.

  As she thought it she felt a rush of relief, that although she needed some time to process it, she’d be OK. She’d accept it. She’d accept the worst of him, because that was the essence of love, wasn’t it?

  “Irene?” he said quietly. “You are not speaking. Is it as I fear? You now fear me? You believe I am capable of—”

  “I don’t think I had any doubts about what you’re capable of,” Irene said, surprising herself at how firm her voice sounded. “Just like I didn’t with Dan.”

  The Sheikh frowned and touched his jaw, stroking his heavy beard. “What do you mean?”

  Irene raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know exactly what Dan did for the CIA. But I knew he wasn’t a goddamn accountant. Every trip took him farther away from me. I could see that he was holding what he did tight inside him, that it was rotting him from the inside out. I never asked him about it. I know he couldn’t tell me details. But who knows—maybe he’d have talked about it if I had asked.” She sighed and stroked Sage’s hair before looking at the Sheikh. “I should have asked him, classified secrets be damned. I should have forced him to tell me. I should have shared the burden. That’s what a good wife does. I wasn’t a good wife.”

  The Sheikh frowned and opened his mouth like he was going to say something. But he clamped shut the next moment.

  “What were you about to say?” she asked him. “Something about Dan? What?”

  Bilaal shook his head. “It is nothing. There is nothing to say. Life is for the living, Irene. Life is for the living.”

  Sage let out a giggle just as he said it, and Irene’s attention was whipped back to the now. He was right. There was nothing to be gained by wishing things had been different with those who were lost. Would it have changed anything if Dan had related every detail of the men he’d killed in the name of country? Had he killed women and children too? Had he killed a few others, just for the hell of it as well? Was he a monster who’d slept in her bed every night with his secrets? When he touched her and closed his eyes was he thinking of the girls and women he’d fucked in those faroff places? Who knew?

  Irene really didn’t have any idea, but that look on Bilaal’s face when she told him she hadn’t been a good wife to Dan said a lot. Perhaps it said everything. The Sheikh, killer or not, was too honorable to speak ill of a dead colleague, but his eyes told her what she needed to know: That she’d done enough penance.

  “Enough,” she whispered, walking towards the Sheikh. “Enough beating ourselves up over what we did or didn’t do in our previous lives. Like you said, life is for the living, yeah?”

  The Sheikh’s massive body shuddered as he embraced Irene and Sage, and she could almost taste the relief in him. The relief, and the love. The joy of being accepted, faults and all.

  “So you are willing to give this a shot with a man like me?” he whispered against her hair.

  She pulled away just enough to look at him cockeyed. She glanced at Sage, down at her belly, and then back into his eyes. “Um, I’m holding your three-year-old in my arms. We’ve got a bun in the oven. And I’ve been living in the woods with you for two months, without any underwear. Yeah. I think it’s safe to say I’m willing to give this a shot with a man like you.”

  “I thought so,” he grunted.

  Irene pulled away again. “What do you mean you thought so?”

  The Sheikh shrugged, mischief in his eyes as his expression finally softened. “I mean, I was certain you would indeed accept me, killer and all.”

  “Well, that’s a little presumptuous.”

  Bilaal paused a moment and touched his lip. “Irene, you do recall that I watched you kill a man two months ago.”

  Irene puffed out her cheeks and pouted. “Well, he kidnapped me and Sage. He put my child in danger. He was planning to murder all of us in a bomb blast. Most importantly, I thought he killed my horse! Sorry, where I come from, you don’t get away with that shit.”

  “Marry me,” said the Sheikh.

  “What?”

  “Marry me.”

  “Uh . . . like right now?”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  Irene laughed in disbelief, pushing her hair away from her face so she could look at him. Then she glanced out the window. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was shining right at them, bathing the room in golden light. Outside the trees were turning, and soon autumn would be in full swing. She’d always liked the idea of being a summer bride, and there wasn’t much summer left. Dan and she had gotten married at the Cody town hall in November, and she’d never really had a “wedding” as such.

  “Sunset,” she said. “I’ll marry you at sunset.”

  A huge grin broke on his face and he reached for her, but she stepped back and shook her head. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  The Sheikh looked around the living room that was by now immensely lived-in, with makeshift wooden and cloth toys for Sage strewn across the throw rugs, shawls and blankets draped haphazardly over the couches and chairs, the dishes from lunch still sitting on the massive oakwood table near the kitchen area.

  “A ring,” he muttered, his eyes scanning every inch of surface. “Let me see . . .”

  Irene watched in amusement as his face lit up and he rushed from the room. “Where do you think Daddy’s going?” she whispered to Sage, who had stomped over to one of his toys, a reasonably good likeness of a bear carved out of smooth driftwood from the river.

  Three minutes later the Sheikh was back, and he strode up to Irene, grabbed her left hand, and slipped the ring on her finger. She looked down at it, and then she snorted and stepped back, one hand on her hip, her toe tapping the wooden floorboards.

  “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, looking at the strip of rawhide that had been fashioned into a ring.

  “It is indeed, my wild mustang,” he whispered, glancing at Sage to make sure he wasn’t looking. Then he reached out and softly grazed her right breast, gently pulling on the nipple until it was pert and pebbled. “Now come here, my frontier bride.”

  “Not yet,” she said, struggling to keep her composure as he touched her other breast, getting both nipples hard and tight, making her hot beneath that pantyless skirt. “You still need to go down on one knee and do it right.”

  “I should remind you that I am a king,” he muttered as he twisted her right nipple and held on, drawing her in so close she could feel his hardness against her rapidly moistening crotch. “I do not go to my knee for anyone.”

  She smiled and shrugged, biting her lip as she reached down and began to raise her skirt. Up, up, up, she pulled it, until she could feel the breeze swirl its way between her thighs, carrying her frontier scent up to this king who refused to go down on his knees for her.

  “Then again,” he growled, sniffing the air and then slowly leading her by the nipple to the enclave near the dining room where Sage couldn’t see them. He kissed her hard on the lips, tweaked her nipple hard one last time, and then went to his knees, pushing his face deep into her warm crotch as she tried not to moan too loud.

  “Will you marry me, my wild woman, my she-wolf, my mama-bear?” he muttered as he licked her slit until she was dripping wantonly down her thighs. “Will you marry me, my lover, my woman, my . . . queen?”

  “Yes!” she groaned as she felt his tongue slide inside her. She could feel that leather ring get tight on her finger as she closed her fist and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t yelp from the way he was driving his stiff tongue up and around, swirling and jabbing, licking and tapping. “Yes. Now show your fiancée that she's a taken woman. And hurry up, because I have to make a wedding dress before sunset.”

  34

  The Sheikh did as she said, taking her hard and fast, the two of them coming in silence as their son played just out of sight, his wooden bear dancing on the f
loorboards while his parents danced against one another’s flesh, just as nature intended. Afterwards she kissed his mouth and patted her skirt back down and went out to their son, leading him to the mezzanine upstairs, which Irene had converted into her sewing room.

  The Sheikh closed his eyes and sighed, and for a moment he thought that he was truly happy, that if he could pick one moment, this might be it. A moment pregnant with potential, full of possibilities, his entire life ahead of him. But then again came that stab of guilt. This time, however, it was not the past butting in—it was the present. The real world.

  Mala. His young, strong niece. How could he be so cruel, so selfish? Here he was rejoicing in beginning a new life, and there she was, a child abandoned by the one sworn to take care of her. Again he questioned his thinking, his motives. He wondered whether he was being too extreme. After all, it had been two months. He’d checked the news, and it was clear that everyone believed he was dead. He’d seen footage of his own damned funeral! Mala took a week off from school to attend. She already looked older, that playfulness wiped away, replaced by a seriousness that saddened him.

  He clenched his fist and tried to resist the urge he’d felt many times since deciding to take this extreme—perhaps stupid—action. Yes, he’d wanted to simply pick up the satellite phone, call the head of his personal security on the secured line. He’d order him to simply go ahead and kill that other brother. It did not matter whether or not he’d done anything yet. It did not even really matter if he truly intended to do anything. It would be so simple to just have him taken out. Taken away. Eradicated. He’d killed so many. What was one more? Why was he making his poor teenage niece pay the price, while he frolicked in the woods like some young stallion sowing his oats!

  But there was risk to any kind of move, and the Sheikh knew it. There were too many unknowns. Who knew if the brother had some emotional hold on Mala, even if he did not have a physical hold yet? What if she trusted him as a confidante, perhaps more? If she found out the Sheikh was alive, she might tell the brother, despite Bilaal's warnings! It was hard to predict the actions of a teenager in turmoil! So no, he could not call Mala, and he could not order a hit either, because there was a risk of Mala learning he was alive before the hit was done. The Sheikh knew his security personnel very well. They were a close-knit group, and they loved the Sheikh more than their own lives. None would betray his trust, and if he told them to stay silent, they would do it even through torture. Still, they would be overjoyed to find that he was alive. And joy is contagious. It spreads like fire. Perhaps someone else in his service gets wind of it. Perhaps a soft-hearted attendant cannot bear to watch Mala mourn her uncle’s death when he is alive. Maybe they pass a hint to Mala. Her spirits rise and she is back to her bubbly, playful self.

  Then the evil brother notices the change in her mood. He gets suspicious. Suspicion turns to paranoia. He does something. What if it happens before the Sheikh’s guards get to him? After all, they cannot storm the hallways of a Swiss boarding school with scimitars and machine guns and murder a man who is legally innocent of all wrongdoing! Even if the Sheikh didn’t go to international prison for the rest of his days, certainly Mala would never speak to him again for doing something so insane!

  They could try poison, a sniper, a car accident. But all of that took planning, and the brother lived on the school campus, in a well-secured faculty-only building. No, it would be too hard to engineer quickly. And pulling her out of the school would arouse the same suspicion in the brother, possibly leading to the same result: Something unspeakable happening to Mala.

  The Sheikh also considered calling Benson, and not his personal guard. But though Benson could be trusted, the man was a high-ranking CIA official, and he had obligations and duties that went beyond the Sheikh and his family. And even he would find it complicated to kill an innocent man in the sovereign nation of Switzerland!

  No, he decided, taking a breath and resting his head against the wooden wall as he stared out the window. He’d gone over it a hundred times. It is extreme, but this is the safest way for Mala. Let the man think he has all the time in the world. Mala is in a safe, well-monitored environment right now. Although the possibility drives me mad, this brother cannot be stupid enough to advance on an underage girl in his own class, under the watchful eyes of well-paid, highly qualified Swiss administrators who are dealing with the children of the world’s rich and famous. He will take his time. Perhaps he will even drop the idea. After all, Mala is no fool.

  Slowly the Sheikh began to relax as he reminded himself that his niece was not some imbecile, some brainless doll who needed the great Sheikh watching over her every move. And when had he ever really “watched” over her? He barely spent time with the child when her parents were alive, and the truth was, it didn’t change much even after they died. She will be OK for a year, he told himself. Just a few more months. We will stay until close to Irene's due date, and then we will return. I will order the hit right before I return. By then the brother should have relaxed and backed off, giving my men a chance to get to him. Perhaps I will have the chance to break his neck myself. For now, Mala is provided for. The people of the Khiyani court and her personal attendants are like family. They would die for her if needed. She will be OK, Bilaal. Suck up your guilt and do not let it own you. Take care of what is in front of you right now. Let go of the past, and worry about the future when it arrives. For now, just relax and take care of what is in front of you.

  And as he thought it, she stepped into view, taking the stairs down from the mezzanine carefully, one step at a time, glowing like the bride she was. She’d fashioned a white gown out of a clean silk bedsheet, and she wore a wreath of leaves that looked suspiciously like Sage had picked them from the floor of the mezzanine’s balcony. She looked like a cross between a nature goddess and a Roman queen, and he stood transfixed by her simple beauty. He stayed silent, watching in awe until she and Sage walked over to the center of the room and stopped.

  She blinked, her face flush, like she was waiting for his approval. She smiled nervously, a gentle blush showing beneath her healthy tan.

  “Ta da,” she said, doing a slow twirl with her arms out wide. “Toga party!”

  “Sorry?” he said, his head spinning as his blushing bride spun in her gown of white light.

  “Never mind,” she said, laughing and throwing her hair back. “I’m ready.”

  “Me too,” the Sheikh managed to say as he walked over.

  “Me too,” said Sage, holding up his wooden bear.

  “Good,” said the Sheikh, raising an eyebrow and then pointing at the bear. “Bring your bear, Sage. We will need a second witness to make it official.”

  35

  They married by the river, between two old river-oaks, the evening sun sending blessings of splintered light to them through the boughs of the forest. Sage held the bear straight, boy and bear listening carefully as the Sheikh and Irene spoke their vows.

  “Yours always,” said Irene, her voice trembling as she said what she needed to say.

  “Forever yours,” said the Sheikh, gently catching a tear from her cheek as he leaned in for the kiss. “Till death and beyond. This I promise you. This I swear.”

  “Oh, God, Bilaal,” she whispered as he smothered her with the biggest, warmest, most overwhelming kiss he’d ever given her. “I love you.”

  “And I, you,” he said pulling away for a moment, looking into her eyes, and then kissing her again. “I love you, Irene. By Allah and the angels, I love you.”

  36

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The Sheikh pulled on his beard. It had grown out thick and dark, with streaks of deep red mixed in with the natural black. He really looked like her mountain man, and over the past months, she’d truly become his mountain woman. They’d survived the winter out here in the woods, and it had been a cold one. Of course, the “cabin” was well equipped to
handle the cold: hot water ran in pipes along the walls and beneath the floorboards, and along with the fireplaces in every room, the place stayed toasty to the point where Sage went barefoot most of the time, even when there was a blizzard outside.

  There were enough canned and frozen goods, and fresh water was in ample supply, pulled from the ice-cold waters of the spring on the Sheikh’s property. There were solar powered generators to keep the freezers in the storeroom going during the warm months, and those freezers were stocked with everything from frozen broccoli florets to bubble gum ice-cream. Not exactly roughing it.

  The Sheikh hunted once or twice a month, going out alone with his rifle and blade most of the winter. He never returned empty handed, and Irene held on to a vivid image of him returning one evening, a caribou carcass over his broad shoulders, his bearded face steely and gaunt from the hunt.

  “That’s your dad,” she’d whispered to Sage as mother and son watched father bring home the meat. “Someday you’ll be like him, Sage. A bit less violent though, if I get it right.”

  The Sheikh had insisted on taking Sage with him when winter faded to spring and the ice melted across the land. But Irene wasn’t having any of it. “I don’t have a problem with hunting, so long as the animal isn’t made to suffer, and we eat our kill. But Sage isn’t even four. It’s still cold outside, and he doesn’t have the right shoes. What if you get lost? What if you get injured by a charging caribou or reindeer?

  “Rein-deer!” said Sage, clapping his hands, stomping on the floorboards with his bare feet, perhaps not understanding that Rudolph would become dinner if they did chance upon him.

  “Winter has passed,” said the Sheikh, looking in amusement at his son though he was trying to be stern. “And what do you mean he does not have the right shoes? I made those moccasins for him with caribou-leather and rabbit-fur.”

  Irene had nodded very seriously. “And they’re wonderful shoes, honey. But they’re . . . how should I put this . . .”