The Sheikh’s Pregnant Fake Wife

by Leslie North

  “Do you know what you’re having?” one of the sisters asked Isabella, at the same time another sister asked, “What names have you picked out?”

  “Let the woman breathe,” Najma, a younger sister said, a cell phone practically glued to her hand. Trailing behind the group was the youngest sister, watching all the commotion with a small smile.

  “C’mon, Razi,” the oldest sister, Jessmenia, said. “Don’t dawdle or you’ll get left behind.”

  Razi stuck her tongue out at her oldest sister as she slid into the back of the limo. “Don’t boss me around. You’re not my mama, Jess.”

  “Thank Allah,” Jess said. “And you’re not a baby anymore. Quit sulking like one.”

  That earned her a rude gesture in response, which had Najma cracking up and the fourth sister, Cala—if Isabella remembered correctly—sighing in dismay.

  “Can’t we all just get along guys?” Cala said, sliding into the limo next.

  Up ahead, Isabella saw Feraz standing beside a second limo. He gave her what she assumed was meant to be a reassuring look and nod before following his brothers inside the vehicle. Tiny Djevian flags in bright red, white, and green flapped from the antennae on the hoods of the limos. The air here was dry and hot, a wind gusting in and carrying the scent of warm sand and sea, reinforcing the fact she wasn’t in New York anymore.

  “In you get,” Jess said, herding Isabella inside the second limo, then following her into the car before the driver closed the door behind them. The sisters all sat on one bench seat while Isabella sat alone on the other, feeling like she was facing some kind of tribunal. Given her sister’s less-than-respectable behavior over the last year and a half toward their brother, she supposed she should have expected a trial. Just maybe not so soon.

  “Why are you back?” Jess said, arms crossed and expression stern. “Other than the obvious.”

  “Uh, well, Feraz and I—”

  Before she could finish, Cala piped in, “You hurt him, with all your gallivanting around and being seen with other men. You hurt Feraz very deeply, even if he won’t say it. I don’t like to see my brother hurt.”

  “None of us do,” this came from Najma and Razi in unison.

  “Better keep an eye on your cell phone while you’re here,” Najma added, a brow raised in challenge. “I’d hate to see anything happen to it and all your private data leaked all over the Internet.”

  Isabell swallowed hard and clutched the small purse she’d brought with her. Yeah, she didn’t plan to let her phone out of her sight.

  “Answer my question,” Jess said, drawing Isabella’s attention back to her. “Why have you returned to Djeva and Feraz after all this time? Is it the money?”

  Yes. “No.”

  And honestly, it wasn’t all about the money anymore. From the minute Feraz had walked into her doctor’s office appointment the day before in New York, something had changed inside Isabella. The more time she’d spent with him on the plane and then that scorching kiss they’d shared had cemented it. Yes, this had all started out as an elaborate hoax to get her mother’s medical treatment paid for and to get enough cash to support the child Isabella was carrying for her dead sister and Feraz. But now, a tiny spark of hope had flared inside Isabella. A hope that maybe, somehow this could all work out for the best. That perhaps Feraz could grow to love her and they could repair their marriage and live happily ever after here in his desert island paradise.

  Yes, she’d have to tell him the truth at some point and yes, she’d have to deal with the consequences. But if he’d come to love her before then, as she knew she could come to love him, then maybe the truth wouldn’t matter. Maybe he’d want to keep Isabella for his own and raise their child together. Maybe his family would accept her and forgive her for her sister’s sins and Isabella’s lies and life would be good.

  Or not.

  “I’m not hearing an explanation,” Jess said, interrupting her rose-colored thoughts. “Which means it is all about the money. You should be ashamed of yourself. And with child too. Is it even Feraz’s?”

  Heat prickled Isabella’s cheeks and righteous anger loosened her tongue at last. “Of course it’s your brother’s child.”

  Razi snorted, in true teenaged fashion. “We’ll see about that.”

  “Razi!” Cala glared at her youngest sister. “That’s not nice.”

  “Neither is screwing around on your spouse.” Najma looked up from her phone to give Isabella a flat stare.

  Isabella opened her mouth to respond, but what could she say. There was no defense for what her sister had done. None. She didn’t agree with Roxanne’s actions any more than she intended to follow in her sister’s footsteps where this marriage was concerned. But as far as these people knew, Isabella was her sister. So, instead of answering, she huddled into the corner of the black leather seat and stared out the window beside her while the sisters began discussing the situation in rapid-fire Arabic.

  Outside, the capital city of Al-Qustra glowed golden in the distance. She remembered it well from her previous trip here. All the shopping and dining and fun souvenirs shops and souks. She’d wanted to spend more time exploring everything the country had to offer, but then Roxanne had gotten involved with Feraz and their trip had revolved around him and the whirlwind affair. Perhaps once the baby was born, Isabella would have some time to visit the places she’d missed before.

  The baby kicked hard, as if in response, and she frowned, rubbing her belly.

  Across from her, the sisters abruptly stopped talking and stared at her baby bump.

  “May I feel it,” Razi asked, leaning forward slightly.

  Isabella bit her lip and nodded, hoping this might be a moment of accord between them. The young teen girl reached a tentative hand out to place it atop Isabella’s stomach. The baby kicked hard again, right below Razi’s hand and she giggled.

  “Does it hurt, when it moves like that?” Razi asked.

  “No. Not usually. Depends on where the baby’s laying and if I have a full bladder or not.”

  Soon, the other sisters all took their turns as well, their cold expressions gradually warming to Isabella and her unborn baby. Everyone except Jess, that was. Finally, the oldest Nazrani sister leaned closer and met Isabella’s eyes. “If you hurt my brother again, we will have a problem. Understand?”

  “Understood,” Isabella whispered. “And it’s a boy. You’re going to have a nephew. No names picked out yet.”

  “A boy?” Jess said, her tone quiet with reverence. “May I?”

  “Yes.” Isabella bit back a smile as Jess laid her hand over where the baby was moving again. “Feel it?”

  Jess nodded, and the women exchanged a look, not exactly acceptance, but Isabella would take what she could get at the moment. Jess grinned and sat back at last. “Good. Now we must discuss plans for your official return dinner.”

  6

  Feraz listened to his brothers chatter away on the limo ride back to the palace, but his mind was on the woman in the next car behind them. He’d not planned on riding separately from Roxanne from the airport, but as usual his family had taken over and waylaid his plans. He loved them all, but they could certainly be a nuisance.

  He hoped his sisters weren’t being too rough on his wife. They’d made no secret of their dislike toward her treatment of their brother and while he appreciated their concern, he could take care of himself. Regardless of his wife’s indiscretions, it took two to make a marriage—or destroy one. He’d not exactly been the most attentive spouse once they’d said their vows. He’d been busy trying to rebuild his country and ensure its future success. And Roxanne had always been so cold and disinterested back then. Still, he should have been more sympathetic to her needs and vowed to do better now, especially since they had a child involved.

  My child.

  The words still sent a thrill through him.

  As did that kiss he and Roxanne had shared in the plane.

  It had been so long since he’d
kissed anyone, let alone his wife. Perhaps that explained his strong physical reaction. His pulse still raced from that brief interlude, his skin felt hot and stretched too tight, and his blood pounded through his veins. The way she’d felt in his arms, the way she’d tasted, her tiny moans and whimpers as he’d plundered her lips.

  It was enough to make a saint a sinner.

  Feraz was no saint, and he was not about to stay celibate forever. He was a man with wants, needs, and right now he wanted his wife—with a passion that surprised even him. Too bad she was acting like a scared church mouse at the moment instead of the lusty vixen he remembered.

  Time changed everyone. Maybe time had changed Roxanne too.

  They pulled up to the huge wrought iron and gold gates of the palace then drove down the long drive to the entrance. All the servants were out front to greet him upon his arrival, and so was his mother, Zuhra. At barely over five foot, many people mistook her size for meekness. Those people learned quickly that big attitudes came in small packages.

  “Mama,” he said in Arabic and headed in her direction once he’d gotten out of the limo. The glare from the red carpet beneath their feet made him squint as he kissed his mother on both cheeks. Morning sunlight beat down from the endless blue sky above and the temperatures were already on the rise. Despite his lingering jet lag, there would be no time to rest for him today. He had a full agenda of meetings and a pile of work on his desk to catch up on. As sheikh, he liked to keep his hands in all areas of business in his country. His brothers often said he should delegate more, but Feraz remembered all too well how much their father had pushed off his plate and onto others. That’s what had led to the downfall of Djeva, in Feraz’s opinion, and he would do everything in his power to keep that from happening again. So he stayed busy, and overworked.

  “Finally brought that wife of yours to pasture, I see,” Zurha whispered in his ear. “I was sorry to hear of the passing of the other twin. Isabella, yes? Always thought she’d have made a much better wife for you than this one.”

  Feraz kept his face stoic in the face of his mother’s comment, though, truthfully he’d been thinking the same thing himself prior to the flight back here. Something had shifted inside him during the journey, however. Perhaps it was the conversations he’d had with his wife on the flight. Perhaps it was the way she’d cuddled into his side to sleep and refused to let him go. Perhaps it was the immediate and deep connection with her he’d felt during their kiss, as if finally he’d found the one. Strange that, since he’d never experienced that before when kissing Roxanne, but regardless, he wouldn’t refuse the gift of her compliance.

  Whatever it was, he wanted desperately for this to work and to finally have some peace and contentment in their relationship, if only for the sake of their child.

  My son.

  “She looks well enough, I suppose,” Zuhra said, giving his wife an appraising stare as she emerged from the second limo and headed over toward Feraz. “All the tests were in order, I presume?”

  “Yes, Mama,” Feraz said, his gut pinching over the fact he’d had to prove paternity at all. It was an old Djevian custom and law meant to protect the sheikhdom from usurpers, but it still rankled. “All is in order. Please be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.” Zuhra said, not looking at her son. “Trusting her is another story. She will need to prove her loyalty to me before that will ever happen again. She hurt you, my son, and for that she needs my forgiveness.” The small older woman squared her shoulders and raised her chin defiantly. “She will need to earn both before I will consider her a true part of this family again.”

  Feraz sighed and gave his wife a small smile as she reached them, taking her trembling hand in his. The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded a bit and some color had returned to her cheeks, though he did not like the tightness around her lips. He felt the crazy urge to pull her into his arms again and kiss her until her tension dissipated.

  That would not be wise, however, considering the legion of press and reporters who were now gathering outside the gates at the end of the drive. With their technology and telephoto lenses, he was sure they were picking up every gesture and expression as if they stood right here next to him on the red carpet. The limo drivers had done their best to lose the paparazzi on the drive here, but they were too persistent these days to disappear for long.

  “Mama, you remember my wife, Roxanne,” Feraz said, leading his wife to stand in front of his mother. The two women exchanged cool glances and Roxanne made an attempt to curtsy, though it was difficult with the pregnancy. Feraz put his arm around her waist to help her straighten then pulled her into his side, both as a show of solidarity and just because it felt so good to touch her. “She will be living here with us at the palace until after the child is born at least.”

  “Is that so?” Zuhra said, appraising Roxanne from head to toe. “I shall look forward to our discussions then, Miss Germain.” She’d deliberately not called his wife by her married name and Feraz felt Roxanne stiffen beside him at the slight. “Your sister and I used to have the most delightful conversations. Isabella was so knowledgeable about the world and had great insight into people. My deepest condolences on her passing. She was a great woman.”

  With the harsh sun, he was afraid his wife might pass out on him. Feraz took her arm and directed her toward the door of the palace. “I believe this heat is a bit much. I’ll show my wife to her quarters now, Mama.”

  Zuhra snorted, but didn’t stop him, instead turning to greet her daughters instead. The woman moved off toward the gardens at the back of the house, along with his brothers and their wives—all of them chattering away in a mix of English and Arabic and most certainly gossiping about Feraz and Roxanne and their disaster of a marriage.

  He led his pale, shaking wife into the air-conditioned foyer then signaled to one of the servants to get her some water to drink. He helped Roxanne into a gold gilt chair against the wall then crouched in front of her. Her poor feet were swollen to the point of redness, and before he could rethink his actions, Feraz had removed her shoe to rub her sore foot. Gently, he worked out the knots and restored circulation while she stared down at him, the weight of her stare prickling the back of his neck. When he hazarded a look up at her again, his tone sounded rough, even to his own ears. “Feel better?”

  * * *

  It felt way more than better, but Isabella didn’t trust her voice at the moment. She’d been worried about meeting Feraz’s family, and most especially his mother, again. The sisters had taken it pretty much as she’d expected—wary and defensive. But to hear Zuhra talk about her in such glowing terms and to see the true sadness in her eyes because she thought Isabella was dead nearly made her confess the truth. It had only been the fact that Feraz had tugged her into his side and the baby had started kicking again that stopped her.

  Man, this was going to be way more difficult than she’d anticipated. Not because people didn’t believe she was Roxanne, but because they did. She’d loved her sister, really she had, but she’d also not been aware of how badly Roxanne had hurt people through her careless and callous actions. How her affairs had affected Feraz and his family. She’d gone into this for the money, but now she feared there wasn’t enough currency in the world to save her self-respect.

  And when Feraz looked at her like that, all care and concern and barely-concealed heat in his dark eyes, all she wanted to do was curl up in his lap and tell him all her problems. Except honesty wasn’t an option, not where this whole screwed-up mess was concerned. She was on her own, pregnant and vulnerable, and a long, long way from home. She needed to be smart about this and not let her emotions get the better of her, regardless of how hard that might be with her pretend husband around. Because when Feraz had kissed her on the plane, things between them hadn’t felt like pretend at all.

  She slowly withdrew her foot from his hand and gave him a wan smile, thanking the servant who’d returned with a cold bottle of water for her. Isabella sipped
her drink, watching Feraz. He’d straightened and was now standing several feet away, frowning down at her like he couldn’t figure her out. Good luck with that, buddy. In truth, Isabella hadn’t been able to understand what the hell she was doing from the minute she’d agreed to the IVF in Roxanne’s place. Yes, her mother needed the money and yes, Isabella had always wanted children of her own someday even though there’d been no guy she’d dated seriously for years. But this was…wow.

  Now that the shock of seeing Zuhra again had worn off, Isabella took a look around the palace foyer. It was just as spectacular as she remembered, all glittering mosaics and priceless antique furniture. Beautiful. Stunning. Growing up poor, she’d never imagined living in such luxury.

  “If you’re feeling better, I can show you to your rooms,” Feraz said, arms crossed as if guarding himself.

  Isabella slid her shoe back on then stood. “Yes, please. I’d like to freshen up.”

  “Of course.” Feraz bowed slightly then led her across the foyer and down a series of maze-like mirrored halls. “I hope my sisters were not too much of a bother to you on the ride here?”

  “Oh, no. They were fine.” She glanced sideways to see the luxurious walled gardens outside through the windows beside Feraz, and his family still clustered together talking. Most likely about her. Ugh. Feraz raised a brow, his expression dubious. “I mean they were curious, naturally. About why I’d returned home with you now, and what my intentions were for the future where you’re concerned.”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  They rounded another corner and the sunlight faded as they headed toward the interior of the palace. The floors here were carpeted and the thick padding felt heavenly on Isabella’s sore feet.