Stockings for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 5)

by Annabelle Winters

  Elle nodded now, slowly, her head moving in rhythm to some kind of imperceptible beat, and she shrugged again, touched her neck now, blinked and took a breath as she looked up at the Sheikh, catching a hint of that strange unease behind those confident green eyes, like there was something more to this, something serious beneath the play, something dark behind the light.

  “Yeah, we can do that,” she said, her voice sounding strangely low as she saw what she could only call relief flash across the Sheikh’s handsome face for the briefest of moments before that smile of his broke through again, making it seem like Elle had just imagined all of that.

  And that feeling of living in an imaginary world only got stronger as Elle watched Tammy calmly open up the registration application on the computer and then pleasantly look up at the bodyguard with the roll of hundreds. “And what name should I use for the rooms?”

  “Sheikh Akbar Salim,” said the bodyguard.

  Tammy glanced quickly up at the bodyguard before looking over at the Sheikh and then back to her screen, nodding as her fingers flew across the keyboard. She had a strange smile on her face, Elle thought. Like Tammy recognized the name. Like she had figured out what was going on a couple of minutes ago.

  In a minute Tammy was done, and she shook her head as the bodyguard began peeling off crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” she said, leaning back in her swivel chair and glancing over at the Sheikh and shaking her head and smiling. “The hospital’s almost empty right now, and regardless . . .” Now she paused and wagged her finger at the Sheikh like she was onto the joke or something. “Yeah, regardless, I don’t think the board of directors would look too kindly on me accepting payment from the single largest benefactor of the hospital.”

  “Wait, what?” said Elle, glancing over at Tammy. “You know him?”

  “I know OF him,” Tammy replied, glancing up at the Sheikh again now, her expression softening as she spoke to Elle while looking at the Sheikh. “And I know enough to know that none of us would have jobs if not for him. So yeah, he gets three rooms if he wants them. Doctor’s note and his name are good enough credentials. Merry Christmas, gentlemen.”

  The Sheikh cocked his head and nodded once to acknowledge Tammy’s graciousness. “Ah, I was wondering how far I could get without using my name,” he said, winking once at Elle and smiling at Tammy. “But I am discovered now. No matter. Now that I am registered, all confidentiality rules will apply, yes? And so it will not become public that I have checked into this hospital, yes?”

  Tammy nodded and was about to speak, but the Sheikh cut her off.

  “Because if anyone does find out I am here, then I know that one of you has talked. Snitched, as they say in America. And Sheikh Akbar does not suffer no snitches.” He spoke the last sentence in a comical American accent, which was part ghetto, part New England royalty, and Elle had to bite her lip even as she caught one of the bodyguards’ beards move as the man glanced at his Sheikh quickly before going back to his dead-ahead stare.

  “Well, there’s these guys here too,” Elle said, putting her hands on her hips and gesturing with her head towards the two silent bodyguards. “You know that most people are betrayed by the folks closest to them.”

  The Sheikh grinned spontaneously as he looked down at Elle, the twinkle in his eyes sending the most wonderful chill through her as she tried to ignore the fact that she was openly flirting with this man, right here, in front of everybody!

  “An excellent point, Miss . . . ?” he said now, leaning in and pausing.

  “Easton,” she said softly, touching her brown hair and blinking. “Eleanor Easton.”

  The Sheikh nodded, offering his right hand along with a smile. “Akbar Salim. Pleased to meet you. I apologize for the nurse uniform situation. I will be sure to double my donation this year, making the money conditional on the reissuance of the 1940s style of nurse uniform.”

  “White miniskirts?” Elle said, instinctively smiling even though she knew she shouldn’t reward him for making borderline sexist jokes.

  The Sheikh nodded, his grip firm on Elle’s hand. “Yes. And white stockings. Of course.”

  “Of course,” Elle said, looking down at his hand for a moment because looking into his eyes was making her feel a bit out of sorts right now, now that she was so close to him, close enough to smell him, to take in the scent of this man, a faint remnant of cologne that had been splashed on many hours ago, an earthy, exotic musk that hinted of almond oil and brown sage, all of it mixing with his natural scent that felt warm and thick, clean and masculine.

  Elle wasn’t a small woman, but she suddenly felt tiny next to this man, who stood well over a foot taller than her, his hand like a bear’s paw enveloping the smooth white of her hand which felt petite and dainty right now. It took her a moment to focus back on reality, and when she did Elle noticed the marks on Sheikh Akbar’s hand. Marks on his knuckles. Bruises, fresh and dark, not immediately noticeable under the olive skin tone, but unmistakable now that she was up close.

  Elle frowned as she stood there, her hand still in his, her mind racing. Now it occurred to her that she didn’t smell any alcohol on this man after all, that perhaps he wasn’t drunk at all, that perhaps those fleeting glimpses she had caught of a distinct unease behind this picture of confidence and control was not because the man was drunk but because he was hurt.

  And now Elle saw the way he was favoring his right side, and she pulled her hand away from his and looked up into his eyes like she was saying hey, you need help, and I’m going to help you.

  Then without hesitation, without asking, without even thinking, Elle reached out and gently pulled back the right side of his coat, her gut tightening when she saw how his black shirt was plastered tight against the hard, muscular side of his midsection. The black cloth was soaked. Soaked with blood.

  3

  “I do not want any orderly or other staff involved,” the Sheikh said now, quietly and calmly. “You will take us up to the rooms and then leave us. My doctor will be here tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, all right, but you still need a doctor before tomorrow morning,” Elle said, keeping her own voice low as she felt drawn in by the Sheikh’s sense of urgency, the way his voice conveyed a need for secrecy, the way his eyes told her that he was putting some degree of trust in her, trust that he expected her not to betray. She glanced over at Tammy, who was looking over at them but hadn’t noticed the Sheikh’s wound because Elle was blocking the view. “OK, I can take you up. But then I’ll have to call the on-duty doctor. Because if something happens, it won’t matter who the hell you are, because there will be police reports and—”

  “No doctor will be necessary tonight, Ms. Easton. I am not going to die up there.” He shrugged now, wincing as if the shrug pulled at his wound. “At least not from this injury. It is just a scratch. If I slip in the shower, then, well, you may call in the paramedics.”

  Elle ignored the quip. “Lot of blood for a scratch,” she said. “I can tell without even seeing it that you’ll need stitches.”

  “I have already applied the necessary stitches,” the Sheikh said in that matter-of-fact tone, like he was in control again, had always been in control. “I simply need to clean the wound, change the dressing, and then take some rest for the night. Tomorrow I will be gone.”

  Elle furrowed her brow as she stared up at him. Then she slowly shook her head, a knowing smile breaking on her full, red lips. “If you know enough to stitch yourself up, then I can’t imagine you’re going to drag yourself to the hospital just to change a goddamn dressing, Mister Sheikh. You could have sent one of your thugs to Walgreen’s and done what you needed in a hotel room or even a freakin’ limo. You’re here because you know you need to be at a hospital.” Now Elle straightened up her body, stuck her chest out, the confidence rising as she began to feel professional again. “Judging by how you’ve been walking and talking, albeit with some effort and pain, I’d say you h
aven’t damaged any internal organs. And so you’re probably here because you’re worried about an internal infection from the wound, perhaps because of the circumstances of the injury, of how it occurred, the object that wounded you.”

  “Waqalat 'ant ya rijal aleisabat,” the man said to his bodyguards, who immediately snorted with laughter like two bulls before going silent again.

  “What’s so funny?” Elle said, frowning as she glanced at the bodyguards and then at the Sheikh.

  “I said you called them thugs,” he said smoothly, holding back a grin. “They are very pleased. They like you now.”

  Elle smiled and shook her head, but she had caught this man flinch at the mention of the police, and she wondered if this would qualify as suspicious enough to require her to call the police herself. After all, a hospital is required to report injuries like bullet-wounds and stabbings. Would this qualify? Sure, if she asked him he could say it was an accident or whatever. He could say that his big-shot doctor on the board of directors had already checked him and all that. But wasn’t it up to the police to decide whether he was lying? What was her duty here? What do you do, Elle? God, what the hell do you do?

  She looked up into his green eyes, and now that feeling came back, that sense of being drawn in, being pulled forward, perhaps being pushed forward. Trust me, his eyes were saying. Trust me, and help me.

  OK, she thought as that practical, logical side of her butted in to offer help. Tammy’s already checked these guys in. This is a private hospital that isn’t supported by the government or any local charities or whatever. He’s been authorized and vouched for by a respected doctor. This man is apparently the largest donor to the hospital, so he in effect keeps the lights on and pays our salaries and Christmas bonuses. And this is America, goddamn it! A place where donors get privileges! Don’t the largest political donors get to spend nights at the White House as a reward for their support!

  The bruised knuckles, the injury . . . so this guy got hurt in a fight, Elle thought. And he wants to keep it quiet for whatever reason. It does seem like he’s from a super-conservative country. And he’s a Sheikh, which is a like a king or prince or something, so maybe that’s why—

  “Take us up now,” the Sheikh said, his eyes intense, his voice urgent. “Take us up now, and I will explain myself to you, Ms. Easton. Come on now, Nurse Eleanor. Come on.” Now he winked and offered a half-smile, his expression betraying his pain and the effort he was making to stay in control. “It is Christmas, yes? And what is more Christian than a Catholic nurse helping a wounded Muslim prince on Christmas Eve?”

  4

  “How do you know I’m Catholic?” Elle asked him as the shining steel elevator doors closed, sealing the four of them into the metal capsule that slowly moved up to the third floor.

  “Silver cross on the chain around your neck,” the Sheikh said from behind her.

  “Lots of Christians wear crosses,” Elle said without turning. She stood right up against the doors, facing front. “Doesn’t mean I’m Catholic.”

  “That rendition of the cross is uniquely Catholic. It is based on a sixteenth century illustration commissioned by Pope Francis.”

  Elle still didn’t turn. “For a Muslim, you know a lot about Christianity.”

  “I am a student of all the great religions. And Islam and Christianity have always been tied together. Did you know that the Old Testament and the Quran are virtually the same book? Abraham in the Old Testament. Ibrahim in the Quran. The angels Michael and Gabriel in the Old Testament. The angels Meekal and Gibrail in the Quran. Of course, the Catholics are all about the New Testament.”

  “Yup,” said Elle, touching her chain now, almost embarrassed that she hadn’t read the Bible since Sunday school, which was a hell of a lot of Sundays ago now, it seemed.

  The Sheikh went on as the elevator seemed to slow down, giving Elle that surreal feeling of time itself going slow, perhaps stopping, maybe even going in reverse. “The cross is fine silver, at least fifty years old,” the Sheikh said as the steel elevator strained against its metal cables. “The chain, however, is new. You have not been wearing the cross for long.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and now Elle half-turned as the color rushed to her face. “I got this chain three weeks ago,” she said quietly, her voice wavering for a moment. “The cross is my great-aunt’s. My grandmother’s sister. She brought it over when she came to the United States after World War II.”

  “The cross was made in Italy,” the Sheikh said, his voice very close behind her, like he had taken a step forward. “I can tell from the smooth edges, the particular glint of the silver.”

  “Yes,” Elle said, closing her eyes as a strange feeling came over her, like she was at confession or something, like this man was her priest behind her, telling her things about herself. “It is Italian.”

  “But you are not Italian. Perhaps some part of you, but not enough for it to show.”

  “I’m not Italian, no,” she said, her voice almost to a whisper as she felt the Sheikh’s breath in her hair, teasing those invisible follicles on the back of her neck. She wanted to run her hands through her thick brown hair right now, expose her bare neck to his breath, his presence, his—

  “So then the cross was a gift to your great aunt, just like it was a gift to you.”

  She nodded silently as she watched the elevator’s digital readout flip. Were they just passing the second floor? It felt like she had been in here for a long time, didn’t it? The longest three floors, like the longest three minutes. Three minutes.

  And now time sped up and the elevator bumped to a halt on the third floor and the doors swished open and the bodyguards whisked their large bodies past Eleanor and into the empty hallway with its dull green carpeting and soothing blue walls. The men stood to either side of the doors, scanning the hallways before holding the doors open for Elle and the Sheikh.

  But for some reason Elle did not move, and she felt the Sheikh take another step, and he was so close she could sense the tension in his tall, broad frame, a tension that her own body was mimicking now, reciprocating in a way that made Elle certain that his reaction had nothing to with pain or discomfort and had everything to do with—

  And now he touched her, just a single touch, the tips of his fingers on the small of her back, so delicate, delicate like dynamite, the contact sending a surge of electricity through her, up the curve of her back, goosepimples on her arms, her panties feeling tight suddenly, stockings almost claustrophobic, nipples going stiff like that magical breeze was inside her bra, brushing against her skin, teasing, whispering, whispering . . .

  “A gift from a lover,” he whispered into her hair as he walked past, his hand lingering for a moment on her lower back, fingertips burning through the cloth of her pink top as he brushed past her and stopped just before stepping out of the elevator, now turning his head and looking over at her, his eyes misty with a faraway look that seemed to match the feeling Elle had in her knotted-up tummy right now.

  “What?” she said as the memories of her own mother came back in a rush, of the day Elle had been given this cross, all those years ago, when she was sixteen and heartbroken and life seemed pointless because she had lost her true love, seventeen-year-old Matt or Dave or Kevin—she could barely remember his name now, let alone his face!

  “Honey,” her mom had said at first. “If he breaks your heart, he wasn’t worthy of your heart in the first place.”

  “Easy for you to say,” sixteen-year-old Elle had snapped, ripping down another picture of her and Matt (or Kevin) from the pink-bordered corkboard in her room. “You married your true love. And I just got dumped by mine.”

  And now, all these years later, Elle could remember the chill she got when her mother leaned in and whispered, “Wrong on both counts.”

  “What?” Elle had said, dropping the pieces of that photograph and staring up at her mother, a good Catholic—good enough that it was close to blasphemy to admit that everything
wasn’t perfect in her marriage. “What’re you saying, Mom? You don’t love Dad? Oh, my God, I so don’t need to hear this right now!”

  Her mom had chuckled and then slid onto the little single bed beside Elle, pulled her daughter close and kissed her head. “No, babe. Of course I love your dad. But there’s love, and then there’s . . . well, then there’s . . .”

  Elle had swallowed that sickening feeling of finding out way too much about your parents’ private life, and she had looked into her mother’s eyes and seen something in there, something that Elle’s already-strong instinct to heal picked up on. Mom needs to say this for herself as much as for me, the wise old teenage Elle had realized, and so she took a breath and pushed forward.

  “Then there’s what?”

  But her mom was too self-conscious to say anything else, too wrapped up in her own upbringing to reveal her secrets, too conservative to admit out loud that (as Elle found out years later . . .) she had slept with a man before she got married to Elle’s dad, allowed herself to be seduced by someone she knew she should never marry, someone she knew would never be a good father and husband.

  In a way Elle had understood all that just from the look in her mother’s eyes that day, the communication happening at a level deep and mysterious, like it sometimes does between two women who are close, a mother and a daughter. And so Elle had stayed quiet and just watched as her clearly flustered mother had shuffled out of the room and hurried back with this cross and the story that went with the cross.

  “This belonged to your great aunt. I want you to have it, Elle.”

  Elle had taken the cross and looked at it closely, marveling at the dull shine of the silver, somehow showing its age but also exuding a freshness, a sense of optimism, hope. “Mom, it’s beautiful!” Elle had said. “My great aunt. So that’s Grandma’s sister? Margot, right? She was a lot older than Grandma.”

  “Yes. She came to America in 1944. It was one of the few things she brought with her.”