ROMANCE: Sleeping With The Sheikh (Billionaire Alpha Male Sheikh Romance) (New Adult Forbidden Series Short Stories)

by Knight, Kylie

   Copyright 2016 by (Kylie Knight) - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Sleeping With The Sheikh

  Billionaire Bachelors Club

  By: Kylie Knight

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  Sleeping With The Sheikh

  Chapter One

  At thirty-two Clarice Herston was one of the wealthiest women in the United States. She lived in New York City in one of the most prestigious apartment buildings. One owned by her husband Donald Herston. He was much older than her—his fortune already most definitely established by the time they had met—and for their twenty year difference in age, most people said that she was a gold digger who had married for money.

  Well, they whispered it amongst themselves, bored with their own lives and thus fascinated with the scandal in others. All the while, they smiled at Clarice’s face as though she were the apple of their eyes.

  But Clarice hadn’t married for money. Two years ago she’d fallen in love with a man. Had it been impulsive? Yes. Had it at least been born in part from desperation? Yes. Had she meant every moment of it? Absolutely.

  Donald had come to Dalton, Iowa on Clarice’s thirtieth birthday. He was just passing through on a business trip and ended up there during a layover. Originally, it had been only a thirty minute layover that turned into twenty three hours and fifteen minutes due to the massive and unseasonal snow they’d received that year.

  Clarice, though she was thirty years old, worked as a waitress at a little café that was just known as Mom and Pop’s, even though the sign above it said Bertha’s Glass and Groceries. Bertha had been dead for probably a hundred years and when Mom and Pop bought it, turning it into a little café with great home cooked food, there wasn’t a soul that even remembered old Bertha ever owned it.

  It might have seemed like a crummy job on the surface, but in Dalton any job that guaranteed thirty hours on a regular basis and kept you on through the winter was a good job out there. Besides, Mom and Pop (actually named Maureen and George) were pretty decent people to work for.

  Even so, Clarice didn’t want to spend her life as a waitress and since she was thirty years old at the time, she already felt like she’d spent too much of it in tiny old Dalton.

  It was the reason she’d been so thrilled by the snow storm. It had trapped so many out of town folks there and one of them had been Donald.

  He’d sat in her section, immediately asking for a coffee—black and leave the pot—before trying to get ahold of someone on his cell phone. But the storm had cut off more than just their ride and after fifteen minutes of trying, he finally gave Clarice the time of day.

  When she smiled so prettily at him, he’d been charmed. And when one of the other waitresses had told him it was her birthday, he’d smiled broadly at her.

  “Well, then it’s time for a present, isn’t it?” he’d told her and left her the biggest tip she’d ever received. A thousand dollars. It was a check, of course, so she figured it was just a gag. But later, after he’d swept her away and promised her the world, she realized that he’d been serious.

  Donald Herston had given her a thousand dollar tip.

  And he’d flirted with her. And he’d asked if she was single, asked what a pretty flower like her was doing wilting in a crummy old town like this. And he’d asked her if she had the chance to get out, would she take it?

  “Yes,” she had answered him immediately, with hope shining in her eyes and adventure beating in her breast. “Oh, yes. In a heartbeat.”

  So when the airport opened up again, Clarice didn’t think anything would come of it, but that morning—nearly three in the morning as a matter of fact—Donald was on her doorstep with an extra ticket in hand.

  “Come with me,” he told her, smiling with perfect, pearly white teeth. His blonde hair, quickly turning white, glowed beneath a street lamp and for a beautiful moment, she thought he was an angel.

  “I don’t have anything packed,” she’d told him, flustered and excited and sure that this couldn’t really be happening. Not to her.

  He waved off her concerns. “I’ll buy you new things,” he promised.

  And just like that, Clarice got out of Dalton. She flew with Donald to his business meeting in Washington (the state not the capitol) and they ate at the fanciest restaurants in town. And when she asked where he had to go next, he told her Bermuda. Why? She had questioned and with a smile that was so bright it warmed her heart, he told her that it was because he had to marry her and he wouldn’t do it anywhere but there.

  It was the most unusual proposal she’d ever received, one that wasn’t even a question at all, but even if it had been, she wouldn’t have said no.

  They were married outdoors in a beautiful ceremony and spent the next month sipping champagne and eating chocolate covered strawberries as they made love beneath the moonlight.

  But eventually the honeymoon had to come to an end and Clarice was left with the remainder of what Donald was: just a man. Not an angel or a savior or anything else. Just a man. More importantly, a man she barely knew.

  He hadn’t told her much beyond being a business mogul with enough money that if money couldn’t buy him coal to burn, he’d just burn the money instead and have plenty to survive the winter.

  He never explained that he’d been married before—she found that out when the woman, named Henrietta, had called and demanded her sapphire earrings that Clarice had apparently stolen from her—nor had he bothered to mention that when he’d married Henrietta it had been at that same place at Bermuda. The two of them had spent a month there, too. He never explained that Clarice was a trophy wife more than anything—tall, beautiful, with golden blonde hair, naturally large breasts, and the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen—and that he had a tendency to lose interest in his playthings.

  Which he most definitely considered her to be.

  He never explained that New York City was his home and by extension hers, but he rarely spent any time there. He never explained that he expected her to lounge around at home while he flew across the world, to wait for him until he got back so that he could get a little hanky panky after a long trip.

  By the time Clarice started to figure any of that out, it was far too late. She was buried in a year long marriage and she just couldn’t bring herself to give up on it so quickly. People would claim it was for the prenuptial agreement she was required to sign, stating that she had no rights to any of his money should they separate, but that wasn’t it. Even if she had to go back to Dalton, Iowa and work as a waitress again, she’d do it if that was what it took.

  No, what Clarice was worried is that this was it. This was the romance and love she had so desperately craved for so long and she just wasn’t working hard enough to make it successful. The hope that things might get better, that that first spark which had brought them together might return, was what kept her clinging to Donald even though it was clear he had long since lost interest in her.

  Sighing, Clarice sat at the vanity that was technically hers, but always felt too formal for her taste. There were a lot
of things like that in the apartment. Nice things, pretty things, things that had been picked out for her, but they never reflected much of her in them.

  “That’s what happens when your husband doesn’t know the first thing about you,” she told her reflection, her full lips pulling down in a frown.

  She shook her head and grabbed her brush, beginning to pull it through her hair, fluffing as she went. It’s your own damn fault, she thought to herself. She needed to try harder to reconnect with her husband, instead of being so frosty and upset with him all of the time. That wasn’t how they were going to live happily ever after now was it?

  When she had brushed her hair and found suitable clothes for the day—black slacks and a nice white blouse tucked in—she headed downstairs. She could hear her husband Donald chatting away on the phone, occasionally raising his voice, arguing something, but once they gave in (and they always did), his tone would drop and become congenial once again. By the time she made it to the living room, the talking had stopped. His conversations were often brief and to the point; business meetings from the comfort of home.

  From the wide floor to ceiling windows that lined the back wall of their large New York City apartment, Clarice could see Donald sitting on the veranda. He was reading a paper, sipping at a cup of coffee.

  She took a breath and forced a smile on her face; she would make this morning different. She would talk to her husband today and reconnect with him, finding that spark that had originally brought them together.

  Walking over to the veranda, she opened the sliding glass door and joined him on the porch. “Good morning, honey,” she greeted brightly, taking a seat across from him. The city was beautiful from here, allowing her to look down at the multitude of cars, people, amidst the towering sky scrapers. It was breathtaking from up here and it made her glad that she lived in such an amazing city.

  “Morning,” came her husband’s disinterested response.

  “What are you reading?” Clarice asked. Obviously it was the paper, but she was hoping that maybe there was an interesting article or a piece of history highlighted today that had sparked his interest. Something that they could discuss and bond over.

  “The stocks,” he said blandly and her heart dropped.

  So much for that plan. She would have to come up with something else to latch onto. “I was thinking perhaps we could do lunch today,” Clarice began, pouring herself a cup of coffee, stirring in several cubes of sugar. “There’s this cute little place—Rosie’s, I know you’ll love it—down on Fifth and—”

  But he wasn’t listening. He turned the page of the paper and answered her at the same time. “Sorry, honey, can’t. I’ve got that big business deal with the Montes this afternoon. It’ll probably run late.” He didn’t even look at her.

  She tried to shove down her disappointment; he wasn’t making her plan to reconnect any easier. But she tried to stay optimistic. He was a busy man, that much she’d always known, right? They could move past that. She could work with it.

  “That’s, okay,” Clarice told him, shrugging as though she wasn’t hurt by her quick dismissal. He could have at least seemed like he was disappointed for not having the time to spend with her. Still, she reminded herself that this was partially her fault, too. She could make things right. She had to. “Well, how about dinner? My charity is doing a fundraiser with a local restaurant with proceeds going to—”

  Donald let out a sigh, informing her that she’d annoyed him for long enough this morning. Her heart dropped as she watched him fold up his newspaper, placing it down on the table so that he could look her in the eyes. “Darling, I’m a busy man,” he told her in a tone that was beyond patronizing. “I don’t have time for your little trivialities and your tea parties. I have responsibilities.” Before he could say more, his phone rang and he answered it without giving her a second glance.

  Clarice sat there as he got up and headed back inside with his phone and his coffee, leaving her to sit on the veranda all alone. She tried not to let it eat her up inside to think that she meant so little to him and she couldn’t help but think that she had an idea of why his first wife left him.

  Chapter Two

  Prince Farhid Kanaan was bored out of his mind. There was little he wanted to do less than sit in the great hall, listening as advisors discussed politics, natural disasters, and the economy of Qatar with his father. But that was part of the deal for Farhid. He was next in line to rule, though he had a younger brother (at the tender age of only fourteen, it was unlikely that he would ever rule assuming Farhid had a son). That all worked together to make it very important that Farhid made an effort to learn the necessities of becoming a ruler.

  Even though it bored him. Even though he hoped for more. Even though he wished to do something better for his people, more obvious and more direct.

  In time, Farhid reminded himself. He would come up with real programs that would help his people prosper. There was simply only so much he could do with his father in power. It wasn’t that his father was a bad man or a terrible ruler, he was simply stuck in his ways, reliant on those rulers which came before him. Farhid promised himself that he would be different.

  It was time for a change.

  Eventually, Farhid’s boredom came to an end. His father, Sheikh Alim Kanaan, dismissed his advisors. The men exited the room, bowing in reverence to their ruler and his son before exiting the great hall. When they all were done, Farhid stood as well, prepared to exit, but his father stopped him.

  “Farhid, my son,” the Sheikh said, causing his son to pause. “Might I have a moment further?”

  Farhid was mildly surprised, but nodded. “Of course.” He didn’t sit, because instead his father rose and motioned with his hand for his son to walk with him.

  “Please, walk with me.”

  The Sheikh led the way out of the great hall and towards the large outside hallway that rounded much of the palace. Farhid fell into line beside him, but slightly back so that his father still led. They walked in silence for a while, the Sheikh looking pensive. He seemed to have something important he wished to discuss with Farhid, but couldn’t decide how to come around to it.

  Finally, they came to the open balcony where often they would entertain important guests in the summer months. It was past midday now, with night quickly on the way. Here, Sheikh Alim finally stopped and turned to his son.

  “It is time, my dearest, oldest son,” the Sheikh told Farhid, placing either hand on Farhid’s shoulders. “This has been postponed for long enough. It is important—I shall not live forever.” He smiled wryly at this, but Farhid didn’t appreciate the humor in this. In fact, he saw none.

  “What are you talking about, father?” he asked, attempting to keep his tone even. He didn’t want to see upset with his father, but he sensed that what was about to be insisted was not something he was interested in taking form. “You have many years still—”

  Sheikh Alim held up a hand, forcing Farhid to become silent. The Sheikh smiled at his son, looking at him as though he understood all that was happening here, sympathy showing through his expression.

  “Come. It is time.” He opened his arms wide, indicating the balcony with its billowing curtains and the bright colors that caught the light of day and the darkness of night, using both instances to create what might be described as art.

  Farhid turned, looking towards where his father had gestured and when he saw several figures moving through those curtains towards them, his heart fell. He recognized the beautiful woman who walked towards him, despite the veil that hung just below her eyes, and knew suddenly what his father was speaking of.

  “Djamila Sarraf,” Farhid greeted, forcing formality into his voice to cover his disappointment.

  Djamily stopped before him and bowed, her eyes dipping low as she returned the greeting. “Prince Farhid Kanaan. It gives me great pleasure to see you again.”

  He forced a smile so that he might be able to lie effectively, but in his heart the tru
th beat like a drum: he did not take pleasure in seeing her again. She was a beautiful woman, of that there could be no doubt. She was young, barely twenty five, a full eight years younger than him, and had long thick hair that was a deep chocolate color. Her eyes were dark with thick lashes and he knew that beneath the veil she had full lips that curved easily into a smile. Her body was that of a healthy young woman and Farhid had no doubt that she would satisfy the needs of any man who was privileged enough to experience those curves.

  But he still didn’t want her.

  “Please, we shall be married one day. I insist you call me Farhid,” he offered to the young woman, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes on his face.

  He could tell that she smiled beneath the veil when she straightened, nodding her head. “As you wish, Farhid. I am honored.”

  His father stepped forward then and spoke the words that Farhid had dreaded to hear since the arrangement to marry this young woman was made, “That day has come, my son. Your reign will be soon and I have set a date so that you shall not enter into the perils of ruling alone.”

  “A date?” Farhid worked to keep his expression neutral. He wished to argue with his father, but it was clear already that there was no point. His mind was made up.

  “One week from today.”

  ***

  That one week arrived quicker than Farhid ever could have imagined. In some ways, he surmised that it was a good thing. He didn’t have time to consider how this would change his life, for better or worse. He couldn’t think about how much he didn’t want to marry Djamila, no matter how beautiful or well connected she was.

  Sighing, Farhid adjusted his sash. He tried to remind himself that this was not her fault any more than it was his. She was as much a victim of circumstance as he was. Their parents had gotten together to arrange their marriage to one another and while it made so much sense from a business standpoint, it had little merit based in the department of love.