Carrying the Sheikh's Heir

by Lynn Raye Harris

  Sheridan laughed. “Gee, thanks.” But then she shook her head. “I’ll freshen up, but I’d really like to work. It’ll keep my mind occupied.”

  Kelly looked doubtful. “All right. But if you find yourself crying in the soup, you have to go.”

  * * *

  The party was a success. The guests loved the food, the waitstaff did a superb job and once everything was under control, Sheridan went back to the office to work on the menus for the next party they were catering in a few days’ time. Kelly stayed behind to make sure there were no last-minute issues, but Sheridan knew her partner would come back to the office after it was over.

  They were a great team. Had been since the first moment they’d met in school. Kelly was the cooking talent, and Sheridan was the architect behind the business. Literally the architect, Sheridan thought with a wry smile. She’d gone to the Savannah College of Art and Design for a degree in historical preservation architecture, but it was her talent at organizing parties that helped make Dixie Doin’s—they’d left the g off doing on purpose, which worked well in the South but not so much when visiting Yankees called it doynes—into the growing business it was today.

  They’d rented a building with a large commercial kitchen, hired a staff and maintained a storefront where people could come in and browse through specialty items that included table linens, dishes, gourmet oils and salts and various teas and teapots.

  Sheridan settled in her office to scroll through the requirements for the next event. She had no idea how much time had passed when she heard the buzzer for the shop door. She automatically glanced up at the screen where the camera feed showed different angles of the store. Tiffany, the teenager they’d hired for the summer, was nowhere to be seen. A man stood inside the shop, looking around the room as if he had no clue what he was doing there.

  Probably his wife had sent him to buy something and he had no idea what it looked like. Sheridan got up from her desk when Tiffany still hadn’t appeared and went out to see if she could help him. Yes, it was annoying, and yes, she would have to speak to the girl again about not leaving the floor, but no way would she let a potential customer walk away when she could do the job herself.

  The man was standing with his back to her. He was tall, black haired and dressed in a business suit. There was something about him that seemed to dwarf the room, but then she shook that thought away. He was just a man. She’d never yet met one who impressed her all that much. Well, maybe Chris, her sister’s husband. He loved Annie so much that he would do anything for her.

  In Sheridan’s experience, most men were far too fickle. And the better looking they were, the worse they seemed to be. On some level, she always fell for it, though. Because she was too trusting of people, and because she liked to believe the best of them. Her mother had always said she was too sunny and sweet. She was working on it, darn it, but what was the point in believing the worst of everyone you met? It was a depressing way to live—even if her last boyfriend had proved that she’d have been better off believing the worst of him from the start.

  “Welcome to Dixie Doin’s,” she said brightly. “Can we help you today, sir?”

  The man seemed to stiffen slightly. And then he turned, slowly, until Sheridan found herself holding her breath as she gazed into the most coldly handsome face she’d ever seen. There wasn’t an ounce of friendliness in his dark eyes—yet, incongruously, there was an abundance of heat.

  Her heart kicked up a level, pounding hard in her chest. She told herself it was the hormones from all the shots and the stress of waiting to see whether or not the fertilization had succeeded.

  But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t even that he was breathtakingly handsome.

  It was the fact he was an Arab, when she’d just been told the news of the clinic’s mistake. It seemed a cruel joke to be faced with a man like him when she didn’t know whether she was pregnant with a stranger’s baby or if she could try again for her sister.

  “You are Sheridan Sloane.”

  He said it without even a hint of uncertainty, as if he knew her. But she did not know him—and she didn’t like the way he stood there sizing her up as if she was something he might step in on a sidewalk.

  She was predisposed to like everyone she met. But this man already rubbed her the wrong way.

  “I am.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts and tilted her chin up. “And you are?”

  She imbued those words with every last ounce of Southern haughtiness she could manage. Sometimes having a family who descended from the Mayflower and who boasted a signer of the Declaration of Independence, as well as at least six Patriots who’d fought in the American War of Independence was a good thing. Even if her family had sunk into that sort of gentile poverty that had hit generations of Southerners after Reconstruction, she had her pride and her heritage—and her mother’s refined voice telling her that no one had the right to make her feel as if she wasn’t good enough for them.

  He did something very odd then. He bent slightly at the waist before touching his forehead, lips and heart. Then he stood there so straight and tall and, well, stately, that she got a tingle in her belly. She imagined him in desert robes, doing that very same thing, and gooey warmth flooded her in places that hadn’t gotten warm in a very long time.

  “I am Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan.”

  The door opened again and this time another man entered. He was also in a suit, but he was wearing a headset and she realized with a start that he must be a bodyguard. A quick glance at the street in front of the shop revealed a long, black limousine and another man in a suit. And another stationed on the far side of the street, dark sunglasses covering his eyes as he looked up and down for any signs of trouble.

  The one who’d just entered the shop stood by the door without moving. The man before her didn’t even seem to notice his presence. Or, more likely, he was so accustomed to it that he ignored it on purpose.

  “What can I help you with Mr., er, Rashid.” It was the only name she could remember from that string of names he’d spoken.

  The man at the door stiffened, but the man before her lifted an eyebrow as if he were somehow amused.

  “You have something of mine, Miss Sloane. And I want it back.”

  A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her upper lip. She hoped like hell he couldn’t see it. First of all, it wasn’t ladylike. Second, she sensed that any nervousness on her part would be an advantage for him. This was the kind of man who pounced on weakness like a ravenous cat.

  “I don’t believe we’ve ever done business with any Rashids, but if we accidentally packed up some of your wife’s good silver with our own, you may, of course, have it back.”

  He no longer looked amused. In fact, he looked downright furious. “You do not have my silver, Miss Sloane.”

  He took a step toward her then, his large form as graceful and silent as a cat. He was so close she could smell him. He wasn’t wearing heavy cologne, but he had a scent like hot summer breezes and crisp spices. Her fanciful imagination conjured up a desert oasis, waving palm trees, a cool spring, an Arabian stallion—and this man, dressed in desert robes like Omar Sharif or Peter O’Toole.

  It was a delicious mirage. And disconcerting as hell.

  Sheridan put her hand out and smoothed it over the edge of the counter as she tried to appear casual. “If you could just inform me what it is, I’ll take a l-look and see if I can find it.”

  Damn her voice for quavering.

  “I doubt you could.”

  His gaze dropped to her middle, lingered. It took several moments, but then her stomach began a long, slow free fall into nothingness. He couldn’t possibly mean—

  Oh, no. No, no, no...

  But his head lifted and his eyes met hers and she knew he was not here for the family silver.

  “How...?” she began. Sherid
an swallowed hard. This was unbelievable. An incredible breach of confidentiality. She would sue that clinic into the next millennium. “They wouldn’t tell me a thing about you. How did you get them to reveal my information?”

  For one wild moment, she hoped he didn’t know what she was talking about. That this was indeed some sort of misunderstanding with a tall, beautiful Arab male who meant something entirely different than she thought. He would blink, shake his head, inform her that she had accidentally packed a small family heirloom—though she’d never done such a thing before—when she’d catered his event. Then he would describe it and she would go searching for it as though her life depended on it. Anything to be rid of him and quiet this flame raging inside her as he moved even closer than before.

  But she knew, deep down, that he did know what she meant. That there was no misunderstanding.

  “I am a powerful man, Miss Sloane. I get what I want. Besides, imagine the scandal were it to become known that an American facility had made such a mistake.” His voice dripped of self-righteousness. “Impregnating some random woman with a potential heir to the throne of Kyr? And then refusing to inform the king of the child’s whereabouts?”

  He shook his head while her insides turned to ice as she tried to process what he’d just said.

  “It would not happen,” he continued. “It did not happen. As you see.”

  Sheridan found herself slumping against the counter, her eyes glued to this man’s face while the rest of the room began to darken and fade. “D-did you say king? They gave me a king’s sperm?”

  She pressed a shaky hand to her forehead. Her throat was dry, so dry. And her belly wanted to heave. She’d thought this couldn’t possibly get worse. She’d been wrong. She swallowed the acidic bitterness and focused on the man before her.

  “They did, Miss Sloane.”

  Oh, my God. Her brain stopped working. She’d thought he was the one whose sperm she’d gotten—he’d said she had something of his, right?—but a king would not come to her shop and tell her these things. A king would also not look so dark and dangerous.

  This was someone else. An official. Perhaps even an ambassador. Or an enforcer.

  It was easy to believe this man could be hired muscle. He was tall and broad, and his eyes were chips of dark ice. His voice was frosty and utterly compelling. He had come to tell her about this king and to—to...?

  She couldn’t imagine what he’d come here for. What he expected of her.

  Sheridan worked hard to force out the words before the nausea overwhelmed her. “Please tell the king that I’m sorry. I understand how difficult this must be, but he’s not the only one affected. My sister—”

  She pressed her hand to her mouth as bile rose in her throat. What would she say to Annie? Her fragile sister would implode, she just knew it.

  “Sorry is not enough, Miss Sloane. It is not nearly enough.”

  She swallowed the nausea. Her voice was thready when she spoke. “Then I don’t—”

  “Are you quite all right?” He was beginning to look alarmed. A much more intriguing look than the angry one he’d been giving her a moment ago.

  “I’m fine.” Except she didn’t feel fine. She felt hot and sweaty and sick to her stomach.

  “You look green.”

  “It’s the heat. And the hormones,” she added. She pushed away from the counter, her limbs shaking with the effort of holding herself upright. “I should sit down, I think.”

  She started to take a step, but her knees didn’t want to function quite right. Mr. Rashid—or whatever his name was—lashed out and wrapped an arm around her. She found herself wedged tightly against a firm, hard, warm body. Her nerve endings started to crackle and snap with fresh heat.

  It was too much, too much, and yet she couldn’t get away. Briefly, a small corner of her brain admitted that she didn’t want to get away.

  He spoke, his voice seeming farther away than before. The words were beautiful, musical, but he did not seem to be speaking them to her. And then he swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing and strode across her store on long legs. Her office door opened and he went and sat her down on the small couch she kept for meeting with clients.

  She didn’t want to let him go, but she did. Her gaze fluttered over to the entry, where saw a wide-eyed Tiffany standing there, and one of the suit-clad men, who reached in and closed the door, leaving Sheridan alone with Mr. Rashid.

  He sank down on one knee beside the couch and pressed a hand to her head. She knew what he would find. She was clammy and hot and she uttered a feeble protest. The door opened again and Tiffany appeared with a glass of ice water and a folded cloth.

  Sheridan took it and sipped gratefully, letting the coolness wash through her as she closed her eyes and breathed. Someone put the cool cloth on her forehead and she reached up to clutch it because it felt so nice.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, holding the cloth and sipping the water, but when she finally opened her eyes and looked up, Mr. Rashid was still there, sitting across from her in one of the pretty Queen Anne chairs she’d bought from a local antiques shop. He looked ridiculous in it, far too big and masculine, but he also looked as if he didn’t care.

  “What happened?” His voice was not as hard as it had been. She didn’t think he was capable of gentleness, and this was as close to it as he got.

  “Too much stress, too many hormones, too much summer heat.” She shrugged. “Take your pick, Mr. Rashid. It could be any of them.”

  He muttered something in Arabic and then he was looking at her, his burning gaze penetrating deep. There was frost in his voice. “Miss Sloane, I think you misunderstand something about what’s going on here.”

  Her heart skipped. Why was he so beautiful? And why was he such a contrast? He was fire and ice in one person. Hot eyes, cold heart. It almost made her sad. But why should it? She did not know him, and what she did know so far hadn’t endeared him to her. “Do I?”

  “Indeed. I am not Mr. Rashid.”

  “Then who are you?”

  He looked haughty and her stomach threatened to heave again. Because there was something familiar about that face, she realized. She’d seen it on the news a few weeks ago.

  He spoke, his voice clear and firm and lightly accented. “I am King Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan, the Great Protector of my people, the Lion of Kyr and Defender of the Throne. And you, Miss Sloane, may be carrying my heir.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE WOMAN LOOKED positively frightened. Rashid did not relish making her so, but perhaps it was better if he did. Better if she agreed without question to what she must do. She could not be allowed to stay here in this...this shop...and work as if she did not potentially carry the next king of Kyr in her womb.

  He had spent the long hours of the flight researching Sheridan Sloane. She was twenty-six, unmarried and part owner of this business that planned and catered various parties in the local area. She had one older sister, a woman named Ann Sloane Campbell, who had been trying to conceive a child for six years now.

  Sheridan was supposed to carry the baby her sister could not conceive. It was an admirable enough thing to do, he supposed, but since he’d now been dragged into it, he had his own legacy to protect. If her sister was upset about it, then he could not help that.

  Sheridan Sloane was a pretty woman, though not especially striking in any way. She was of average height and small boned, with golden-blond hair of indeterminate length since it was wrapped in a coil on her head. Her eyes, wide as she gazed at him, were a blue so dark they were almost violet. There were bruises under them, marring her pale skin.

  She was tired and overwhelmed and no match for him. She was the sort of woman who did what she was told, in spite of her small rebellion earlier. She was a pleaser, and he was not. He would order her to com
e with him, and she would do it.

  But, as he watched her, her body seemed to grow stiff. He could see the shutters closing, the walls rising. It was an unpleasant surprise to find she had a backbone after all. Still, he’d broken stronger people—men, usually—than her.

  She shifted until she was sitting fully upright, her feet swinging onto the floor now. She faced him across a small tea table, her eyes snapping with fresh sparks. He was intrigued in spite of himself.

  “You are the king? You could have said that right away, you know, and saved us a few steps.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Yes, but what would you have done then? You nearly fainted when I informed you that you had been inseminated with a king’s sperm.”

  Her lips pursed. “I nearly fainted because it’s been a long, stressful day. Do you have any idea how my sister took the news, Mr.—oh, hell, I have no idea what to call you.”

  “Your Majesty will work.”

  Her face flooded with color. And there went that little chin again, thrusting into the air. Who was she trying to convince that she was a tigress? Him, or herself? Before he could ask, she imbued her voice with steel.

  “I realize we find ourselves in an untenable situation, but someone inserted your sperm into my body a few days ago. I think that warrants a first-name basis, don’t you? At least until this is resolved.”

  Rashid would have coughed if he’d been drinking anything. As it was, he could only glare at her. She shocked him. Oddly, she also amused him. It was this last that should alarm him, but in fact it was the first normal thing that had happened to him since he’d taken the throne two months ago.

  He shouldn’t allow any familiarity between them. But she might be carrying his child—his child!—and it seemed wrong to treat her as a complete stranger. He thought of Daria, of her soft brown eyes and swollen belly, and he wanted to stand up and flee this room. But of course he could not do so. He was a king now, and he had a responsibility to his nation. To his people.

  And to his child.