Carrying the Sheikh's Heir

by Lynn Raye Harris

  “Stop.” Sheridan was on her feet, her blood pounding in her throat and temples. She didn’t know why she’d spoken, but she felt as if her entire life was altering right before her eyes and there was nothing she could do to stop the tidal wave of change.

  Rashid was looking at her now, his dark gaze dangerous and compelling. She reminded herself that he was capable of tenderness. He had touched her tenderly only last night when holding her hair and rubbing her back. And then there was the night he’d made love to her, so hot and intense and, yes, tender in his own way.

  “You’re making all these plans without asking me how I feel about any of them.”

  His brows drew down. “This is the way things are done in Kyr. How would you know what the arrangements should be?”

  She dug her fingernails into her palms. She was sweating, but not from illness. From shock. And fear.

  “I wasn’t talking about how things are done in Kyr. I’m talking about this marriage.”

  As if she could refuse it. She was here, in his palace, and he was a king. This child had to be born legitimate. And he’d said he would pay for Annie’s treatment. What more could she want?

  Love. Yes, she could want love. She could want to marry a man because she loved him, not because she had to.

  His gaze narrowed. “You are pregnant—this marriage will take place.”

  She held her arms stiffly at her sides. “Maybe I want to be asked. Did you ever consider that? Maybe I wanted to get married in an old church somewhere, with my family surrounding me, and maybe I wanted to be in love with the man I marry.”

  Oh, why say that out loud? Why let him know what a hopeless romantic you are?

  His expression grew hard. “Life does not always give us what we want. We have to take what’s offered and do the best we can with it.”

  Her heart fell. He was infuriating. Cold and calculating and arrogant. She wanted him to care, at least a little bit, about what this meant for her. To him, she was a woman who carried a potential king. He wanted to order her about the way he ordered Daoud or Fatima or Mostafa.

  And she knew, if she knew nothing else, that she couldn’t allow him to do that without protest.

  “I didn’t say yes yet. You’re making plans and I didn’t say yes.”

  There was a huge lump in her throat now. Huge. It was like she’d swallowed all the pain she’d ever felt and was about to choke on it.

  He picked up a pen on his desk and flipped it in his fingers as if he needed something to do. As if he was irritated. “You are carrying my child and we are going to marry. There’s nothing to say yes to.” He fixed her with a hard stare. “But if you could say no, would you? Knowing what’s at stake for everyone involved, would you say no and deny your child the opportunity to be my heir? Or your sister the chance to have her own child?”

  Sheridan’s throat hurt. “I didn’t say that.”

  He threw the pen down and sank into his chair again. “Then I fail to see the problem. You will be a princess consort, habibti. You will have a life of privilege. And you will be the mother of our child, which is what you’ve assured me you want. Or am I mistaken? Would you rather leave the child with me and return to America once he is born?”

  Sheridan clenched her fists in her lap. Once more, it was a good thing there were no weapons handy. “This baby might be a girl, you know. And no, I don’t want to leave her with you.”

  “Then we will marry immediately and be done with this matter.”

  This matter. As if marriage and children were the equivalent of deciding where to go on vacation or which carpet to order for the new house.

  “Thank you for settling that.” Sheridan got to her feet. She was shaking with rage and fear, and sick with the helplessness she felt. “I guess I’ll return to my rooms now and await your next command. How I got through life for twenty-six years without you to tell me what to do is quite the mystery. I’m pleased I don’t have to think for myself a moment longer.”

  “Careful, Sheridan,” he growled.

  A sensual shiver traveled down her spine at the sound. Oh, what was it about him growling at her that turned her on? She’d just told him off for being autocratic, so why did part of her thrill at the edge in his voice?

  “Why? If I make a mistake, you’ll just tell me what to do to correct it.” She sank into the deepest curtsy she’d yet done and then turned and strode toward the door. He was there before her, his arm shooting out and wrapping around her before she could escape.

  Her breath caught as he spun her around. “You dare to walk out on a king?”

  “You aren’t my king,” she said hotly. But her body was melting where it touched his and that inconvenient fire was beginning to sizzle through her.

  “Maybe I am,” he said, his voice heavy and angry at once. “Maybe I am utterly your king.”

  Her reply was lost as he ripped the hijab from her hair. “You’re mine now, Sheridan,” he said hotly, backing her against the wall and pressing his body to hers. “And I keep what’s mine.”

  And then he brought his mouth down on hers. Sheridan stiffened. She was determined to fight him, to keep her mouth closed to his invasion, to push him away.

  But she did none of those things. Of course she didn’t. Rashid al-Hassan was an unstoppable sensual force and he had a power over her that she couldn’t deny. His tongue slid between her lips, demanding her response—and then they were kissing each other frantically, hotly, with all the pent-up passion of the past few days of deprivation. She’d never had such a physical connection to a man before. A connection that went against sense and reason and just was.

  His hands spanned her rib cage, his thumbs grazing her nipples as he pinned her body to the wall with his own. Her pulse raced as her nipples tightened painfully. Her breasts were so sensitive now and they both knew why.

  He found the closures to her dress and opened them deftly. Then he was pushing the garment off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. She wrapped her arms around his neck and arched into him until he growled again and stepped back to rip her panties down her legs. She stepped out of them as she fumbled with the soft trousers he wore beneath his dishdasha, trying to free him.

  He helped her and soon she had her hands on his hot erection. But he didn’t give her a chance to play. His broad hands went to her bottom, lifted her high against the wall—and then he plunged into her as they both gasped.

  “Sheridan.” His voice was a hot whisper in her ear and her heart twisted tight. “I need you.”

  “Kiss me, Rashid,” she begged. Her skin was too tight, her belly too hollow, her body too hot. She needed the things he gave her, needed the connection and release. She didn’t understand it, but she craved it. Craved him.

  He fused his mouth to hers—and then he began to drive up into her, harder and faster and deeper than before, until her body was alive with sensation, until she had to wrench her mouth from his and sob his name as she splintered apart in his arms.

  He didn’t release her, though. He took her again and again, until she was a quivering mass of nerve endings, until her body couldn’t take another moment’s pleasure, until he finally let go of his rigid control and came, his seed filling her in warm jets.

  He laid his forehead against the wall behind her, his breath coming in gusts. His skin was hot and moist and so was hers. She turned her head into him, tasted the salt on his skin on impulse.

  And found herself released. He stepped away from her and fixed his trousers, then reached down and picked up her gown for her. She snatched it out of his hand and he met her gaze evenly.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, her clutching the dress in front of her like a shield, him clenching his fingers into tight fists at his side. As if he wanted to touch her again but had to force himself not to.

  Her legs were
weak and anger bubbled hot in her veins, but if he reached for her, if he kissed her again, she’d open to him like a flower.

  And she really despised that about herself. There was such a thing as being delightfully impulsive, as being friendly and open, but this was too much.

  “I don’t understand you,” she said. “If you don’t like being with me, why do you touch me in the first place?”

  She thought they had a chemistry that was unusual, but maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe he just saw her as an option for quick sex. He found his pleasure in her body and he was done. And she was just stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “I like being with you. But it’s over and I have work to do.”

  She shook out her dress angrily and slipped into it. Then she turned her back on him. “I can’t do this without your help.”

  He came over and stood behind her, his fingers brushing her skin as he zipped her up and fastened the hooks. When he finished, she turned around and glared at him.

  “This can’t happen again,” she told him tightly. “I have feelings, Rashid, and I won’t let you stomp all over them just to get your way. And another thing,” she added, pointing at him. “There are women in this palace in dresses and business suits and slacks. I’ve seen them, and while I played along with your commands to dress as a Kyrian woman, I won’t blindly do it anymore. Kyrian women seem to represent a range of styles, which you purposely did not tell me. If I want to wear my jeans, I’m wearing them.”

  His expression was tightly controlled. “When you appear before the council, you will wear traditional clothing. Aside from that, I don’t care.”

  She lifted her chin as she met his dark stare. “Oh, I already gathered that, Rashid. You don’t care at all.”

  * * *

  Rashid met with the council and informed them he would be marrying, and why. The council wasn’t pleased that Sheridan wasn’t Kyrian, but they could hardly argue with the fact she was carrying his child.

  “And would you consider a Kyrian woman for a second wife, Your Majesty?” one of the men asked.

  Rashid let his hard stare glide over the gathering. They were good men, wise men, men whose families had spent generations on the council. And while they had gotten far more progressive over the years, they still clung to some traditions. A pure Kyrian dynasty was one of those, though they all knew that past sheikhs had sometimes married foreigners and had children with them. Still, it cost him nothing to appease them. They would not accept Sheridan as queen, but as a princess consort. And with a future queen of Kyrian descent to be named, they would be happy.

  “I will,” he said coolly. “But not immediately.”

  That seemed to satisfy them and the council was dismissed. Rashid returned to his office to work, but he couldn’t seem to stop picturing Sheridan up against the wall, her lovely legs wrapped around him, her sweet voice panting in his ear as he took her over the edge.

  He pushed back from his desk and sat there staring at the place where they’d been. He’d taken her like a savage. Like a man for whom control was impossible to attain, when nothing could be further from the truth.

  She wound him into knots and he didn’t like it. She’d said he didn’t care, but he very much feared he might. Not a lot, certainly, but more than he was comfortable with. Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her, or about how it felt to lose himself in her body.

  He was not the sort of man to become obsessed with a woman, yet she intrigued him. Had from the first moment he’d seen her standing in her shop, all small and blond and seemingly sweet.

  But then he’d kissed her and his world had gone sideways. He’d wanted her every moment since.

  And he hated that he did.

  She was pregnant. Thinking the words sent that same cold chill through him, as always—but there was something else, too. Pride, possession, ownership. She was carrying his child and he was going to marry her. For Kyr.

  Rashid got to his feet and left the office, striding through the palace until he came to his rooms. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the hour was growing late. He changed into jeans—not without thinking of her informing him that she would be wearing her jeans whenever she wanted, that defiant tilt to her chin—and a button-down shirt, and then went through his suite of rooms to the hidden door that connected to the women’s quarters.

  He stood there for a long moment, staring at the lock. And then he released it and stepped inside. She wasn’t in bed so he moved through the rooms until he saw her at the computer. She was hunched over it, her head in her hands, and his heart squeezed.

  Then she reached for a tissue and he knew she was crying. Damn it. His fault, no doubt. Because he’d pushed her away. But how could he explain to her that being in her arms after they had sex felt like a betrayal? Not because of the sex, but because of the way he wanted to linger, the way he wanted to know everything about her.

  “Sheridan.”

  She startled, shooting up out of her chair and whirling to face him. Her nose was red. “My God, you scared me to death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She was wearing her jeans and a silky shirt and she looked so small and alone as she stood there with her shoulders bent. “How did you get in here?”

  “There’s a hidden door in the bedroom. It leads to my rooms.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, and he knew she must be wondering why he hadn’t used it to bring her back the other night. But there were more immediate things to think about.

  “What is wrong?”

  She gave a half shrug. “I was just reading email from my business partner. I think we’re both realizing our dream is over now.”

  “I know you blame me for these things, but I am not the one who caused this.” And yet he did feel guilty for his part in changing her life.

  “Believe it or not, I do know that. But it seems so odd that a single oversight could impact so many lives.”

  “This is quite often the case.”

  “For a king, I’m sure it is. For a girl from Savannah who just wanted to give her sister a gift, this is all a bit of a shock.”

  She walked over and put her hands on the back of a chair, gripping it so tightly that her knuckles whitened. He watched her, torn between going to her and holding her and staying where he was. In the end, he decided to stay. She would not welcome him at the moment.

  She swiped the tissue over her nose again and stuffed it in her pocket. “So what did you come here to tell me to do now?”

  Rashid’s brows drew down. Why had he come? Because you can’t stay away. Because she has a brightness to her that draws you like a moth. Because you want to feel that brightness wrapped around you again.

  “I didn’t come to tell you to do anything.”

  She waved a hand as if she were sweeping aside a bothersome fly. “Well, isn’t that a relief? What can I help you with, then?”

  For once in his life, he was left with nothing to say. He dug down into the recesses of his brain. “My brother is going to build a skyscraper for me. I understand you have architecture experience. Perhaps you could consult?”

  She blinked at him. Several times. “I...well, I did train as an architect, but I worked on historical preservation. Old buildings. Skyscrapers aren’t quite my thing. Not to mention I left the profession to start Dixie Doin’s with Kelly.”

  “Why did you do that?” He truly wanted to know. She’d gone to school for one thing and ended up doing another.

  She shrugged. “I enjoyed architecture, but it wasn’t as fun as party planning. I like organizing things, making people happy. Preserving old buildings takes time, but making people happy with food and fun is instant gratification.”

  “Which explains why you spend so much time in the kitchen. I enjoyed the lotus-shaped napk
ins, by the way.”

  She smiled at him, a genuine smile for once, and his heart did that little hitch thing again. “I’m glad. I’ll show them ferns next. Then maybe some swans.”

  “No swans at the state dinner, I beg you.”

  She laughed. “Fine, no swans.” But then her smile faded and she slumped against the back of the chair. “Will I get to attend these functions, or am I to be kept shut away like that cousin you can’t trust not to drink too much and dance on the tables?”

  The way she said things amused him. “Do you drink too much or dance on tables?”

  “Not since college.” He must have looked surprised because she laughed again. “I’m kidding. I danced on the tables without drinking. Because it was fun sometimes to let loose.”

  He tried to imagine her on top of a table, dancing and having fun. “Do you let loose often?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Too often where you’re concerned.”

  The words hung in the air between them. He could feel his body hardening, and she hadn’t said anything provocative. Or done anything provocative. But he knew how she tasted, how she felt, and he wanted to unwrap her and taste and feel her again.

  And again.

  “We’ve only been together twice,” he pointed out.

  “And if you hadn’t avoided me for so long, I imagine it would have been far more often than that. Though I suppose it’s a very good thing you did.”

  Okay, he was seriously hard now. Ready to walk over there and take her in his arms. “You say the most unexpected things.”

  “I’m too honest for my own good sometimes. I’ve always been this way, but I like it because it beats keeping things inside.”

  “But you do keep some things inside.” He was thinking of her sister and the way she defended the other woman’s weaknesses even when they affected her life. He wondered why she did that, but he supposed he didn’t really have to ask. When he’d been a kid, he’d done everything he could to keep Kadir insulated from their father’s wrath. It hadn’t always worked, but he’d tried.