Hostage for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 3)

by Annabelle Winters

  And she almost shouted out now when she realized that ohmygod, she hadn’t even THOUGHT about Jeff all this while! Her last memory was of him huddled beneath the bank counter in a fetal position, his eyes closed tight, lips moving. Had he being praying? Or was Jeff just calling for his mommy to come save him?

  A strange contempt for him rose up in Cristy as she turned and leaned against the metal door, folding her arms beneath her breasts and staring at the floor. She frowned as she realized she actually felt disgust for Jeff, a feeling that she knew had NOTHING to do with the fact that he had showed up at the bank to break up with her in the most cowardly, lame-ass manner imaginable.

  What’s wrong with me, she thought as she turned again and pulled open the rusty metal door and took a step into the darkness. It’s not like me to think like that. What’s wrong with me?

  And when she walked into the windowless room, Cristy felt a shiver go through her when she saw that long, broad wooden table in the center of the room, its dark wood shining in the yellow light streaming in through the open door. And now she couldn’t hold back the images, the sensations, the sounds, the goddamn SMELLS of that insane night with Rizaak, when their shared climax rocked that heavy table, when her secret juices flowed out of her and onto that table, mixing with his wetness just like their bodies were interlocked to the point where Cristy couldn’t have told where she ended and he began.

  Oh, God, this isn’t as simple as dismissing all of it as just sex, is it, she thought as she stepped to that table and placed her palm flat against the warm wood on which she had lain with her lover, on which she had moved with her man, climaxed with her king.

  And that’s why I suddenly feel this weird contempt, even disgust for Jeff, isn’t it, she thought as she ran her fingers through her hair and blinked in the strange light of the room. It’s because he’s like a child compared to Rizaak. It’s because after being with Rizaak, I know that I can NEVER be with someone as weak as poor Jeff. That’s why in two years Jeff and I never even came CLOSE to what Rizaak and I shared over the past week! It wasn’t just the “danger” or the “suspense” that created the moment, was it. It was HIM!

  Yes, it was him, Cristy told herself, and for a moment a strange calm washed over her, sweeping away the confusion, blowing away the doubt. Him and me. He and I. Rizaak and Cristy.

  Now just as quickly as it had gone, that warm, wild feeling came roaring back in, and here was that sense of “everything’s going to work out just fine” coming through once more, and she just laughed in the darkness and pushed away any questions about why Rizaak had walked away from her just now.

  Because somehow, as if there were spirits and angels surrounding her right now, holding her in their divine arms, whispering that she was right, that she should TRUST her feelings, TRUST the universe, TRUST her destiny . . . yes, somehow Cristy had faith that just as she had realized that Rizaak was her man, he would see that she was his woman. And if it took just that fleeting but powerful comparison to another man for Cristy to see that what she felt was deep and real, perhaps Rizaak needed that comparison as well?

  But comparisons to whom? Certainly Rizaak must have access to the world’s most desirable women, did he not? Did he have a secret harem back in his royal basement in Khawas? Was he already married to three beautiful Muslim women who wore Victoria’s Secret lingerie beneath their conservative black burkhas? How the hell was Cristy Cartright, bank teller from Baltimore, going to stand up to those comparisons!

  Now Cristy sat on that wooden bench on which Rizaak had knelt as he made her come last night, and she swallowed hard as she tried to hold back that sickening feeling of not being in control, that feeling she had sworn she would avoid at all costs, that feeling she saw in her parents’ eyes when they blamed everyone but themselves for their circumstances.

  And she put her head down on the table, turning and placing her cheek flat against the wood, wondering if this was the final lesson in faith, the last test she had to pass, the farthest bridge she had to cross before she could reach for what she had seen in that rear-view mirror image of her and Rizaak, what she had felt when he touched her body, what she had known when he flooded her depths.

  Yes, she thought as she breathed deep against the table, taking in the smell of old wood mixing with the faded aroma of their coupling . . . perhaps this is the final test after all. I was ready to surrender control of my body just now, submit to the feeling that I could trust this man. And so perhaps now I need to surrender control to something bigger, submit to the feeling that I cannot control everything, that sometimes there is joy in release, pleasure in letting go, happiness in knowing that things will work out just fine even though you are alone in a metal room, a hostage on a ship, in perhaps the worst situation of your life.

  And as that feeling of bliss suddenly swirled through her senses, Cristy thought now that perhaps this wasn’t just her test. It was his test as well, wasn’t it? If Cristy had to face her fear of losing control, of giving up control, of letting go and submitting to another’s strength, to a man’s strength, to THIS man’s strength . . . then perhaps Rizaak’s test was to prove that he HAD that strength!

  Because if a queen’s test of strength is to prove that she can remain proud and free while submitting to none but her king, is it not a king’s test to prove that he has the strength worthy of such a queen?

  And as she smiled in the surreal yellow light of that underground room, Cristy took a breath and spoke out loud as if those angels and demons, those pixies and gnomes, those spirits, dragons, ghosts, and apparitions were all watching and nodding in approval:

  “I have shown you that I can give up control,” she said. “Now show me that you can take control. If I am your queen, my Sheikh, then show me that you are my king. Show me.”

  31

  Rizaak staggered back to the main cabin tower, the blood pounding in his ears as he tried to think straight. But clear thought wasn’t possible, he knew—not with this unfulfilled arousal, this raw need that was mixing with his rage and confusion to create a potent force that demanded a release.

  Images of all the women from his life flooded through him as he walked, and for a moment Rizaak felt he was lost in the desert, wandering through the wilderness, all the lovers of his past whispering from the shadows around him, beckoning to him, reminding him of all they had shared, all they had felt, all they had been, and Rizaak called out in confusion, muttering in Arabic while struggling to pull his pants on properly as he approached the accommodations stack.

  “Aetini 'iishara,” he called out, looking up at the sky as he tossed aside the shirt he was carrying in his right hand, raising both hands to the heavens. “Give me a sign!”

  Tell me which direction to turn, he thought as he closed his eyes, praying for a clear thought that would lead him to a conclusion that would satisfy this peculiar anguish that was ripping him apart, making him doubt himself, doubt his judgment, doubt his strength even.

  And then, through the pounding in his ears, Rizaak heard a woman’s voice come through those old lovers’ whispers, and he was jolted back to reality as he felt a chill run down the length of his body.

  “Working on your tan, great Sheikh?” came the voice. “I think you dropped your shirt back there.”

  Rizaak turned, and it was Jane. She was standing there in her tight blue jeans, her black tank top, smooth shoulders browning in the sun, her golden hair shining and full in the light, flapping wild in the wind. Jane was smiling full, her long, symmetrical face lit up and looking striking, her eyes darting down to the peaked front of Rizaak’s trousers before locking onto his gaze.

  Ya, Allah, thought Rizaak as he felt his arousal call to him in the way she was looking at him. Perhaps this is just what I need! A release that will occupy my body, freeing my mind to get back to more important matters! Yes, a release! Quick and efficient! Ya, Allah, I asked for a solution, and here she is! Is this not a sign from God?!

  Rizaak held Jane’s gaze, showing her
a tight smile as he stood there and glanced at her slim body up and down. She looked thin and tired, but there was no denying that she was ready and willing. Yes, after Rizaak had overpowered Jane both physically and mentally, she had transformed herself in a way that he had seen in so many weaker women from his past, women who were brash and tough but would break and submit the moment Rizaak made it clear that HE was the strong one, that HE was in charge, that HE would be obeyed.

  “Come,” he said to her, not even bothering to engage in conversation. “Come.”

  Jane blinked and broke eye contact, looking down at the floor and then back up into his eyes and blinking again. Her face turned red for a moment, and now she narrowed her blue eyes, smiled, and began to walk towards him, her boyish hips swinging as she took each step, her pert little breasts bouncing as she approached.

  And now those whispers from the shadows were deafening, like all the women of his past were speaking at once, all of them calling to him, all of them telling him to take his release like a man takes what he wants, to have his way with this woman who was offering herself to him.

  “Here is your sign,” came the whisper in the wind, and Rizaak could not tell if it was his mother’s spirit or a wandering demon that uttered the words, could not tell if it was a sign or a test, a trick or a treat, an angel come to rescue him or a devil to lead him astray.

  But as Jane came close and Rizaak felt her rising heat, he felt himself go cold, his arousal leaving him almost immediately, like his body was taking over and saying, “Rizaak, you are a fool to try and think your way through this with your brain. You should trust your body, because it is not burdened with the curse of rational thought. It operates at the level of the unconscious, and it cannot be fooled by tricks and illusions.”

  The wind seemed to suddenly die down as Rizaak coolly looked into Jane’s vapid blue eyes, and he smiled and touched her face and then silently stepped away from her. Now those whispers suddenly went quiet in his head, and as Rizaak walked away from her, he smiled into the horizon as it occurred to him that by Allah, his mother was right!

  Yes, she was right that the internal world and the external world form a balance, that what you are in your mind will show itself in the body. And what has my body showed me, Rizaak wondered as he waited until Jane was out of sight before he doubled back and made his way towards the front of the ship, to where he knew his queen was waiting.

  Yes, what has my body showed me? What has Cristy’s body showed me? What has the universe been screaming into my mind from that very first touch? And what have our souls been saying with every touch since then?

  You fool, Rizaak thought as he broke into a dead run now, his jaw going tight as he raced towards his queen. There is no sign. There was no test. There is just you and her, you fool. Just you and her.

  So now take her. Take her as yours. Take her like a king takes his queen. Prove yourself worthy of a woman who will give up control to NO ONE but you. Prove yourself worthy of a woman like Cristy when she says, “Control me. Control me, my Sheikh.”

  32

  For thirteen days they made love like beasts in the garden of Eden, like animals in the cages of lust, angels in the clouds of love, spirits in the arms of God. He took her on the floor, on the deck, against the walls. He bent her over the front railing of the ship and made her SCREAM as he pumped into her like a centaur from behind. He tasted every part of her, made her come with his tongue so hard that he almost drowned in her seas of feminine wetness. He poured his heat into her mouth, clutching her hair and pulling her head back as he ROARED in ecstasy. He made her ride him like a stallion when they mated beneath the stars at night. He kissed her tenderly on the lips in the morning, spanked her buttocks red and raw in the evenings. He held her hand in the afternoon sun when they talked about their lives, licked her from behind in the darkness of night when he spread her wide on the wooden table and made her come like a mare in heat. It was filthy and clean, evil and pure, magical and raw. It was him and her, she and he, king and queen, a man and his woman.

  And on the twenty-first day of their journey, the twenty-first day of their lives together, Cristy greeted him at the door to her chambers with a wide-eyed look of shock, apprehension, fear, and . . . and . . . and joy.

  “I’m late,” she said. “I’m never late. I’m like clockwork, Rizaak. No matter what. Now I’m days late, and maybe it’s the stress and the panic, and maybe in a few days I’ll—”

  “No,” Rizaak said, and now the whisper in his head was unmistakably the voice of his mother, and the spirit of the Begum was saying that finally this is your sign, that your sign only appears AFTER you have made your choice, AFTER you have made your decision, AFTER you have made your commitment. Your commitment to your destiny. Your commitment to your duty. Your commitment to your woman. Your commitment to her.

  “No,” Rizaak said again. “There is no mistake, no doubt, no uncertainty. You know it and I know it. Our bodies know it. I knew it when I poured my seed into your warm depths, my love. And you knew it when—”

  “Oh, God, I DID know it,” she said now, and the words BURST out of her with a deep seated sob, and her eyes were wide now, that strange mix of fear and joy all over her pretty round face, and Rizaak pulled her into his embrace, smothered her with his broad, warm body, covered her with kisses as she sobbed uncontrollably into his chest.

  “I love you, Cristy,” he said without hesitation, his voice clear and crisp, deep and resonant, the words a declaration that came from the depths of his being, carrying all the truth in the universe with it. “I love you.”

  She cried out in response, her soft body shaking and shivering as she mumbled into his chest, and he pulled her closer, squeezed her tighter, crushed her against him as he felt his joy spiral upwards so fast it made him dizzy with happiness.

  They made love in the sun, their climaxes arriving together as the seagulls screeched in delight from above, and then they lay together on a thick blanket that Rizaak had brought from the cabins.

  Rizaak looked up at the sky as he smiled and basked in the feeling of wholeness he got from being close to Cristy, and he winked at a seagull that was perched on the railing, its head cocked as it stared at the naked lovers laying in the sun like they were on vacation.

  Two more gulls sat on the railing now, and then another bird fluttered onto the scene. The bird was white with speckles, and at first Rizaak thought he was seeing things and this was just a baby seagull or some other sea bird that he was not familiar with. But as the Sheikh frowned and stared at the pudgy little bird, it opened its little orange beak and cried out.

  It was a white pigeon, Rizaak realized as he felt a chill go through him, a chill that reminded him that he was not on vacation on the French Riviera, that the fantasy world that he and Cristy had slipped into over the past three weeks was not the reality that he was in, that both of them were in.

  Yes, a pigeon. Which meant they were close to land. Which meant that soon Rizaak would have to make good on his commitment to the universe, his commitment to his queen. He would have to find a way to take her with him and keep her safe, just like he had promised, just like he wanted, just like he needed, logic and reason be damned.

  “I still have contacts in almost every European country,” Rizaak had assured Cristy at those times when panic seized her and she wondered how they would ever be safe. “They will hide us, keep us safe, facilitate communication with the CIA or Interpol as we sort things out.”

  Rizaak had spoken with confidence, self-assurance, warm calmness that even convinced himself at times. But under it all there still lived the knowledge that he was lying to her. Yes, he had contacts from his days in the military. Yes, he had access to secret accounts that could not be traced and seized by even the American government. Yes, he knew wealthy and powerful families all over Europe, families that would help and protect him to some degree. But for how long? Could he and Cristy live like rich fugitives the rest of their lives? Was that the life he wanted
to give his queen? And now . . . now . . . ya, Allah, was that the world in which to raise their child, to raise a royal child, a prince, a princess, a regent, the heir-apparent of the great nation of Khawas?!

  Now reality pushed its way through the mental barricades Rizaak had set up over the past two weeks as he reveled in Cristy’s desire, basked in her all-encompassing love, recharged his masculine energy from her feminine depths. Yes, the reality that although the joy he felt was unfathomable, a joy that threatened to make his heart explode, alongside it was a terrible fear that came from the knowledge that her pregnancy—and Rizaak KNEW she was pregnant with his child, pregnancy tests be damned—could place Cristy in even more danger!

  Because what if that bastard Uncle Bin discovered that Cristy was carrying Rizaak’s child, a child of royal blood, royal blood that Uncle Bin would NEVER have in his own veins, royal blood that would GUARANTEE that Cristy’s child would be Sheikh or Sheikha when the time came?! But more importantly, the title of Sheikh or Sheikha would be conferred automatically upon birth of the child! And so even if Rizaak himself were in prison, even if Rizaak himself were still on the run, in hiding, even DEAD . . . yes, his child would be the Sheikh or Sheikha the very day it was born!

  And that changes things, does it not, Rizaak thought now as he looked down at Cristy and kissed her head as she wriggled against him. Because if she turns herself in right now, clears her name, moves on with her life . . . yes, if she returns to the United States and has our child, then she can . . .

  “I cannot take you with me, Cristy,” Rizaak suddenly blurted out, the words coming out so quickly that he surprised himself. In a way he knew he had to begin talking now even before he had it all figured out. He had to keep talking, or else he might never have the resolve to do what he knew he had to do. “You must return to the United States. Alone. And no one must know of your pregnancy until the child is born. You must have our child in secret, Cristy. In secret.”