Flames for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 2)

by Annabelle Winters

  FLAMES FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

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  Hey! I hope you enjoy this book! Flames for the Sheikh is the second in my CURVES FOR SHEIKHS series of Sheikh Romances featuring curvy ladies and sexy Sheikhs! Curves for the Sheikh is already out, and Hostage for the Sheikh comes out November 5th and can be pre-ordered right now! OMG!

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  love, Anna.

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  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2016 by Annabelle Winters

  All Rights Reserved by Author

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  FLAMES FOR THE SHEIKH

  ANNABELLE WINTERS

  1

  “Jennifer Bethany Jones, MBA. Oh, look at that, all fancy and all! Woo hoo! And this paper is nice too! Thick. Creamy. How much did these cost you?”

  “More than I wanted to spend,” Jenny said, reaching to take the business card back from her cousin Paula, who was about to slip it into the front pocket of her jeans. “And I only got a hundred made, so I’ll take that back, thank you very much.”

  She took the card back, holding it up and admiring it one more time before putting it back into the stainless steel card holder (which had cost extra). The cards were expensive but damn nice, she had to admit. Beautiful, crisp printing. Heavy-duty card-stock paper. That nice cream color. And, now that she thought about it, adding in her middle name and the “MBA” thing didn’t sound too pretentious. Sure, the degree was from City College of Chicago, which wasn’t exactly Harvard, and it was a “condensed” MBA that she got part-time (with a bunch of online classes), but it was still an MBA. It looked professional. It sounded professional. And it was important to look and sound professional when you were asking a professional investor to invest in you.

  “The fact that you’re putting in some of your own money is going to count for a lot,” Jenny’s entrepreneurship professor had told her when she went to him for advice a year ago, shortly after getting her diploma. “The high-end restaurant business is very tough, Jenny, and any smart investor is going to know that. But they’re also going to know that if it’s done right, a restaurant can do exceedingly well in a city like Chicago.”

  “Just have to make sure to do it right, then,” Jenny had said cheerfully, even though she was anxious like an umbrella in a lightning storm. “First Chicago, and then the world!”

  The professor had raised an eyebrow at this. “The world? You’re thinking of building a restaurant chain, Jenny? I thought it was going to be a high-end, classy place.”

  “It is,” Jenny had said. “Eclectic food. A mix of small plates and gourmet entrées. World-class wine selection. Desserts from heaven. Or hell, maybe, considering the amount of chocolate that’ll be in each one. But yes, I want to go high-end, but I also see it expanding into a chain.”

  The professor sighed, lowering his glasses and looking closely at Jenny, like he was searching her face for something. “Jenny,” he said. “It’s hard enough to succeed with a high-end restaurant in one location. Luck, timing, marketing—all of it’s got to come together. Yes, you have a shot at it, in my opinion. You were one of my best students, and I think you’ve also got that . . . that spark that I see in some of the best entrepreneurs. That deep faith in yourself, in your vision, in your ability. It’s something that’s very hard to teach. So yes, you’ve got a shot at it. I think if anyone can make a go at this, it’s you.” He paused again. “But turning a single restaurant into a chain . . . well, that’s a whole different ballgame. And the fact that it’s a high-end, classy place . . . it’s tough. Very difficult to grow that sort of brand in the restaurant world. You don’t see it much, do you? A burger or sandwich joint can expand into a franchise, but you don’t see a high-end French restaurant with thirty locations across five continents. And you know why? Because it’s damn near impossible. The marketing is a different game when you go high-end. Damn near impossible.”

  “Impossible, Prof?” Jenny had said, feeling that spark in her then as she smiled even though the anxiety was rising, that sickening feeling of self-doubt, that maybe she was kidding herself, maybe she should just get a regular job at a big company and think it over for a few years. Graduates from even the top MBA programs were doing that—getting safe jobs with good money and working their way up instead of betting on a new business. Everyone knew that most new businesses failed, usually wiping out all the investors—certainly wiping out the founder. And a failed business isn’t great to have on your resume!

  The professor had laughed. “All right, you got me. I always tell the class that the most successful entrepreneurs were often told early on that what they were doing was impossible. So all right, Jenny. Send me your business plan when you have the numbers worked out, and I’ll take a look and tell you what I think.”

  “I’ve already got the numbers worked out,” Jenny had said, pulling out her phone and scrolling feverishly. ”Sending it right now.”

  The professor had laughed again, shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised? All right, Jenny. I’ll take a look at it as soon as I get a chance.”

  That was a year ago, and when Jenny didn’t hear back from the professor, she was sort of offended but then just shrugged it off and moved on. She had other things to do, securing a space for the restaurant being top of the list. Location, location, location, right? Right.

  She had already scouted out a place that was currently vacant. It was a beautiful, circular room with large windows that faced the street. Just off Michigan Avenue in Downtown Chicago, the location couldn’t be more perfect. Being off the main drag meant that traffic noise wouldn’t be as bad. At the same time, it was so close to some of the best, most exclusive shopping in the world, that she’d get a lot of foot-traffic from people who most certainly had the money to spend. Yes, the space was perfect. So perfect that she considered making the deposit payment right away, out of her own money—the last of her tiny inheritance.

  But she held off. She knew it would be an emotional decision to simply plop down all the personal money she had set aside for investing in the restaurant. Yes, that money would eventually go into the business, but her money wouldn’t be nearly enough to finance everything—not even for a few months! No, she needed a real investor to throw in with her. Big money. It wasn’t going to be easy, and so Jenny knew she couldn’t sink all her own money into the security deposit up front. What if it took her six months to find an investor? What if it took a year? What if she never got the big money she needed to kick this thing off? She’d be bankrupt with nothing to show for it! No, she needed to get the outside funding before committing to the place. After all, the rent alone would wipe her out in two months!

  Jenny had researched a list of potential investors, and she was ready with her pitch. She had a PowerPoint presentation all set. She knew
exactly what she’d wear. And those business cards! She was going to rule the WORLD! Woo hoo!

  So she started reaching out to investors, most of which were small or large venture capital firms based in Chicago and the Midwest. She sent out introductory letters, following up by email and then with phone calls. But soon she found that she could barely get past the administrative assistants—the gatekeepers. And that was her first dose of reality: Sometimes it doesn’t matter how good your idea and business plan is, because if you don’t get a chance to make your pitch to the people with the money, you’re finished before you even get started.

  At the eight-month mark, despair started to creep in, but Jenny ignored that sinking feeling and instead kept going, forcing herself to keep smiling as she made yet another phone call to an administrative assistant who politely said, “We’ll get back to you if we’re interested in hearing more about your proposal, Ms. Jones.” Of course, nobody ever got back to her.

  And then, as she was getting close to the end of her list, close to the end of her rope, her patience, maybe her resolve, the email from Bukhaara Private Capital, LLC, showed up in her inbox.

  2

  It arrived the next evening, while Cousin Paula was over for a late dinner.

  Jenny had wanted to cook for Paula, but instead had spent the day trying to work her graduate school network, trying to get a contact at an investment firm. It had been rough, because most of City College’s MBA grads either worked at large local companies (which weren’t into financing restaurants) or were not particularly helpful.

  So it had been a rough day—eight months of rough days, really—and skipping lunch hadn’t done her mood any favors. Jenny was tired and hungry, that sinking feeling of despair thick in her gut, and so they had just ordered pizza—her comfort food—from the Italian place down the street. It tasted like the best thing on Earth, Jenny thought as she inhaled the first slice and reached for the second, still chewing, her eyes wide as she realized she hadn't eaten in almost eighteen hours.

  “Wow, you are HUNGRY, babe,” Paula said, eyeing Jenny up and down with affectionate amusement. “I guess the diet’s off for today. Not that you need to diet. Hell, I'd kill for those curves!”

  Jenny blinked as she swallowed, looking down at the gigantic slice of pizza in her hand, cheese falling off the sides like molten white lava, that puddle of salty grease pooling in the oversized cuts of pepperoni, each of which looked like a mini-pizza on its own. She’d been on a low-carb, low-fat, high-protein diet for three months now, trying to knock off some of those extra pounds she had tacked on from her crazy schedule working part-time jobs and handling part-time classes.

  Jenny had always been a curvy woman, but the past two years had really been out of control, she knew. Pizza four nights a week. Junk food at late-night study sessions. Beers at Happy Hour every Thursday with her classmates. At the time she knew she was putting on weight, but with the casual, almost college environment of the classroom sessions, she didn’t really care. She wore sweatpants when she was feeling fat, and she was getting asked out on dates enough that it didn’t seem like any of the guys minded the extra weight.

  Of course, dating hadn’t been a priority for Jenny recently—certainly not until she had gotten her degree and started the next phase of her perfectly planned life. This degree would cost most of her savings over two years, and she wasn’t going to take her eyes off the ball. Sure, she had that small inheritance, but she needed to save that for the restaurant. And Chicago wasn’t cheap. So no, she wasn’t going to get distracted by some man-drama, and being the kind of person she was, the all-or-nothing sort of way she approached things, Jenny understood that it meant she’d have to keep her distance from any man she might actually start to like.

  Don’t even start, she had said when she found herself vaguely liking this sorta cool guy Steve who had been flirting with her with the kind of persistence and determination that was respectful and flattering while still unyielding.

  She did go out with him eventually, after one of the Thursday night happy hours when she had put away more than her usual two or three beers. They went out for Irish Coffee and dessert at a late-night café near his apartment building, and the mixture of sugar, caffeine, and whiskey was just enough to get her to say, “Sure,” when he invited her upstairs.

  They kissed on his couch, and she liked it when he touched her breasts, she liked it when he gasped in ecstasy as he undid her buttons, she liked it when he almost swooned as he took her full breasts in his hands, his fingers teasing her nipples until they stiffened.

  She let him take off her shirt, and she stretched out on his couch, arms above her head as he sucked her nipples, kissed her belly, licked her belly-button until she laughed and squealed. And when he undid the button on her jeans, sliding down the zip as he began to push his face in there, taking deep breaths of her sex, she almost let him continue. Almost.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing his head away as she struggled to sit up. “I really can’t do this right now.”

  “Are you serious,” he had said, his eyes wide, the look on his face partly disbelief and partly begging. “You have to be kidding!”

  “I’m really, really sorry. I know it’s lame of me to let it get to this point and then back off. It’s not you. I actually really like you. And you’ve been cool. I just can’t do this right now. I told myself I wouldn’t. I just had a few too many tonight, and—”

  “You are KIDDING!” he shouted, straddling her and looking up at the ceiling in frustration. But then he sighed and backed off. “Oh, man! I was so . . . so looking forward to . . .”

  Jenny struggled to sit up and find her clothes. She could feel the folds on her stomach bunching up as she sat, and she quickly put her bra back on as she felt the arousal leave her.

  Yeah, she did sorta like him, she thought as she gave him one last apologetic look before heading out the door as a sense of relief washed over her. But she also knew she was a bit drunk and, well, it had been a while since she had gone this far with anyone, so she wasn’t sure she could trust her judgment. Sex was a great and wonderful thing, Jenny thought, but although she wasn’t the judgmental type, she had never been much for going to bed with a man unless they were in a relationship, unless it was more than just, “I sorta like him.”

  No, sex outside a relationship had never been Jenny’s thing, even though she didn’t judge any of her girlfriends for doing it. If anything, her friends would judge her for being too much of a prude! Even Grandma agreed with them sometimes!

  Oh, God, didn’t Grandma tell me I had a great “baby bucket” or something once? Jenny had thought that night as she took the elevator down alone, checking herself in the mirror as she straightened her top and patted her curves.

  “Honey, you’ve got the most beautiful birthing hips,” Jenny said to herself in her best imitation of her late grandmother, who had almost raised her single-handedly, with Jenny’s parents seemingly always at work or otherwise engaged. Grandma would say that every time she sensed Jenny was feeling a bit down or self-conscious about her curves. “A real man will never be able to resist those womanly hips of yours, little Jenny. You remember that. A real man won’t be able to keep away.”

  Jenny laughed at the memory, and by the time she walked out of the apartment building and onto the busy sidewalks of downtown Chicago, she was feeling sober and right, confident and strong. I made the right choice there, she told herself. I have to stick to my path and trust that I’ll find my man along the way. Right now, getting involved with someone could take me off my path. Even worse, I could get pulled into walking HIS path—whoever he is. Nope. Not happening again. No freaking way.

  But that was over a year ago, when she was several pounds lighter, and now she looked up at Paula and then down at that slice of pizza and suddenly she thought she could feel spare tires around her belly, folds along her sides, faint ripples along her thighs. What have I given up, she wondered as she thought of that guy Steve and the
others that she had let pass by. Where am I now, compared to before graduate school? I’m older, poorer, fatter, and more alone! All the time I’ve spent planning this restaurant crap is looking like it was a waste. I’m never going to get the funding I need—not in time, anyway. I’ll have to scramble to get a real job, because I skipped out on the on-campus interviews and now all the decent companies have already hired their quotas for the year. And I’ve been basically unemployed for eight months already. So I’ll waste a year because . . . because . . . because I decided to bet on myself instead of some big corporation? Oh, my God! What have I done? What have I done!

  Jenny tossed the half-eaten piece of pizza back into her plate and looked up at Paula. Oh, God, I’m going to cry, Jenny thought as she felt everything come to a head in a ball of emotion. All the stress of choosing to stay unemployed while she worked on her business plan. All the frustration of not getting a chance to present her proposal to even one solitary investor. The fear that she had found the ideal space for the restaurant, but might lose it because she didn’t have an investor lined up yet. And she was alone. And fat. Oh, God, I’m gonna cry.

  “Jenny?” Paula said, her face turning a distinctly paler shade as she dropped her own slice of pizza and grabbed Jenny by the wrist. “You OK? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

  “I just . . . need to go to the bathroom,” Jenny said, the words coming out one by one, slowly, each syllable requiring an extraordinary degree of effort to pronounce as she tried to hold back a flood of tears that seemed to want to come for no reason and for every reason.

  She stood up slowly, pizza crumbs falling off her boobs as they jiggled beneath her green t-shirt, a piece of crust bouncing down her black sweatpants. She stared down at Paula, who was sprawled on the carpet along with the pizza. Then she turned toward the bathroom, wondering if the door was thick enough so Paula wouldn’t hear her cry.