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

by Annabelle Winters

  And he growled at his hazy reflection in the silver metal doors of the Jumeirah Grand’s private elevators, almost laughing out loud. This woman was his. She had always been his. Allah, his sister had seen it too! Cold-hearted Yasmeena, who turned out to be a misty-eyed romantic under all that intensity!

  Yes, Jenny was his, he thought as he stepped out of the elevators and three attendants came silently to his side to escort him to the waiting limousine. Jenny was his woman, and by Allah, he was her man. It did not matter how much time they had spent together in this world. That first meeting alone was worth an eternity! If that is not love, then what is love? If that is not love, then I do not care what love is—this feels so damn real, so damn true, so damn right!

  But as some of that fire dissipated in the cool leather interior of his silent black BMW limousine, Kabeer knew he would have to play it cool. Despite what he felt—and what he was sure SHE felt—there was still much he had to learn about Jenny. No doubt she was focused on her restaurant, her own personal goals, her business goals. She had sounded damned well serious when she told him she wanted to keep things at a professional level, hadn’t she? What if she meant it?

  Ya Allah, Kabeer thought as he watched the Dubai sun blaze through the palm trees, those endless white sand dunes in the background, minarets and domes filling the space between the glass-and-steel high-rises financed by the spoils of oil money. What if she meant it?!

  Ya, ALLAH, he thought again as he felt a strange desperation bubble up inside, something that made him sick, turned his stomach into knots, made him want to shout out loud, smash his fists against the dark leather walls of the limousine.

  It was fear, Kabeer knew. Real fear. True vulnerability. Something Kabeer had never felt before when it came to a woman. It confused him, angered him, damned well TERRIFIED him! God, what if she meant what she said about “staying professional?” What can I do? This woman cannot be broken by my commands, my orders, my anger! I cannot force her to . . . to . . . to what? Love me? Force her to love me?

  No, he decided as the glistening silver tower of the Burj Khalifa came into view as the limousine pulled off the highway and headed towards Jenny’s restaurant space. I cannot force her to love me because there is no need to force her. All I have to do is to REMIND her that she loves me. That all of this is happening BECAUSE she loves me.

  And because I love her.

  And only as the limousine pulled to a silent stop outside the frosted glass windows of Jenny’s restaurant, and only when Kabeer saw his woman’s unmistakable silhouette through the misty glass . . . yes, only then did Kabeer realize that he had been using the word “love” like it was just a given, like it was so obvious it did not need to be analyzed, like it would be madness to assume that this was NOT love!

  Ya, Allah, he thought as he stepped out of the car and straightened to full height. Swallow the fear, he told himself. Hide the vulnerability. You are Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara and this is your queen. Relax and do not force anything. Play her game, if need be. And perhaps it is time to trust that Father’s last words will apply to Jenny as well:

  Just when she thinks she is running away from her destiny, she is in fact running right towards it.

  20

  Jenny paced the circular room so many times her head was spinning, but she couldn’t sit down. It had taken an enormous amount of energy and will power to stay calm when Yasmeena revealed what Kabeer had said. She had no idea what to make of it, and in one crazy moment Jenny wondered if Kabeer actually DID know she was pregnant, if he actually DID have some kind of prophetic, otherworldly knowledge of the secret child within her womb!

  The thought had almost floored her, but she had recovered well enough to see Yasmeena off politely and warmly, without revealing anything . . . anything about what she had decided to do.

  Not having the baby had never been an option for Jenny—not because of any religious or political beliefs, but really because it just didn’t feel right for her. No, the thought of having a child, the knowledge that a new life was ALREADY forming within her womb, within her private universe, a baby who would look up at her and call her Mama . . . yes, all of that sounded like a dream, a vision, something that she honestly didn’t even know how to deal with yet! Not physically, and certainly not emotionally—not yet, at least.

  Because now wasn’t the time to deal with it, she had told herself as she prepared for that early afternoon meeting with Yasmeena. Right now you are focused on ONE THING: Your business. This is the reason you’re here. Everything you want in life depends on how you navigate this final turn, she had told herself. It doesn’t matter that you’re hiding the baby from Kabeer, hiding the baby from the father. It may not be the most honorable thing to do, or the most fair thing to do, but hell, it’s the most SENSIBLE thing to do!

  I have to get this restaurant launched cleanly, without distractions, she told herself as she paced the circular room, touching the smooth rosewood tabletops that had just come in, the exposed brick walls that took a surprising amount of work. In six months Globe would be a success in Dubai—Jenny was sure of it. And then there was no stopping her, no stopping the expansion, no stopping Jenny Jones, MBA, from taking over the goddamn world! Or at least taking over some restaurant space in the world’s most international cities. Six months. Six months of work. Six months of focus.

  Six months of keeping a secret.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t even be really showing by then. Perhaps she could play it off by saying she couldn’t keep away from her own food! Haha. Maybe her full-figured profile would actually work for her! Yes, six months.

  So much could happen in six months, couldn’t it? Hell, Kabeer was already seeing some Brazilian nubile, wasn’t he? Perhaps Jenny would find someone as her business began to take off. Wasn’t that ALWAYS the plan? Find your own path and only then worry about finding a man to travel that path with you? Don’t get derailed. This is complicated, yes. But you can handle it. Six months. Be a goddamn professional for six months, and deal with it later. Deal with HIM later!

  Him. Kabeer Bukhaara.

  She watched in a sort of panic, a kind of haze, a little bit of a daze as a black stretch limousine stopped outside her restaurant. It wasn’t a complete surprise, but Jenny could feel her stomach twist with a sudden tension, and ohgod it felt . . . it felt . . . it felt . . .

  Oh, grow up, she told herself. So you haven’t been in a room with Kabeer in almost a month. Seeing him is going to have an impact emotionally, and that’s fine. It’s natural. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s only normal to have a reaction to a man with whom you’ve shared an intimate moment. Heck, if that guy Steve walked in here—the guy I almost slept with over a year ago—I’d probably have some kind of reaction. And so would he. We’re human, after all. It’s normal! So accept it, push it aside, and get down to business. He’s just a guy.

  Sheikh Kabeer Bukhaara walked in right then, tall and handsome, his jaw set, that half-smile on his lips, head slightly cocked like seeing Jenny was the easiest thing in the world for him, like EVERYTHING was the easiest thing in the world for him. He wore a blue silk shirt, impeccably tailored, top two buttons lazily undone. He had lost some of his natural tan, though he had clearly still been working out, if not going out in the sun much. And there was a strange new confidence, perhaps even a calmness—real or calculated, Jenny couldn’t tell yet—in his eyes as he glanced quickly around the restaurant and finally settled his gaze on the open kitchen towards the back of the restaurant.

  “Magnificent,” he said, walking right past Jenny without so much as a hello as she took a quick breath when he smelled his familiar musk, that unique masculine aroma of his that seemed to touch something deep inside, so deep that it couldn’t possibly have been put there by that one day a month ago! “This is Michelin Star quality,” Kabeer said, knocking on the countertop of the open kitchen, checking the Italian wood cabinets.” I like the semi-circular cut of the stainless steel counter, the way it hugs the back of the spa
ce. And this long bar facing the open kitchen is the chef’s table, is it not? Six seats only. Very nice. Intimate, isn’t it? One can actually have a conversation with the real food-lovers. We are going to have a wood top placed on this countertop, right? Fixed to the stainless steel? Dark wood and shining steel offset each other wonderfully.”

  Jenny blinked as she took all of it in. Kabeer seemed so cool, so confident, so . . . so professional! Sure, that swagger and cockiness was still up front and center, but there was a genuine excitement in the way he talked about the kitchen, the design, the environment. Yes, he was clearly excited to see the space. But he had barely said two words to HER! No hello even! Certainly no hug. Not even a handshake!

  Now she was almost angry as she watched Kabeer walk around the restaurant like he owned the goddamn place. She still couldn’t get her head around the lie he had told Yasmeena, couldn’t understand the why, the how, the what, and the WTF!?

  “Oh, do not tell me you have prepared some food!” Kabeer called out from behind the chef’s counter, just inside the open kitchen. He stood in front of the six-foot tall stack of glass-fronted ovens, his hands on his hips, back to Jenny.

  The three dishes she had prepared earlier for Yasmeena to sample were in there keeping warm, and Jenny suddenly snapped out of her confusion and walked briskly to the kitchen, not so much as a glance at Kabeer as he stood there, his back still to her. Jenny welcomed the aroma of food as she pulled open the oven doors, glad that she was able to control her reaction to the aroma of HIM!

  “Little-Vietnam Roast Duck,” she announced, sliding out the first tray.

  “South Side Organic Meatloaf,” she proclaimed as the second tray emerged.

  “Devon Street Green-and-Yellow Chicken,” she called out in excitement as she presented the third entrée. “Gotta have some Chicago in there!”

  She arranged the items on three pristine white plates and placed them on a serving cart, slowly wheeling the cart to that round table as Kabeer turned his attention to the dishes and then, finally, to her. Jenny thought she saw a flash of something in Kabeer’s eyes as he made eye contact—something beneath that coolly professional, supremely confident, casually cold persona that Jenny had always suspected wasn’t the whole story.

  What do I see in those green eyes, she thought as she pushed the cart past him slowly, breaking eye contact and exhaling hard as she turned her back. What did I see, Kabeer? Did I see you actually FLINCH when you looked at me? Was that a flash of . . . of . . . hesitation, vulnerability, FEAR in your eyes when you saw how professional I can be around you, when you saw that I’m not going to run into your strong arms, fall victim to that green-eyed gaze, melt from your smooth, Arabian accent, swoon from the way you smell, the way you talk, the way you . . . the way you are!

  And now Jenny was glad Kabeer couldn’t see HER face, because she wasn’t sure what he’d see in her big brown eyes, read in her expression, sense in her as she felt her body react to Kabeer’s presence, react in the same way it had the first time they met, that otherworldly connection that just didn’t make logical sense given how little time they had spent together.

  Oh, God, I’m carrying this man’s child and he doesn’t know, Jenny thought as a mixture of shame and panic ripped through her. For a moment she longed to just push this food cart aside and run to his arms and say, “Kabeer, I’m pregnant with your child! With OUR child! I didn’t want it to happen but it did! And now that it’s happened I want it so badly! And maybe I want YOU so badly too!”

  But she stayed quiet, brought the professional smile back to her rosy red lips, and made sure her hands weren’t shaking as she began to place the hot dishes on the round table.

  “That looks incredible,” Kabeer said from behind her, and Jenny felt his eyes on her just like she felt his heat so close, a heat that was making HER heat rise in that annoying, unstoppable way that had gotten her into this damned mess to begin with!

  Now Kabeer was right behind her, SO damned close, and hell this was NOT professional, and God he was lightly touching her arms as she placed the second heavy dish on the table, and his touch was so light, right there, like he was saying, “I am right here, Jenny. Right behind you. Just like I was on that stairway leading to the boat. Right behind you, always. Whether you like it or not. Whether you know it or not. Whether you will have it or not.”

  “It smells magnificent, Jenny,” Kabeer said now, softly, carefully, and she felt his warm, fresh breath in her hair as he spoke. “Tell me what is what.”

  “Little-Vietnam Roast Duck,” Jenny said softly, her voice wavering at first. But then she found her focus and cleared her throat and spoke loudly. “Inspired by the street cuisine you get during summer in Chicago’s Little Vietnam.”

  “Wonderful,” Kabeer said, drawing back and walking around the table. He stopped at a chair across from her, his gaze on Jenny, not the food. He held the look for a long time, and when Jenny kept her focus on the food, he took an impatient breath, waited a moment, and then seemed to regain his own focus. “And this is the American meatloaf?” he said in a tone that was almost too loud, that seemed to betray some of the tension within this cool, calm, confident Sheikh. “The Arabs will go mad for it here!”

  Jenny nodded as she smiled inside. “South Side Organic Meatloaf. The look and feel of meatloaf that’s standard fare in the lower income homes of Chicago’s South Side, but instead of spam and ground-beef, I use organic grains, vegetables, and local, humanely treated, naturally-raised beef and chicken. No pork, of course. It’s shockingly good.”

  “This last one smells Indian,” Kabeer said, finally seeming to turn his attention to the food as he pointed at the third dish. “Oh, correct. Devon Street is the heart of the Indian part of Chicago.” He reached out with his finger to try a bit of the sauce, but Jenny smacked his hand HARD with a wooden serving spoon.

  “Manners,” she said without looking at him. “We’re going to be sharing each dish.”

  Kabeer shrugged, sucking his finger and looking up at her. “I did not think anyone here would have a problem sharing my germs,” he said without hesitation. Now he looked around the table, glanced over the empty restaurant, and gazed up at her with that schoolboyish, wide-eyed stare of innocence and wonder. “Oh, Allah. There is no one else here! Just the two of us. You and me. Kabeer and Jenny.” Now the playfulness in his voice was gone, and there was a depth in his words, a resonance in his language, a hint of something deep, old, and real in what he said. “Just you and me. Man and woman. Kabeer and Jenny. The Sheikh and his Queen.”

  Jenny felt a silence descend upon the table—a crushing, heavy silence during which the sound of her heartbeat hit heavy in her eardrums. The blood was pounding, her temples throbbing. She wasn’t sure she had heard right. She wasn’t sure if Kabeer had said what he said. She felt dizzy and weak. Her heart leapt one moment, almost stopped beating the next. She was hot beneath her open hair, cold as the shivers ran down her back beneath her thin satin blouse. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap Kabeer or kiss him. Stop. Stop. STOP!

  Perhaps the hesitation served her, because she was so shocked, so taken aback, so not sure what to say that she simply said nothing. She sat down across from Kabeer like she was in a dream again, and for the next minute or so she focused on carefully serving each of them a little of each dish, making sure not to let the items mix on the individual plates.

  Just sit and don’t look him in the eye, she told herself. Focus on the food. Chew mindfully. And if that doesn’t work, think about something totally different. Count sheep if you have to!

  Kabeer took a long look at her, but did not say anything else. He waited for another long moment, waited for Jenny to look him in the eye. She did not. Finally Kabeer took a breath and silently leaned back in his chair, his expression hard, his jaw set, his eyes burning with green fire as he seemed to be forcing himself to hold his words back, perhaps hold HIMSELF back.

  The Sheikh waited for Jenny to begin eating. Then he bowed h
is head and began. The two of them chewed quietly in an air of silence so heavy, so thick, so tangible that it could have been served as the fourth dish on the small round table, and it took all Jenny’s will to stay focused on the food and avoid looking directly at the Sheikh.

  The silence lasted so long that Jenny felt she might explode, and then, in a bright, cheerful voice that cut through the tension, Kabeer said, “The duck: a hint of cranberry in the marinade. Meatloaf: infused with raw ginger and garlic AFTER it is done cooking, which is why the flavor is fresh and strong. Chicken: a touch of horseradish in the sauce—VERY unusual for Indian food.” He flashed her his cocky grin and then wiped his mouth, leaned back, and took a sip of water. “How am I doing?”

  Jenny blinked like she was hyperventilating with her eyelids. She was sure her face was bright red, and she forced herself to stay seated and not say something she couldn’t take back. She thought for a moment, then matched his smile with one of her own. “Raspberry, not cranberry. Lemongrass, not ginger. And just plain ol’ mustard, not horseradish.”

  “Close,” Kabeer said.

  “Close doesn’t cut it.”

  “Missed by an inch.”

  “Might as well have missed by a mile.”

  “I do not think I missed.”

  “You calling me a liar?”

  Kabeer shrugged. “I know the different between raspberry and cranberry.”

  “It’s raspberry reduction. Picks up some sweetness as it breaks down.”

  “Raspberry reduction would not hold up so evenly. It falls apart at the temperature you need to roast the duck.”