Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Carrying the Sheikh′s Heir

Carrying the Sheikh's Heir
Lynn Raye Harris


The desert King’s reluctant bride!She’d meant to have a baby for her sister, but an IVF clinic mix-up means party planner Sheridan Sloane is now carrying the heir of Rashid al-Hassan – the desert King of Kyr!Rashid demands marriage, but Sheridan isn’t convinced. He’s sinfully sexy, but his heart is encased in ice. Yet Rashid will not give her a choice – he kidnaps her!Swept away to the desert sands, all Sheridan desires is escape. But when Rashid takes her to his bed she soon craves something else entirely… Can she thaw this proud Sheikh’s heart, or will she have to love enough for two?Discover more at www.millsandboon.co.uk/lynnrayeharris







The desert king’s reluctant bride!

She’d meant to have a baby for her sister, but an IVF clinic mix-up means party planner Sheridan Sloane is now carrying the heir of Rashid al-Hassan, the desert king of Kyr!

Rashid demands marriage, but Sheridan isn’t convinced—he’s sinfully sexy, but his heart is encased in ice. Yet Rashid will not give her a choice—he kidnaps her!

Swept away to the desert sands, Sheridan desires escape. But when Rashid takes her to his bed, she soon craves something else entirely…. Can she thaw this proud sheikh’s heart, or will she have to love enough for two?


“Miss Sloane, I think you misunderstand something about what’s going on here.”

Sheridan’s heart skipped. Why was Rashid 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 realised. 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, Lion of Kyr and Defender of the Throne. And you, Miss Sloane, may be carrying my heir.”


HEIRS TO THE THRONE OF KYR

Two brothers, one crown, and a royal duty that cannot be denie…

The desert kingdom of Kyr needs a new ruler.

Prince Kadir al-Hassan, the Eagle of Kyr: the world’s most notorious playboy.

Prince Rashid al-Hassan, the Lion of Kyr: as dark-hearted as the desert itself.

These sheikh princes share the same blood, but they couldn’t be more different. So now there’s only one question on everyone’s lips…

Who will be crowned the new desert king?

Don’t miss this thrilling new duet from Lynn Raye Harris—where duty and desire collide against a sizzling desert landscape!

GAMBLING WITH THE CROWN

May 2014

CARRYING THE SHEIKH’S HEIR

July 2014


Carrying the Sheikh’s Heir

Lynn Raye Harris




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


USA TODAY bestselling author LYNN RAYE HARRIS burst onto the scene when she won a writing contest held by Mills & Boon®. The prize was an editor for a year—but only six months later Lynn sold her first novel. A former finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award, Lynn lives in Alabama with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Her stories have been called ‘exceptional and emotional’, ‘intense’ and ‘sizzling’.

You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com (http://www.lynnrayeharris.com)


To my brainstorming partners, Jean Hovey and Stephanie Jones, who write together as Alicia Hunter Pace. They calmly listen to my ideas, toss out helpful suggestions, and don’t get offended when I don’t use a single one. And when I tell them there might be jackals, they reply that you can never have too many jackals. Thanks for having my back, ladies.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#uf3345e1d-cc88-5144-89fb-c779e787f53b)

CHAPTER TWO (#u389edb82-570c-5ab0-a981-0c521652e12a)

CHAPTER THREE (#u97deeb75-78d6-52ed-a163-7c7e2c1a4b4a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u42b9e680-d753-5862-8106-e002b927bd00)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

“A MISTAKE? HOW is this possible?”

King Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan glared daggers at the stuttering secretary who stood in front of him. The man swallowed visibly.

“The clinic says they have made a mistake, Your Majesty. A woman...” Mostafa looked down at the note in his hand. “A woman in America was supposed to receive her brother-in-law’s sperm. She received yours instead.”

Rashid’s blood ran hot and then cold. He felt...violated. Rage coursed through him like a flame from a blast furnace, melting the ice around his heart for only a moment before it hardened again. He knew from experience that nothing could thaw that ice for long. In five years, nothing had penetrated the darkness surrounding him.

His hands clenched into fists on his desk. This was too much. Too outrageous.

How dare they? How dare anyone take that choice away from him? He wasn’t ready for a child in his life. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready, though eventually he had to provide Kyr with an heir. It was his duty, but he wasn’t prepared to do it quite yet.

The prospect of marrying and producing children brought up too many memories, too much pain. He preferred the ice to the sharpness of loss and despair that would envelop him if he let the ice thaw.

He’d obeyed the law that required him to deposit sperm in two banks for the preservation of his line, but he’d never dreamed it could go so horribly wrong. A random woman had been impregnated with his sperm. He could even now be an expectant father, his seed growing into a tiny life that could break him anew.

An icy wash of terror crested inside him, left him reeling in its wake. He would be physically ill in another moment.

Rashid pushed himself up from his chair and turned away so Mostafa wouldn’t see the utter desolation that he knew was on his face. This was not an auspicious beginning to his reign as Kyr’s king.

Hell, as if this was the only thing that had gone wrong. His stomach churned with fresh fury.

Since his father died two months ago and his brother abdicated before he’d ever been crowned, it was now Rashid’s duty to rule this nation. But nothing was the way it was supposed to be. As the eldest, he should have been the crown prince, but he’d been the despised son, a pawn in his father’s game of cat and mouse. In Kyr, the king could name his successor from amongst his sons. There was no law that said it had to be the eldest, though tradition usually dictated that it was.

But not for King Zaid al-Hassan. He’d been a cruel and manipulative man, the kind who ruled his sons—and his wives—with fear and harsh punishments. He’d dangled the possibility of the throne over his sons’ heads for far too long. Kadir had never wanted to rule, but it hadn’t mattered to their father. It was simply a way to control his eldest son. But Rashid had refused to play, instead leaving Kyr when he was twenty-five and vowing never to come back again.

He had come back, however. And now he wore a crown he’d never expected to have. His father, the old snake, was probably spinning in his grave right this minute. King Zaid had not wanted Rashid to rule. He had only wanted to hold out the hope of it before snatching the crown away in a final act of spite. That he’d died without naming his successor didn’t fill Rashid with the kind of peace that Kadir felt. Kadir wanted to believe their father had desired a reconciliation, and Rashid would not take that away from him.

But Rashid knew better. He’d had a lifetime of his father’s scorn and disapproval and he just simply knew better.

Yet here he was. Rashid’s gaze scanned the desert landscape, rolling over the sandstone hills in the distance, the red sand dunes, the palms and fountains that lined the ornate gardens of the palace. The sun was high and most people were inside at this hour. The horizon shimmered with heat. A primitive satisfaction rolled through him at the sight of all he loved.

He’d missed Kyr. He’d missed her perfumed night breezes, her blazing heat and her hardy people. He’d missed the call to prayer ringing from the mosque in the dawn hour, and he’d missed riding across the desert on his Arabian stallion, a hawk on his arm, hunting the small animals that were the hawk’s chosen prey.

Until two months ago, he’d not set foot in Kyr in ten years. He’d thought he never would again, but then his father had called with news of his illness and demanded Rashid’s presence. Even then, Rashid had resisted. For Kadir’s sake, he had finally relented.

And now he was a king when he’d given up on the idea years ago. Kadir was gone again, married to his former personal assistant and giddy with love. For Kadir, the world was a bright, happy place filled with possibilities.

Desolation swept through Rashid. It was an old and familiar companion, and his hands clenched into helpless fists. He’d been in love once and he’d been happy. But happiness was ephemeral and love didn’t last. Love meant loss, and loss meant pain that never healed.

He’d been powerless to save Daria and the baby. So powerless. Who knew such a thing was possible in this day and age? A woman dying in childbirth seemed impossible, and yet it was not. It was, in fact, ridiculously easy. Rashid knew it far too well.

He stood there awhile longer, facing the windswept dunes in the distance, gathering his thoughts before he turned back to his secretary. His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously measured. He would not let this thing rule him.

“We chose this facility in Atlanta as the repository of the second sample for a reason. You will call them and demand to know this woman’s name and where she lives. Or they will suffer the very public consequences of their mistake.”

Mostafa bowed his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He sank to his knees then and touched his forehead to the ornate carpet that graced the floor in front of Rashid’s desk. “It is my fault, Your Majesty. I chose the facility. I will resign my position and leave the capital in disgrace.”

Rashid gritted his teeth. Sometimes he forgot how rigidly prideful Kyrians could be. He’d spent so many years away. But if he’d stayed, he would be a different man. A less damaged man. Or not. His mother and father had been willing to use any weapon in their protracted war against each other, and he had been the favorite. The damage had been done years before he’d ever left Kyr.

“You will do no such thing,” he snapped. “I have no time to wait while you train a new secretary. The fault lies elsewhere.”

Rashid stalked back to his desk and sat down again. He had many things to do and a new problem to deal with. If this American woman had truly been impregnated with his sperm, then she could very well be carrying the heir to the throne of Kyr.

His fingers tightened on the pen he’d picked up again. If he thought of the child that way, as his heir, and of the woman as a functionary performing a duty—or a vessel carrying a cargo—then he could get through these next few days. Beyond that, he did not know.

An image of Daria’s pale face swam in his head, twisting the knife deep in his soul. He was not ready to do this again, to watch a woman grow big with his child and know that it could all go wrong in an instant.

And yet he had no choice. If the woman was pregnant, she was his.

“Find this woman by the end of the hour,” he ordered. “Or you may yet find yourself tending camels in the Kyrian Waste.”

Mostafa’s color drained as he backed away. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was a snapping sound at precisely the moment the door closed behind the secretary. Pain bloomed in Rashid’s palm. He looked down to find a pen in his hand. Or, rather, half a pen. The other half lay on the desk, dark ink spilling into a pattern on the wood like a psychologist’s test blot.

A cut in his skin dripped red blood onto the black ink. He watched it drip for a long moment before there was a knock on his door and a servant entered with afternoon tea. Rashid stood and went into the nearby restroom in order to wash away the blood and tape up the cut. When he returned to his desk, the blood and ink had been wiped away. Cleaned up as if it had never happened.

He flexed his hand and felt the sting of the cut against his palm. You could sweep up messes, patch up wounds and try to forget they ever happened.

But Rashid knew the truth. The cut would heal, but there were things that never went away, no matter how deeply you buried them.

* * *

“Please stop crying, Annie.” Sheridan sat at her desk with her phone to her ear and her heart in her throat. Her sister was sobbing on the other end of the line at the news from the clinic. Sheridan was still too stunned to process it. “We’ll get through this. Somehow, we’ll get through. I am having a baby for you. I promise it will happen.”

Annie sobbed and wailed for twenty minutes while Sheridan tried to soothe her. Annie, the oldest by a year, was so fragile, and Sheridan felt her pain keenly. Sheridan had always been the strong one. She was still the strong one. Still the one looking out for her sister and wishing that she could give Annie some of her strength.

She felt so guilty every time Annie fell apart. It wasn’t her fault, and yet she couldn’t help but feel responsible. There’d only been enough money in their family for one daughter to go to college, and Sheridan had better grades. Annie had been shy and reclusive while Sheridan was outgoing. The choice had been evident to all of them, but it was yet another thing Sheridan felt guilty over. Maybe if their parents had tried harder to encourage Annie, to support her decisions, she would be stronger than she was. Instead, she let everyone else make her choices.

The one thing she wanted in this life was the one thing she couldn’t have. But Sheridan could give it to her. And she was determined to do just that, in spite of this latest wrinkle in the plan.

Eventually, Annie’s husband came home and took the phone away. Sheridan talked to Chris for a few minutes and then the line went dead.

She leaned back in her chair and blinked. Her eyes were gritty and swollen from the crying she’d been doing along with her sister. She snatched up a tissue from the holder on her desk and dabbed at her eyes.

How had this all gone wrong? It was supposed to be so easy. Annie couldn’t carry a baby to term, but Sheridan could. So she’d offered to have a baby for her sister, knowing that it would make Annie happy and fulfill her deepest desire. It would have also made their parents happy, if they were still alive, to know they’d have a grandchild on the way. They’d had Annie and Sheridan late in life, and they’d desperately wanted grandchildren. But Annie hadn’t been able to provide them, and Sheridan hadn’t been ready.

Now Sheridan wished she’d had this baby earlier so her parents could have held their grandchild before they died. Though the child wouldn’t be Annie’s biologically, it would still share her DNA. The Sloane DNA.

Sheridan had gone in for the insemination a week ago. They still didn’t know whether it had worked or not, but now that she knew it wasn’t Chris’s sperm, she fervently hoped it hadn’t.

She’d been given sperm from a different donor. A foreigner. The sperm bank would give them no other information beyond the physical facts. An Arab male, six-two, black hair, dark eyes, healthy.

Sheridan put her hand on her belly and drew in a deep breath. They couldn’t test for another week yet. Another week of Annie crying her eyes out. Another week until Sheridan knew if she was having an anonymous man’s baby or if they would try again with Chris’s sperm.

But what if she was pregnant this time? Then what?

There was a knock on her door, and her partner popped her head in. Sheridan swiped her eyes again and smiled as Kelly came inside the small office at the back of the space they rented for their business.

“Hey, you okay?”

Sheridan sniffed. “Not exactly.” She waved a hand. “I will be, but it’s just a lot to process.”

Kelly came over and took her hand, squeezed it before she sat in a chair nearby and leaned forward to look Sheridan in the eye. “Want to talk about it?”

Sheridan thought she didn’t, but then she spilled the news almost as if she couldn’t quite help herself. And it felt good to tell someone else. Someone who wouldn’t sob and fall apart and need more reassurance than Sheridan knew how to give. If her mother was still alive, she’d know what to say to Annie. But Sheridan so often didn’t.

Kelly didn’t interrupt, but her eyes grew bigger as the story unfolded. Then she sat back in the chair with her jaw hanging open.

“Wow. So you might be pregnant with another man’s baby. Poor Annie! She must be devastated.”

Sheridan’s heart throbbed. “She is. She’d pinned all her hopes on me having a baby for her and Chris. After so many disappointments, so many treatments and failed attempts of her own, she’s fragile right now....” Sheridan sucked in a breath. “This was just a bad time for it to happen.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. But maybe it won’t take, and then you can try again.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” The doctor had said that sometimes they had to repeat the process two or three times before it was successful. And while it seemed wrong on some level to hope for failure this time, it would also be the best outcome. Sheridan stood and straightened her skirt. “Well, don’t we have a party to cater? Mrs. Lands will be expecting her crab puffs and roast beef in a couple of hours.”

“It’s under control, Sheri. Why don’t you just go home and rest? You look like hell, you know.”

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. Sheridan 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 come 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.

Daria would want him to be kind to this woman. So he would try, though it went against his nature to be kind to anyone. He was not cruel; he was indifferent. He’d learned to be so over the hellish years of his childhood. If you did not care, people couldn’t hurt you.

When you did... Well, he knew what happened when you cared. He had the scars on his soul to prove it. The only person he cared about these days was Kadir, and that was as much as he was capable of.

He inclined his head briefly. “You may call me Rashid.” And then he added, “I suggest, however, you do not do it in front of my staff. They will not understand the informality.”

She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her upper arms almost absently. “You can call me Sheridan, then. And I don’t see why you need worry about your staff. We won’t know for another week if there’s a baby. I can call you with the information, if you’d like. Then we can decide what to do if it’s necessary.”

He blinked at her. She truly did not understand. Or she was being stubbornly obtuse on purpose. His temper rose anew.

“You will not call me.”

She frowned at his tone. “Fine. You can call me. Either way, we’ll work it out.”

He clenched his fingers into fists in his lap. Stubborn woman!

“There is nothing to work out. You have been artificially inseminated with my sperm. You might be carrying the next king of Kyr. There is no possible choice other than the one I offer you now.”

“I honestly don’t think—”

“Silence, Miss Sloane,” he snapped, coming to the end of his tether. “You are not here to think. You will accompany me to the airport, where you will board the royal jet. We will be in Kyr by morning, and you will be shown every courtesy while we await the results. Should you fail to conceive my child, you will be escorted home again.”

Her jaw had dropped as he talked. He tried not to focus on the pink curve of her lower lip. It glistened with moisture and he found himself wanting to lean forward and touch his tongue just there to see if she tasted as sweet and delicate as she looked.

The thought shocked him. And angered him. He did not want this woman.

She was shaking her head almost violently now. A lock of hair dropped from her twist and curved in front of her cheekbone. She impatiently tucked it behind an ear.

“I can’t drop everything and go away with you! I have a business to run. And my bank account, unlike yours, I’m sure, isn’t bursting with money. No way. No way in hell.”

Her response stunned him. He shot to his feet then, his temper beginning to boil. He had a country to run and one crisis after another to solve these days. He had a council waiting for him, a stack of dossiers on potential brides to scour through and an upcoming meeting with kings from surrounding nations to discuss oil production, mineral rights and reciprocity agreements.

And yet he was being thwarted by one small, irritating woman who refused to give an inch of ground in this battle. A people pleaser? She didn’t look as if she cared one bit about pleasing him at the moment.

Rashid gave her the look that made the palace staff tremble. “I wasn’t giving you a choice, Miss Sloane.”

She sucked in a breath, and he knew he had her.

But then her face reddened and her eyes flashed purple fire and Rashid stood there in shock.

“You think you have the right to make decisions for me? This is America and I don’t have to go anywhere with you. Not only that, but I won’t go. If I’m pregnant, we’ll figure it out. But as of this moment, we do not know that. I can’t just leave because you wish it. Nor do I intend to.”

His entire body vibrated with fury. He was not accustomed to being told no. Not by his employees at Hassan Oil—a company he’d built on his own and still owned to this day, even if he’d had to turn over the day-to-day operations to a CEO—not by his staff in the palace, not by anyone anywhere in the past several years. He was an al-Hassan, with money and influence, and people did not tell him no.

And now he was a king, and they really did not tell him no.

But Sheridan Sloane had. She sat there on her couch, looking pale and delicate and too small to safely carry a baby for nine months, and spoke to him like he was her gardener. It infuriated him. And stunned him, too, if he was willing to admit it.

No matter how much he admired her fighting spirit, he would not be merciful. He’d left mercy behind a long time ago.

“Miss Sloane,” he said, very coolly and clearly. “It would be unwise to anger me. This business you run?” He snapped his fingers. “I could destroy it in a moment. I could destroy you in a moment. Continue to defy me, and I shall.”

* * *

Sheridan’s pulse skipped and slid like it was tumbling down a hill and couldn’t find purchase. He’d just threatened her. Threatened Dixie Doin’s. At first she wanted to laugh him off. But then she looked at him standing there, at his tall, dark form and the dark glitter of his eyes, and knew he was not only perfectly serious, but that he was also probably capable of accomplishing it.

He was a king. A king!

Of an incredibly rich, oil-producing nation in the Arabian Desert. She knew where Kyr was. Hadn’t they just had a crisis that was plastered all over the news? The king had been very ill and no one had known who his successor was going to be.

She’d found it fascinating that a monarch could choose his successor from among his sons, and puzzling that he had not done so by that point. They were grown after all, and he must surely know which of them was best suited to the job.

The fact he had not done so surely spoke volumes about him—or about his children. She wasn’t sure which.

But the crisis had passed and Kyr had a king. This man. Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan. Oh, yes, his name was imprinted on her memory now. She would never forget it again as long as she lived.

Still, she had not been raised to blindly follow orders and she would not start now. Even though he terrified her on some level. He was so cold and angry, and he was a king. But he was not her king. Hadn’t her ancestors fought to divest themselves of kings?

Sheridan cleared her throat. “It’s only seven more days until the test. You could stay in Savannah. Or maybe you could come back when the results are due. It seems far simpler than what you’re proposing.”

He did not look in the least bit appeased. “Does it, now? Because your business, which has another owner and employees to help, needs your presence far more than a nation needs her king, yes? How extraordinary, Miss Sloane.”

Sheridan pushed the stray lock of hair behind her ear again. How did he manage to make her feel petty when all she wanted was to continue to live her life as normally as possible until the moment when she found out if everything was going to change or not? She didn’t even want to contemplate what it would mean if she were carrying this man’s child.

A royal baby. Madness.

She twisted the cloth that she’d earlier pressed to her forehead. “I didn’t mean to suggest any such thing. But yes, my business is important to me, and I can’t leave Kelly to do everything by herself. I have menus to plan, and supplies to buy—”

“And I have a peace agreement to broker and a nation to run.” He’d already dismissed her, she realized. He slipped a phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. And then he was speaking in mellifluous Arabic to someone on the other end. When he finished, cool dark eyes raked over her again. “You will come, Miss Sloane, and you will do it now. My lawyer has instructions to purchase your loan from the bank. I assure you he will accomplish this, as I am willing to offer far more than this business is worth.”

Sheridan’s jaw dropped even as a fine sheen of sweat broke out between her breasts. He was quite easily the most obnoxious man she’d ever met. And the most attractive.

No. The most evil man. Yes, definitely that. Evil.

Because she knew he was not bluffing. A man who had the power to obtain her information from the fertility clinic—information protected by law—as if it was freely available to anyone who asked, was not a man to make bluffs.

He had the power to buy Dixie Doin’s and do whatever he wanted with it. Close the doors. Put people out of work. Ruin hers and Kelly’s dream. She didn’t care so much for herself right now, but Kelly? Kelly had been so kind when Sheridan told her she wanted to have a baby for Chris and Annie, even though it would impact the business for her to be pregnant.

Not to mention the impact while Sheridan went through the insemination process. You just didn’t show up at the clinic one day and ask for sperm after all, and Kelly had stoically accepted it all without even a hint of disapproval or fear.

So how could she allow this overbearing, rude tyrant of a man to ruin Kelly’s dream just because Sheridan wanted so very desperately to defy him?

She couldn’t.

She rose on shaky feet and faced him. He was so very tall, so overwhelming, but she faced him head on with her chin up and her back straight. She pulled in a breath that shook with anger.

“Am I to be allowed to collect any clothing? Surely I need my passport.”

She thought he would look satisfied or triumphant at her capitulation, but he in fact looked bored. As if he’d never doubted she would agree. She hated him in that moment, and Sheridan had never hated anyone in her life.

“You do not need a passport if you are traveling with me. But we will make a brief stop at your home. You will get what you need for the next week.”

Fear skirted the edges of her anger. Was she truly proposing to board a plane to a far-off nation where she didn’t speak the language and didn’t understand the customs? But how could she refuse? If she did, he would ruin Dixie Doin’s and put them out of business. All the money she and Kelly had invested would be gone.

But what happened in a week? Would he force her to stay in Kyr forever if she were carrying his child?

Sheridan put a hand to her mouth to press back the sudden cry welling up in her throat. In reality, she was being kidnapped by a desert king, forced into a harem for all she knew, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Not if she wanted to protect her friend and her employees. Not to mention Annie and Chris. What would this man do to them if she didn’t comply? Could he get Chris fired? He could certainly buy the loan on their house—they’d mortgaged it to the hilt to pay for one failed fertility treatment after another—and then what?

Ice formed in her veins. He would throw them out of their home with no sympathy or shame. She could see it in his eyes, in the hard set to his jaw. This man was ruthless and incapable of empathy.

“How do I know I’ll be safe?” Sheridan asked, her voice smaller than she would have liked.

His brows drew down swiftly as his anger flared. “Safe? Do you think me a barbarian, Miss Sloane? A terrorist? I am a king and you are my honored guest. You will have every luxury for the duration of your stay in Kyr.”

She swallowed at the vehemence in his tone. “And what if I’m pregnant? What then?”

Because she had to know. For herself, for the child. She had to know what this man would do, what he would expect.

His icy gaze sharpened in a way that sent a shiver rippling through her. “You were planning to give the child away. Why would this change?”

An unexpected arrow of pain dived into her belly, hollowing out a space there. Yes, she’d been planning to give the baby up. But to her sister. Carrying a child for Annie and Chris was one thing. She would not be the baby’s mother, even if she was the biological mother, but she would still be part of his or her life. An aunt who would spoil the child of her body rotten, kiss and hug him, buy him presents, shower him with love.

But to give her baby to a stranger, even if the stranger was the other half of the child’s DNA?

It went against everything she felt inside.

“I won’t give up my baby.” Her voice was hoarse. But what choice did she have? He would destroy everyone she loved.

His eyes glittered like ice and she trembled inside. “Yes, I see,” he murmured after a long moment. “I am a king, and my son will be a king. Why would you willingly relinquish a child so valuable?”

Sheridan had never wanted to harm another human being in her life, but if she could slap this one and get away with it, she would. He was evil, hateful. Her face flooded with heat and her stomach flipped, but this time it wasn’t a sickening flip so much as an angry one.

“You’re disgusting,” she spat. “I don’t care how amazing and fabulous you think you are, but until today I’d never heard of you.” A small lie. “My feelings about this baby have nothing to do with who you are and everything to do with the fact he or she is half mine.”

She lifted a shaking finger and pointed at the door. He didn’t own her, and until they knew whether or not she was pregnant, she wasn’t going anywhere with him. It was a risk, but she needed time to figure out what to do, time to consult an attorney and talk to her family. If she left the country with him, it was over. He would own her and any baby within her.

“You should leave.”

He stared at her for a long moment, that handsome countenance wreathed in dark anger. And then he burst out laughing. It shocked her. The sound was so rich, so beautiful. And chilling in a way.

“I don’t see what’s so funny,” she said, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. “I am perfectly serious. I’ll see you in court, Your Majesty.”

The door opened behind her. She turned, hoping it was Kelly or even Tiffany coming to save her, but it was merely one of the bodyguards.

“The car is ready, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent.”

Sheridan turned toward the king, but he’d moved when she’d been looking at his bodyguard. Before she knew what he was about, he swept an arm behind her knees and jerked her into his arms. Once more, she was pressed against his hard, taut body, his scent in her nostrils, conjuring images of heat and sand and cool water. A hot, tight feeling flared beneath her skin, burning through her and stopping the breath in her chest until he was halfway across the storefront.

There were customers, she noted vaguely. And Tiffany, who looked up as Rashid al-Hassan walked by with Sheridan in his arms. Tiffany didn’t even look surprised, the silly girl. She just looked bored, like always.

Sheridan knew she needed to scream. She needed to get these people’s attention and get this man to put her down immediately. She felt her lungs working again—of course they’d never stopped, but she hadn’t felt them, hadn’t felt anything but heat and unbearable want when he’d picked her up—and she sucked in air, preparing to release it in the most eardrum-shattering cry she could manage.

But she never got the chance because Rashid al-Hassan—the Great Protector of his people, the Lion of Kyr and Defender of the Throne—dropped his mouth over hers and silenced her.


CHAPTER THREE

RASHID HADN’T MEANT to kiss her. But the damned woman was going to scream and he could not allow it. So he’d silenced her in the only way he could.

Her mouth was soft and pliant and sweet. He took advantage of the fact her lips were open to slip his tongue inside and stroke across the velvety softness of her mouth. She didn’t move for a long moment and he began to wonder if she would bite him.

She was certainly capable of it. He’d not encountered a woman such as this one in...well, ever. Usually, women softened around him. Their eyes got big and wide and their mouths fell open invitingly. They sighed. They purred. They pouted.

They did not act as if he were poison. They did not glare daggers at him and spit fire and tell him to get out in prim little voices that belonged to the starchy librarians he’d encountered when he’d gone to university.

Sheridan’s breath hitched in and he knew he had her. Knew she was his, for the moment.

He deepened the kiss, demanding more of a response from her. He had to keep her mouth busy and her thoughts focused on him until he could get her out of the store and into the car. It was a mercenary act on his part and he had no trouble pushing it as far as he needed in order to keep the fool woman silenced.

Her mouth opened a little wider, her tongue stroking tentatively against his.

Rashid’s body turned to stone in a heartbeat. He had not expected that. But then he reminded himself there was a reason for his reaction. It had been a while since he’d had a woman. Being king had taken all his time these past couple of months. He was no longer a private citizen. No longer a man who could walk into a club, spot a gorgeous woman and take her home for a night of hot sex and no recriminations.

He was a king, and kings did not go anywhere without an entourage. They also did not pick up women and take them back to the palace for sex.

Certainly, he could have sent for a woman. But what kind of man would he be if he sent others to pick out women for him for the express purpose of having sex?

He was no prude, and he figured what people did with their bodies was their own business, but he’d never paid for sex in his life and he wasn’t going to start now. Because that was what it would be if he ordered a woman for the evening as if she were an item on a room service menu.

Oh, she would not be a common prostitute. She wouldn’t be a prostitute at all. But that didn’t make it any better in his mind.

Another reason why he was going to have to choose a wife soon from the handful of princesses and heiresses his council had recommended. And yet he couldn’t imagine having sex with any of the women whose dossiers he’d been sent thus far, much less facing one of them across a breakfast table for the rest of his life.

Damn Kadir for forcing him to take the throne. Yes, Rashid had always wanted to be king, but he hadn’t quite realized how very confined he would feel. He was a ruler, a man with the power of life and death over his subjects, a man with absolute authority—and he had no private life to speak of. No one with whom he could share the simple pleasures.

He had not thought that would bother him so much, but it did. He missed Daria. Missed having someone in his life who loved him because of his flaws, not in spite of them. But Daria was gone, and there was no one.

Sheridan shifted in his arms and he felt her confusion, her hesitation. She was fighting herself, fighting her nature, and if he’d learned anything about her in these last few minutes, he knew she would conquer her baser instincts and fight against him soon enough.

A people pleaser? Perhaps she was, but she was not a Rashid pleaser. He knew that well enough now.

Because he was angry, because he was frustrated, he took the kiss to another level, ravaged her mouth like a man starved. He wanted to confuse her, wanted to keep her quiet and, hell, yes, he wanted to disconcert her. How dare she disobey him?

She gripped his lapels, twisted her fists in them. And then she met him as savagely as he met her. His body responded with a surge of heat he’d not felt in a long time. Her breath grew shallower and she made a sound in her throat.

He broke the kiss then, uncertain if he was pushing her too far too fast. Alarmed at his body’s reaction to her, he tucked her head against his chest before she could speak.

“Quiet, habibti. Let me get you home.” He smiled at the women in the shop who threw them astonished looks and then strode outside and down the front steps before Sheridan could regain her ability to think clearly.

The car door swung smoothly open and Rashid bent to place Sheridan on the seat. She was so small and light that it was like handling a piece of china. He didn’t want to break her, but he also knew she was stronger than she looked.

He got in beside her, the door sealed shut, and the car slid smoothly away from the curb and down the sun-dappled streets. The partition was up between them and the driver, and silence hung heavy in the car.

“You kidnapped me.” Her voice was small and frightened and Rashid swung to look at her. Her golden hair gleamed in the sunlight that filtered into the car and her eyes were wide with fear. He did not enjoy that, but he told himself it was necessary. Whatever it took to force her to obey.

Rashid sat back and tugged a sleeve into place. He was not precisely pleased with himself, and yet he’d done what had to be done. A man like him claimed his child. And the woman carrying it.

“I did warn you.”

“You said you weren’t a barbarian.” Her hands clenched into fists in her lap. She wore a pink dress and smelled like cotton candy and Rashid wanted to lean into her and press his nose to her hair.

“Indeed.”

“Then I must be confused, because I thought barbarians did precisely what you just did. Or did you perhaps say you weren’t a barber and I simply misunderstood?”

And there was the attitude. Clearly, she was not damaged in any way. It gave his temper permission to emerge.

“I am a desert king. Of course I’m a barbarian. Isn’t that what you believe? Because I speak Arabic and come from a nation where the men wear robes and the women are veiled, that I must surely be less civilized than you?”

Her lips pressed into a tight, white line. “Even if I didn’t believe it, don’t you think you just proved it? What kind of man kidnaps a woman he’s never met just because there’s been a mix-up in the clinic?”

Her eyes were flashing purple fire again. For some reason, that intrigued him almost as much as it angered him.

“A man who has no time for arguments. A man who holds the lives of an entire nation in his hands and who needs to get back to his duties. A man who has no reason whatsoever to trust that the woman carrying his heir will turn over the child when it is time.”

Her eyes darkened with anger. “I won’t give up my baby just because you wish it.”

“You were willing to do so for your sister.”

“That’s different and you know it. I would still be part of the child’s life. A beloved aunt.” She shook her head suddenly. “Why are we arguing about this? There’s no guarantee I’m pregnant. It doesn’t always work the first time.”

“Perhaps not, but I will take no chances. My child will be a king one day, Sheridan Sloane. He will not be raised in an apartment in America by a woman who works sixteen-hour days and ignores him in favor of her own interests.”

Her skin flushed bright red. “How dare you?” she growled. “How dare you act as if you know me when you don’t have the faintest clue? I would never ignore my child. Never!”

He infuriated her. No, she’d not planned for a child in her life—the baby was supposed to be Annie’s—but the fact he would sit there and smugly inform her that he believed she would neglect her baby in favor of her business made her defensive and angry. Of course she would still have to work, but she would figure it out.

Except there would be no figuring it out. This man was a king, and if she was pregnant, he wasn’t going to abandon her to raise the child alone. He would be a part of her life from now on.

Sheridan shivered at the thought. How did one work out custody with a king?

“This baby is supposed to be Annie’s,” she said, working hard to keep the panic from her voice. “I hadn’t planned on a baby of my own, but that doesn’t mean I would be a bad or neglectful mother. And I won’t let you steamroll right over me just because you’re a king. I have rights, too.”

His eyes were hooded as he studied her. Did he have to be so damned beautiful? She’d never seen hair so black or eyes so fathomless. If he was an actor, she’d wonder if his cheekbones were the work of a plastic surgeon. His face was a study in perfection, angles and planes and smooth, bronzed skin. He was golden, as if he spent long hours under the sun, and there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes where they crinkled as he studied her.

Her gaze focused on his mouth, those firm, beautiful lips that had pressed against hers. She felt a fresh wave of heat creeping up her throat. He’d only kissed her to shut her up, but she’d forgotten for long minutes why that was a bad thing. His mouth had ravaged hers and she’d only wanted more. Even now, her lips tingled with the memory of his assault on them. She was bruised and swollen, but in a good way. In the kind of way that said a woman had been well kissed and had enjoyed every moment of it.

Sheridan dropped her gaze from his, suddenly self-conscious. It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone. A long time since she’d lain in bed with a man and felt the heat and wonder of joining her body with another. She hadn’t thought she was deprived. Rather, she’d thought she was busy and that she just didn’t have time to invest in a relationship.

But now that he’d kissed her, she felt as if she’d been starving for affection. As if the drought in her sex life was suddenly much larger than she’d thought it was. How could he make her feel this way when he was not a nice man?

After her last relationship, a short-lived romance with a womanizing accountant who’d made her feel like the only woman in his life until the moment she’d caught him with his tongue down someone else’s throat, she’d vowed to only date nice, trustworthy men.

Rashid al-Hassan was definitely not a nice man. Or trustworthy. But he made things hum and spark inside her, damn him. She’d only kissed him once, but already she wanted to lean forward, tunnel her fingers through that thick mane of hair and claim his lips for another round.

Insanity, Sheridan.

“Surely there is something you want more than this child,” he said smoothly, cutting into her thoughts, and her heart began to beat a crazy rhythm.

“No.”

He lifted an eyebrow in that superior arch she despised. “Money? I can give you quite a lot of it, you know. Once our divorce is final, you could be a wealthy woman.”

Divorce? Her stomach fell to the floor at the thought of being married to this man for even an hour.

“I don’t want your money. And I’m definitely not going to marry you.” There was only one thing she wanted. It also wasn’t something he could give. Unless he had the power of miracles.

She was certain he did not. If a dozen doctors couldn’t fix Annie’s fertility issues, then neither could a king, no matter how arrogant and entitled.

“Everyone has a price, Sheridan. And if you are pregnant, you most certainly will be my wife. In name only, of course. My child will not be born illegitimate.”

Her name on his lips was too exotic, too sensual. It stroked over her senses, set up a drumbeat in her veins. And embarrassed her because he clearly wasn’t suffering from an unwanted attraction, too. In name only.

“All I want is a baby for my sister. And I intend to give her one.”

“After you give me my heir, of course.”

Her lips tightened. “You make it sound so cold and clinical. As if you’re selecting a prized broodmare to give you a champion foal.”

The car glided through the streets. Outside the windows, people behaved as usual. Tourists chattered excitedly and pointed from their seats in the horse-drawn carriages that traveled through Savannah’s historic district. Part of Sheridan wanted to open the door and run when the car came to a standstill in traffic.

But there was no escape. Not like this anyway. The only way to fight a man like him was with lawyers, and even that was no guarantee because he could afford far better representation than she could.

“It is a clinical thing, is it not?” His voice was rich and smooth and crusted in ice. “We have never been intimate, and yet you may be pregnant with my child. Put there with a syringe in a doctor’s office. How is this not clinical?”

Sheridan swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was supposed to be having a baby for my sister. With my brother-in-law’s sperm. What would you propose we do differently?”

Of course, it would have been cheaper and easier for her and Chris to just sleep together until she was pregnant, but what a horrifying thought that was. He was her sister’s husband and her friend, and there was no way in hell. Lying on a table with her feet in stirrups might be clinical, but it was the only solution.

He ignored the question. “Nevertheless, it is my sperm you received. How do you think this makes me feel?”

She swung around to look at him. Up to this point, she hadn’t thought of how it must have affected him. She was almost ashamed of herself for the lapse. Almost.

That ended when she met his gaze. He was looking at her as coldly as ever. King Rashid al-Hassan was a block of ice. A block of ice that had burned strangely hot when he’d pressed his mouth to hers.

Sheridan nervously smoothed the fabric of her dress. “I admit I hadn’t thought of it. I imagine you’re angry.”

“That is one way of putting it.” His dark eyes flashed. “I am a king and my country has laws I must obey. You may think us barbarians, but there is a certain logic to the king depositing sperm in a bank outside his nation. It was never meant to be used. Or not under normal circumstances.”

She didn’t want to think about what kind of circumstances would precipitate using the sperm, but she imagined it would involve his untimely death and no heir to follow him to the throne. She might not like him, but she wouldn’t wish him dead.

Yet.

“No, I can see how it might be useful. It’s forward thinking to do such a thing.”

“Apparently not, when mistakes such as this are allowed to occur.”

Sheridan put her hand over her middle instinctively. Fresh anger swirled in her belly. “Calling this baby a mistake is unlikely to inspire my confidence, don’t you think? You want me to give him or her up, but you speak as if you don’t care about him other than as your heir.”

“He will be my heir. Until there is another child, at least.”

Her heart thumped. “Because you can choose your successor in Kyr. Of course.” Her fingers tightened over her flat belly. She didn’t even know if there was a baby in there yet, but already she felt protective and angry.

“It is the way of our people.”

Maybe so, but it seemed a horrible way for children to grow up. Talk about an unhealthy sense of competition. “You weren’t chosen until right before your father died. How did that make you feel?”

His eyes glittered hot and she had the feeling she’d tweaked the lion’s tail. He looked at her as if he would snap her in two with one fierce bite. Yet his voice was still as icy as ever.

“You push me too far, Sheridan Sloane. You should be more cautious.”

Maybe she should, but she couldn’t seem to do so. “Why? Because you might kidnap me or something?”

His dark eyes raked over her. “Or something.”


CHAPTER FOUR

KYR WAS HOT. Savannah was hot, too, but it was also muggy because they were so near the ocean. Kyr was not muggy, though the Persian Gulf was nearby. It was just hot, with the kind of heat that sucked all the moisture right out of you and left you gasping for breath. It was also beautiful, which Sheridan had not expected.

The desert sands were almost red and the dunes rose high in the distance, undulating like waves on the ocean. As they’d approached the city from the airport, she’d viewed tall date palms that grew in ordered rows. Sheridan had been in the same car with Rashid, but once they’d arrived at the palace she’d been taken to what appeared to be a lonely wing with no one else in it. If he had a harem, this was not it.

She still couldn’t believe she was here. She paced around the cavernous room of the suite she’d been shown to and marveled at the architecture. There were soaring arches, mosaics of delicate and colorful tile and painted walls and ceilings. There was a sunken area in the middle of the room, lined with colorful cushions, and above her the ceiling soared into a dome shape that was punctuated with small windows, which let light filter down to the floor and spread in warm puddles across its gleaming tiles.

It was a beautiful and lonely space. Sheridan sank onto the cushions and sat by herself in that big room, listening to nothing. There was no television, no radio, no telephone that she could find. She had her cell phone, but no signal.

She leaned back against the cushions and swore she wouldn’t cry. For someone like her, a person who craved light and sound and activity, this silent cavern was torture. Just yesterday—had it really been only yesterday?—she’d been surrounded by people at Mrs. Lands’s party. And then she’d been in her office, with her beautiful store outside her door, listening to the sounds of people on the street and the low hum of her radio as it played the latest top-forty hits.

She hadn’t exactly been happy, not after the news from the clinic and Annie’s reaction, but she’d been far more content than she’d given herself credit for. Tears pushed against her eyes at the thought of all she’d left behind, but she didn’t let them fall.

Rashid al-Hassan was a tyrant. He’d swept into her life, swept her up against her will and deposited her here alone. And all because the stupid sperm bank had used the wrong sperm. She’d wanted to give her sister a precious gift, but she was here, a veritable prisoner to a rude, arrogant, sinfully attractive man who had all the warmth and friendliness of an iceberg.

He hadn’t let her call anyone until they were on his plane. She was still astounded at the opulence of the royal jet. It was one of the most amazing things she’d ever seen, with leather and gold and fine carpets. The bath had even been made of marble. Marble on a jet!




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lynn-harris-raye/carrying-the-sheikh-s-heir/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.