Sheikh's Desert Desire: Carrying the Sheikh's Heir. Maisey Yates
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sorry we didn’t make the coronation. It was my intention, and then—”
“It’s fine.” He pulled in a breath. “Kadir, there is something I want to talk about.”
“Then I will come immediately.”
That Kadir would still do that, after everything that had passed between them, made an uncomfortable rush of feeling fill Rashid’s chest. “No, that is not necessary. But there’s a woman. A situation.”
“A situation?” He could hear the confusion in his brother’s voice.
Rashid sighed. And then he told Kadir what had happened—the sperm mix-up, the trip to America, the way he’d given Sheridan no choice but to return with him. Kadir was silent for a long moment. Rashid knew his brother was trying to grasp the ramifications of the situation. At any rate, he couldn’t know half of why this unnerved Rashid so much. Rashid hadn’t hidden his marriage to Daria, but he’d been living in Russia then and the information hadn’t precisely filtered out.
And the baby? He did not talk of that to anyone.
“So she might be pregnant?”
The ice in his chest was brittle. “Yes.”
“What will you do? Marry her?”
Rashid hated the way that single word ground into his brain. Marry. “I will have to, won’t I? But once the child is born, she can leave him here and return to America.”
Kadir blew out a breath. Rashid wondered for a moment if he might be laughing. But his voice, when he spoke, was even. “I don’t know, Rashid. The American I married would put my balls in a vise before she agreed to such a thing. In fact, I think most women would.”
“Not if you pay them enough to disappear.”
Kadir might have groaned. Rashid wasn’t certain, because his blood was rushing in his ears. “You could try. It would certainly make it easier with the council if she would agree to disappear afterward. If she’s pregnant, they will have to accept her. But they won’t like it.”
Rashid growled. “I don’t give a damn what the council likes.”
And it was true. The council was old and traditional, but there were lines he would not allow them to cross. He was the king. They had power because he allowed it, not in spite of it. They wanted him to marry a Kyrian. But if he wanted to marry a dancing bear, he would. And if he wanted to marry an American girl, he would do that, too.
“At least be nice to the woman, Rashid. You are being nice to her, yes?”
“Of course I am.” But a current of guilt sizzled through him. He could still see her eyes, so wide and wounded, looking up at him today when he’d told her there was no reason for them to spend time together. No reason to know each other.
And perhaps there wasn’t. But the days were ticking down and they would soon know if she were pregnant. And then he would have to take her as his wife.
It made him want to howl.
“We will come for a visit soon,” Kadir said. “Perhaps it would be good to have Emily there. The poor woman is probably confused and scared.”
He didn’t think Sheridan was all that scared. He could still see her standing up to him, spitting like a wet cat when he’d told her he would take the child and raise him in Kyr.
“I am nice to her,” he said defensively. “She is my guest.”
Kadir laughed softly. “Somehow, I don’t think she sees it quite the same way.”
They spoke for a few more minutes about other things, and then Rashid ended the call. He sighed and went out onto one of the many terraces that opened off his rooms. There was a soft breeze tonight, hot and scented with jasmine from the gardens. In another few hours, it would turn chilly, but for now it was still warm.
The minarets glowed ocher in the last rays of the setting sun. The sounds of vendors shouting in the streets filtered to him on the wind, along with the fresh scent of spicy meat and hot bread.
Rashid breathed it all in. This was home. Unbidden, an image of Sheridan Sloane came to mind. She had a home, too, and he’d forced her out of it. For her own protection, yes, but nevertheless she was here in a strange place and nothing was familiar.
Guilt pricked him. He should not care about her feelings at all, but if she was truly carrying his child, did he want her upset and stressed? Wasn’t it better to make her welcome?
He sighed again, knowing what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would take lunch with her. They would talk, she would be happy and he would leave again, content in the knowledge he’d done his part.
It was only an hour—and he could be nice to anyone for an hour.
* * *
Sheridan awoke in the middle of the night. It was dark and still and she was cold. She sat up, intending to pull the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, but she wasn’t all that tired now. Her sleep was erratic because of the time difference. She checked her phone for the time—still no signal—and calculated that it was midafternoon at home. She never napped during the day, so it was no wonder she was messed up.
She got up and pulled on her silky robe over her nightgown before going into the bathroom. Hair combed, teeth brushed, she wandered into the living area. And then, because she was curious, she went and opened the door to her suite. The guard was not there. She stood there for a moment in shock, and then she crept into the corridor.
She didn’t know where she was going or what she expected, but she kept moving along, thinking someone would stop her at any moment. But no one did. The corridors were quiet, as if everyone was asleep. She didn’t know how it usually worked in palaces, but it made sense they were all in bed.
When she reached the end of a corridor and came up against a firmly locked door, she turned and went back the way she’d come. There were doors off the corridor, and she tentatively opened one. It was a space with seating, but it wasn’t quite as ornate as hers. It was, not plain precisely, but modern. Personally, she preferred some antiques, but this space was intended for someone who liked little fuss.
She thought perhaps she’d stumbled into a meeting area since it was so sterile. A breeze came in through doors that were open to the night air and she headed toward them. She hadn’t been outside since she’d arrived, and she wondered what it would be like in the desert at night.
She stepped onto a wide terrace. The city lights spread out around her and, in the distance, the darkness of the desert was like a crouching tiger waiting for an excuse to pounce. She moved to the railing and stood, gripping it and sucking in the clean night air. It was chilly now, which amazed her considering how hot it had been when she’d arrived.
A frisson of excitement dripped down her spine. It surprised her, but in some ways it didn’t. She’d never been to the desert before. Never been to an Arab country with dunes and palaces and camels and men who wore headdresses and robes. It was foreign, exotic and, yes, exciting in a way. She wanted to explore. She wanted to ride a horse into that desert and see what was out there.
She heard a noise behind her, footsteps across tile, and she whirled with her heart in her throat. How would she explain her presence here to her guard? To anyone?
But it wasn’t just anyone standing there. It was a man she recognized on a level that stunned her. Rashid al-Hassan stood in a shaft of light, his chest and legs bare. He looked like an underwear model, she thought crazily, all lean muscle and golden flesh. He was not soft—not that she’d expected he would be after he’d pressed her against him—but the corrugated muscle over his abdomen was a bit of a sensual shock. Real men weren’t supposed to look like that.
“What are you doing here, Miss Sloane?” he demanded, his voice hard and cold and so very dangerous.
The warmth that had been undulating through her like a gentle wave abruptly shut off.
Run!