The Sheikh's Forbidden Mistress Page 10
Trudy laughed and then seemed to turn green.
Shocked, he set her down and touched her forehead. “Are you all right?”
“I will be, but I’ve been having terrible morning sickness, and I think if you spin me anymore you’ll be wearing my vomit. I don’t think chunks of oatmeal will be too flattering on anyone,” she admitted.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be,” he said, getting to one knee. “There was something that you left behind, the only thing you left. I was hoping that if things went well…” He pulled the necklace from his pocket. “I know it’s not quite the correct bit of jewelry, but can you promise me that you’ll marry me, Trudy?”
“Of course!” she replied. “You have no idea how miserable I’ve been without you, how much I want a family with you…and now that I realize what a liar Fairuza was. I…no one has ever really done anything for me, except for my cousin…and you.”
Surging to his feet, he clasped the necklace back around her throat. When they got back to Dubai, he’d pick her out the largest diamond engagement ring anyone had ever seen. For now, she had the evil eye around her throat, and the promise that he too, and not just the charm, would ward off evil from her.
And from our child too.
He pulled her close to him, and kissed her again, feeling the heat of her tongue against his own. He closed his eyes; he could feel the energy and magnetism between them, the connection of their little family. Now and always.
The End!
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The Sheikh's American Surprise
By: Ella Brooke and Jessica Brooke
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The Sheikh's American Surprise
By: Ella Brooke and Jessica Brooke
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright 2015-2016 Ella Brooke
Chapter One
The cravings were the worst.
That was the thing about being an ex-smoker. Most of the day, June Welsh could control her need for a cigarette. Usually that wasn’t a problem. However, certain things had always triggered her to take a long drag. A hearty meal had been one, but somehow a cigarette didn’t taste the same or as necessary since she’d started her New Year’s eating regime. Another was the required post-coital cancer stick. That wasn’t a problem now either, since she was lamentably in a dry spell. However, once she was on stage, the cravings hit like a semi-truck.
Before she’d quit, June always rewarded herself with a smoke behind her venues before heading back to her apartment in Brooklyn. After almost three years, no matter how hard she tried to distance herself from her old habit, the strongest yearnings always hit as she neared the end of her set. It made her right hand shake just a bit as she imagined how good that nicotine burst filling her lungs would feel, how it would keep her tired brain firing on all cylinders during her subway trip home.
June tried to ignore it.
Usually that wasn’t a problem. But, under better circumstances, she also had a more responsive audience. She was halfway through an old Billie Holiday number at Sartorio’s Steakhouse, and the customers weren’t engaged at all. Granted, singing during dinner was far from glamorous. It wasn’t like she was headlining Madison Square Garden or Carnegie Hall. At the same time, usually she at least had quiet. Right now, she was trying to belt out the song with every trick she knew. While the audience was politely cutting their meat and clapping between songs—when they remembered—a growing clamor came from the far corner.
God, that was the bane of her existence.
June made most of her money from busking. She’d sing in Central Park, but she also had a few regular places, like midlist steakhouses and even nursing homes, that helped her make rent. While Sal Sartorio had been one of her best customers and most reliable patrons over the years, she was never thrilled with his joint. His brother, Antonio, always insisted that the far room be a “boys’ club” of sorts. Most of the place was a reputable restaurant, but if you had the right amount of cash to buy in, then you could go to the far room, smoke cigars, play Master of the Universe, and buy into the poker ante.
Sometimes the poker players were quiet, but right now they were braying like a pack of donkeys. June tried to ignore the noise, smiling tightly at the modest applause as the piano player keyed up the first few bars of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. Suddenly a loud chatter from Mini-Las Vegas turned into full out shouting. June only got through singing about the bluebirds before a tall guy shoved out through the doors and into a set up tray.
June stopped, wincing as steaks flew everywhere.
Finally, after almost an hour of bullshit, Sal rushed over to try and actually throw the ass out. Okay, wait, she needed to amend that. As the rabble rouser stood to his full height—6’4” if he was an inch—June felt a flare of warmth explode through her belly. Suddenly, it wasn’t just the nicotine cravings that left her weak. The loud ass might have been a jerk and was definitely intoxicated, but he was hot.
He wasn’t just tall. June could tell his broad shoulders narrowed down to a slim waist, like Michael Phelps might look like if he ever wore more than a Speedo. Built and well proportioned. He had a dark, olive complexion, and his hair was a jet black mess from having been tossed through the doors.
He had potential, so it was too bad that he was both an obvious ass and that her own lack of luck with men meant that he wouldn’t even notice her.
“You know, folks, let’s all take ten and let things settle out. I’ll be back with some Gershwin,” she promised, stepping off her small stage and heading over to the melee. She wanted to make sure that Sal banned this guy—hot as he might be—for life.
But what she overheard once she got to the corner seriously pissed her off.
Sal was holding up both hands, palms out, and bowing a little toward the guy in a totally placating gesture. “I understand, Sheikh Halabi. I apologize for the rudeness of the players, and I know that if Antonio were in the city right now, he’d have those trust fund brats thrown out.”
June blinked. A sheikh? Like Lawrence of Arabia? Like camels and dirt and sand? That seemed impossible. Wait, was Aladdin’s lamp and a cute furry monkey sidekick in the offing, too? No. He’d interrupted her set and, up close, his chocolate brown eyes were slightly glassy. He’d obviously been the one to drink too much and start offending the other players. After all, you didn’t throw someone for no reason.
“Sal, are you serious?”
The guy…no, Sheikh Halabi, arched an eyebrow toward her, as if this was all for his amusement. It wasn’t funny to her. This was her livelihood, and she didn’t appreciate having her singing interrupted by anyone, let alone some rich lay about.
“Hmm, I think there might be a height requirement to join this conversation, songbird.”
“First of all,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, painfully aware that at a size ten, her hips were far rounder than they should have been.
God, I should have spent that extra hour or two at the gym this week…as if that would make a difference.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, hovering over her. “That’s what you Americans say, right?”
She frowned, noticing his accent was more English than just “vaguely foreign.” Maybe he’d lived abroad a lot himself and, no, wait. Who cared? He was insulting her. No matter how cute he was or how hypnotic his gaze.
Focus, Welsh.
“No, just because you’re tall… well, I’m 5’3” and that’s almost average height for a woman! Second, who cares, this is not a roller coaster. You’re disrupting my job, and I don’t appreciate it. Besides, and here’s a big old number three, why do you need to gamble anyway? You’ve got to have oil and palaces! Can’t you just wait twenty more minutes until I’m done, and then go back to embarrassing yourself?”
The sheikh’s nostrils flared and he turned direct
ly to Sal. “Is this the type of employee you hire? I’m a bit disappointed. The last woman was polite. I expected the service to be as impeccable, even if it’s been a while since I visited here.”
Sal shot her a nasty look. Great, just what she needed, a talking to later. “No, Akmal, it’s fine. She can go home early tonight, and I’ll have one of my own sit in on the next round of poker. We’d never want to offend the Halabi family.”
June’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? I have close to half an hour left; that’s a hundred dollars. You can’t just make me leave because he’s being awful.”
“If it’s money you need, songbird,” Akmal said. “Then I can fix that as well.” He pulled out his wallet and handed her three hundred dollars. “I’d like to rent you for the rest of the night.”
June had never had the impulse to do physical harm to someone in her life, but she’d never been handed hundreds of dollars and given a nighttime offer. Was he implying…? No, screw it, he definitely thought she could be bought or worse. Well, he’d come to the wrong damn woman. Her hand flashed out of almost its own accord and the loud crack as she connected to his face echoed through the entire dining area.
June snapped back from her anger, from her trance, and looked down at her right palm.
Did I really just do that?
A hush swept through the room as every eye turned to stare at her; the only sound left was the heater humming loudly in the silence. The sheikh turned his attention to her, those dark brown eyes inhumanly intense, and laughed.
He actually laughed.
“You’re a feisty one. I suppose you won’t be taking any payment then?”
She rushed back to the stage and grabbed her coat and purse, trying to keep the tears from falling. “You can shove those bills somewhere that rarely sees light, Sheikh Whoever.” She turned to Sal and fought to keep her voice level. “I just can’t come back here. I’m sorry.”
With that, she hurried to the subway, trying to keep her head down and her crying to herself.
* * *
Sheikh Akmal Halabi could think of nothing to say.
That rarely happened to him. He was fluent in three languages and spoke several more, but he’d never been so utterly struck, literally and figuratively. In his home country of Labin, such an act would come with years’ worth of prison time. He’d never had trouble communicating with any woman there. Frankly, once they knew who he was and had figured out what his family was worth, they were more than compliant. Most had fantasies of becoming a sheikha as well, not that he was interested in settling down. Still, he’d never had a woman reject him, let alone strike him.
I must have her.
The thought raged through his mind. He needed her. That fiery redheaded singer was exactly what he’d been missing. Other women were too appeasing, but she was a challenge for the first time since…well, for the first time in a long time.
Sal’s hands were on his shoulder, straightening out Akmal’s suit jacket—all of that appeasing sycophancy in high display. “Sheikh Halabi, I’m so very sorry. I’ve never had a singer behave like that. I don’t really understand. June has always been so professional! I’ll fire her immediately.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t want that. I was out of line. I never should have made such a joke. It wasn’t in good taste, and obviously she doesn’t understand my humor,” he said, handing the bills to Sal. “My friend, no harm done. I’ll keep coming here when I’m in the U.S., and you will always have a good reference from me.”
Sal’s shoulders dropped in relief. “We can give you some great food to take home, revamp the poker room and…”
“Sal,” he said, holding up a hand and sighing exasperatedly. “I just need one favor from you, that’s all.”
“Anything, name it. You’re the one who was humiliated.”
“I need her address.”
“Excuse me?” Sal said, blinking back at him from behind his thick glasses. “Why on Earth would you want that?”
“I want two things—for you to keep her on at twice her current rate and to have her address. She’s interesting, and while I may have set her off, I do want a chance to speak to her. Now, tell me her name and let’s figure out where she is.”
“June Welsh.”
“Then she and I have a date,” he said, waiting impatiently for the card with the rest of her details.
* * *
The little brownstone in Brooklyn had taken almost an hour for Akmal to reach. The traffic in the city was a joke, and his limousine seemed to magnify the gridlock. His heart pounded the entire way as scenarios raced through his mind. What if Sal had intentionally given him the wrong address because of his behavior? Unlikely. Sal and Antonio had always been accommodating before. Then there was the possibility she hadn’t gone straight home or, worse, that she had a boyfriend and had gone to his apartment to lick her wounds.
Unacceptable.
The songbird was someone he fully intended to get to know. She’d be in this building; he’d will it to be so.
He nearly flew up the stairs to her third-floor apartment. Knocking on the door, he waited for her to open it. If she wasn’t here today, he’d simply have her summoned to his room at The Plaza tomorrow. But it wouldn’t stop his need—this ache—to be near June and know more about her now.
Finally, the door opened and he came face to face again with the lovely songbird. She was short, but at least not all skin and bones. He’d never liked women like that, always preferring a touch of curves. Otherwise there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to dig his fingers into and feel soft and plump beneath his grip. Those gorgeous green eyes regarded him as curled tendrils of her red hair slipped out of her 40s-style bun.
Akmal took in a deep breath and adjusted his belt buckle a bit, hoping to disguise his arousal. Glammed up, she’d held appeal, but seeing her in sweats made her seem more natural—more relaxed in a completely enticing way. Maybe it was the lack of pretention. He’d had society women and starlets, trust fund children and other royals all his life. But she was so real, so earthy, and that down to earth spirit called to him, even as she glared back.
“What the hell are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.
“Sal was forthcoming on that. I’ve come to apologize for my behavior.”
“Come to see if I have a good right hook?” she asked, her tone wearier than at the restaurant. “You know that Sartorio’s was how I made rent each month? I’ll have to start calling people and pounding the pavement tomorrow. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”
“That’s not what happened or, at least, that’s not all of it,” he said, nodding toward her apartment. “Can we speak?”
“We’re doing fine right here.”
“It’s about financials, and I didn’t want to make it something public for all your neighbors.”
She laughed. “I don’t have any financials, so there’s not much to spread. I pay one-third of the rent and my roommate covers the rest. If she didn’t, I couldn’t even afford this place. Gentrification is killing rent prices, I swear.”
“No, if you’d just listen,” he said, taking another breath. Apparently she was too stubborn sometimes to hear even good news. “I apologized. You came on strong, but you weren’t wrong. I did start the fight back in the poker room, and I shouldn’t have made that stupid joke. I didn’t mean to imply—”
“That I was an hourly woman?” she asked, her green eyes blazing like emerald fire.
“I only wanted to go walking. I wouldn’t ask…that. I don’t need to buy women.”
“It was still a stupid joke, and you thought you had to correct it by coming here?”
“No, I had to correct it. I got your job back at double your rate, and I had to say I’m sorry in person. I am sorry, and if you knew me a bit better, you might find that my humor makes more sense.”
She blinked at him, and he frowned, wondering if she was finally going to just
throw him out for good. Not that he wasn’t thinking of other ways to persuade her. After all, no one said no to Sheikh Akmal Halabi.
“Are you all right?” he continued. “You seem so stunned.”
“I just…you got me a raise? I’ve been begging Sal for one for over a year.”
“I guess when I speak, people listen,” he said, grinning.
June shook her head. “I bet you get that a lot. Thank you for being honest and for the job, but I’m not just going to—”
“Just hang out with me tonight. It’s only nine. I’ll do something special for you, show you New York like you’ve never seen it, guaranteed. Afterward, if you want to walk out and pretend I never existed, that you never even met me, then that’s fine.”
She snorted. “Somehow I don’t think you just let women walk out.”
“It’s not fun without them feeling the same way. I know some sheikhs have reputations for being barbaric, but I’m not like that. I got off on the wrong foot with you, so I’d like to make amends. Besides, are you really that afraid? You can be home by midnight, and you’ll still get to keep your raise with Sal.”
June bit her lip and looked over her shoulder, as if evaluating all her options. He was half convinced she’d just bolt back into her apartment and lock the door on him. However, she ducked in only long enough to grab a coat and scarf. Reaching out to him, June offered her hand.
“Do sheikhs shake hands? Do I have to bow or something?”
“This is fine,” he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. “So are you ready, Miss Welsh?”
“Game on, Sheikh.”
Chapter Two
I have no idea what I’m doing.
That thought kept circling around in June’s brain as she rode back toward Manhattan in Akmal’s limo. Hell, she’d only been in a limo three times in her life. Twice for prom and the last time she didn’t want to think about. Those memories were just too painful to bear. But right now, she was leaning against the window farthest from Akmal, who solemnly regarded her with those deep, chestnut brown eyes. Her anger faded out. She studied him—from his chiseled and high cheekbones to the small mole on his left cheek. He was gorgeous, rich, worldly and, yes, an ass sometimes, but she didn’t understand why he was here with her. She wasn’t the type of girl who rode in limos or was the center of anyone’s attention.