Pregnant by the Sheikh
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Olivia Gates
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One
Jenan Aal Ghamdi watched the man she was getting engaged to flit among throngs of congratulators—and almost barfed. Again.
It never failed. Every time she looked at him, hell, every time she thought of him, nausea overpowered her. It was a testament to her self-control that she hadn’t thrown up all over him yet.
The one thing stopping her from giving in to the compulsion was the stronger aversion to rejoining that tragic farce of an engagement celebration. It had taken her over an hour to escape the hordes of prying—and pitying—guests and take refuge at the far end of the massive ballroom. She’d managed to slink away unnoticed only because she’d refused to wear the getup her “fiancé” had sent her. He’d wanted to flaunt his newly massive wealth and drape his “acquisition” in an oppressively ornate costume complete with scaffolding. With the ton of clashing jewelry he’d provided, she would have glittered with the power of ten disco balls. As it was, in her most obscure and suitably mournful matte black evening gown, she now blended into the darkness of the ballroom’s periphery. It was a minuscule victory, but with her expectations reduced to nil, anything counted now.
Retreating farther away from everyone’s line of sight, she started breathing normally again. And a surreal sense of detachment descended on her yet again. It was as if none of this was really happening to her but to someone else. As if this was some ridiculous dream she was confident would fade into nothingness the moment she woke up.
The artificial serenity lasted only moments before the illusion splintered and reality crashed over her again, with another wave of queasiness.
She was really getting engaged to Hassan Aal Ghaanem!
The man who happened to be the king of Saraya, who held Zafrana, his neighboring desert kingdom and her homeland, hostage.
No, she wasn’t getting engaged to the man, she was being bartered to him. Sold. Tonight felt like the beginning of the end of her life as she knew it. The end of her life, period. Whatever came after marrying him wouldn’t be considered life. Not in her book.
But though this fate was inescapable, she’d still refused to have this reception in Saraya, or even in Zafrana. It had been another empty triumph when he’d relented and agreed to hold it here, in her New York City stomping grounds.
The city had been her home for the past twelve years. It would stop being so once she started serving her life sentence as Hassan’s wife. But she’d refused to go back to that region to be buried there for the rest of her life a second before she absolutely had to. She’d fled, determined to never return, except for fleeting visits, which had been few and very brief.
But she’d been regretting her insistence since the moment she’d seen that man’s over-the-top arrangements. If there was anything more abhorrent to her than Hassan himself right now, it was being the center of attention in such an extravagant, overexposed event.
If this party had been held in their homelands, it wouldn’t have gotten any coverage, what with the privacy measures imposed by the ruling class. But in the heart of New York City and in such a venue with all those high-profile attendees, this engagement party would be all over the worldwide media. Which taught her not to struggle while sinking in quicksand. Her attempt to assert herself had only made her sink deeper in this mess.
But teaching her a lesson about defying him hadn’t been Hassan’s objective in arranging this spectacle. The man considered nothing but himself. And as the king of a recently prosperous kingdom—now that King Mohab Aal Ghaanem of Jareer was giving Saraya 30 percent of the new kingdom’s massive oil wealth—Hassan Aal Ghaanem had been on a splurging spree after decades of being held back by his kingdom’s limited finances.
So here they were, in the Terrace Room at The Plaza, where many a legendary celebrity had held prominent events. After all, Hassan considered himself on par with those people.
Any other time, she would have appreciated the almost five-thousand-square-foot ballroom that had been restored to its early 1900s grandeur. When she’d been here before, the painted ceilings, cathedral-like arches and elaborate pillars leading to its wraparound gallery had transported her to the Renaissance, while the original crystal chandeliers, wall paneling and carpeting had added a golden age refinement to the classical setting. Being here now, for this horrendous occasion, it felt like the setting of her life’s worst nightmare. It literally was.
Tearing her gaze away from the five hundred guests that filled the ballroom to capacity, her eyes fell to her bare hands. She’d refused to accept the priceless pieces from Saraya’s royal jewelry to be her shabkah—what literally meant “binding.” She was damned if she’d wear his shackles for all to see...
“Are you sure about this, Jen?”
The soft voice, barely audible above the Sarayan celebratory songs blaring over the sound system, sent a spasm through her chest with its melancholy. Zeena, her baby half sister. If anyone was feeling as bad as she was about this whole thing, it was her.
She turned to her, her lips crooking in an attempt at lightness. “Oh, I am, Zee. I’m sure there’s no other way out of the mess Father and Zafrana are in but for me to marry that old goat.”
And that mess wasn’t a recent development, but one with decades-long roots. It was also one she had an indirect hand in.
It had started when her father, Khalil Aal Ghamdi, had found himself on Zafrana’s throne after King Zayd, his second cousin, had died, with him as his closest male relative. Pushed into a position he’d been unsuited for, her father, a dreamer and an artist, had been unable to become a man of state and had been led astray by many an unqualified or malicious counselor.
When she’d returned to Zafrana after graduating from Cornell University with degrees in economics and business administration, she’d seen how her father’s imprudent policies had led to the kingdom’s steady deterioration. She’d tried to guide him, but his entourage’s opposition had been vicious. They’d undone everything she’d accomplished until she’d found herself with only two choices: dedicate her life to fighting that vicious cycle or withdraw from the battle and flee the whole region, where the very way of life was anathema to her. She’d chosen to give up and leave.
As a result of her withdrawal, Zafrana was now cripplingly in debt...to Saraya. And Hassan was now poised to annex the kingdom through a marriage of state. Which, her father had informed her, was the only way to save Zafrana. Knowing the depths of the debt, she believed him.
“But you can’t marry him. He’s—he’s old!”
At Zeena’s horrified lament, Jen huffed in bitter irony. “Yeah, I noticed. Hard to miss when your prospective groom is as old as your own father, and reprehensible to boot. Not to mention heinously boring. And to think when the marriage of state was first proposed, I point-blank refused to marry Najeeb.”
Zeena’s honey-brown eyes flared with hope. “Maybe it’s not too late to take your refusal back! I know you love Najeeb like a brother, but if you have to marry anyone, at least he’s a great guy. And a real hunk. You might end up loving him...that way!”
Jen regarded her seventeen-year-old stunning beauty of a sister and remembered again why she was doing this. She sighed. “You think I wouldn’t have grabbed that option if it was still on the table? But Najeeb was as adamant in refusing to marry me just to serve his father’s political ambitions. Then he left to places unknown on another of his globe-trotting humanitarian missions. That’s why Hassan decided he’d marry me himself.”
“Doesn’t this man have a shred of decency? He’s actually two years older than Father!”
“He actually considers he’s done the noble thing, offering his oldest son and crown prince first, and that it was my and Najeeb’s refusals that made him resort to this option. He feels quite righteous, I assure you.”
Zeena looked on the verge of crying again. She’d been looking like that ever since she’d heard the news. But she was clearly past the shock phase and into the bargaining one.
“But if you really have to go through with it—” she paused to shudder “—maybe it won’t be for long.”
“You’re hoping he’ll soon drop dead and release me from my life sentence?” She shook her head at yet more proof of how young and naive her sister was. “Zee, darling, I know anyone over forty is ancient to you. Hell, I’m only thirty, and you make me feel old whenever you’re shocked I do stuff you think reserved for only ‘young’ people. But Hassan is a very robust sixty-five, and I expect him to live another healthy, obnoxious thirty years.”
Zeena clearly couldn’t imagine that terrible fate, or could, and it horrified her. Her tears finally flowed, her voice breaking. “At least tell me it will only be for show.”
Jen sighed again, not knowing what to tell her sister. Their father had mumbled such an assurance, but she figured it had to be what he’d told himself so he wouldn’t feel even guiltier about sacrificing her. Hassan already had a chokehold over Zafrana’s resources and assets, but in their region, blood mattered far more than money when it came to political power. This marriage had to produce an heir, one who’d become her father’s, too, for Hassan to acquire all the power he wanted over Zafrana. Only through such an heir could Hassan rule Zafrana during her father’s lifetime, then fully annex it in the event of his death, once his heir became king, and Hassan became regent until said heir came of age. Hassan sure had his ducks in a row. And she was the first one he had sitting just where he wanted her.
Zeena must have read the truth in her resigned eyes, as her tears flowed faster. But she still tried again. “If all he has over Father and Zafrana are debts, maybe we can find someone to pay them off. Like the other royals in the region. Surely great men and kings like King Kamal and King Mohab will help.”
Jen shook her head, wanting to end this. “I approached everyone with power in the region myself, but all kings Kamal, Mohab, Amjad and Rashid could do was try to make Hassan relinquish those debts to them, and he refused. Without resorting to drastic measures, there’s nothing they can do.”
“Why won’t they employ those measures? This is drastic!”
“It isn’t as easy as that, Zee. These men owe it to their own kingdoms not to involve them in other nations’ conflicts. And since the influx of oil money, Hassan now has major foreign allies whose interests lie with Saraya and who’d take exception if the other kingdoms enforced embargos on it, or initiated a bigger conflict with it. Also, with the tribal nature of the region, those kings have family alliances with Saraya, making things even more complicated.”
She knew each king wanted to tear Hassan apart with his bare hands. But those hands were tied by so many protocols. They were forced to accept any form of peaceful resolution, even if they itched for something extreme. Said peaceful resolution was now her, and her hopefully fertile womb.
“So this is for real?” Zeena asked. “There’s no way out?”
“No.”
Her succinct response fell like a blow on Zeena, rocking her on her feet. The next second, Zeena’s arms were convulsing around her, and her tears were wetting her bosom.
Jen’s eyes filled, too. She hadn’t shed tears since her mother’s death when she was seven. But she’d never been able to bear her baby sisters’ distress.
Apart from loving her most in the world, Zeena and Fayza looked up to her. Her every success had been a triumph to them. She’d been their role model, her life one they hoped to model theirs after. Zeena wasn’t only weeping for Jen’s derailed future, but for a loss of hope in her own.
But that was why Jen had agreed to this marriage. To protect her sisters’ futures.
She’d only told Zeena there was no way out so she wouldn’t compound her distress with guilt. For there certainly was a way out for Jen had she wanted to take it. She could have told her father and Hassan to take flying jumps off their respective kingdoms’ tallest skyscraper. But she hadn’t. For two reasons.
The first and lesser reason was that she couldn’t stand aside and let their father be humiliated and hurt. She loved him, in spite of his weaknesses, felt even more protective of him because of them. She knew he shouldn’t have become king, that it continued to be an unbearable burden. But fate had conspired to put him on the throne, and it had been the one thing that had appeased many a tribe at the time. He’d sacrificed his own desires for Zafrana’s. This current mess was not solely his fault. In her pursuit of independence, her career and immigration to the United States, she’d stopped following the developments in Zafrana, until things had deteriorated beyond resolution. The internal situation was now so volatile, if the major tribes didn’t get a solution soon and with their interests finally threatened by Saraya’s impending takeover, civil war would erupt.
But the major reason she’d agreed to the marriage remained her sisters. Even if she’d been able to leave her father and her people to a doom they’d caused, she couldn’t leave Zeena and Fayza to a fate they hadn’t brought on themselves. If Hassan couldn’t have her, he’d ask for one of her sisters. And their father would be forced to comply.
But they were nothing like her. They were too young, too sheltered and too inexperienced in life and with men. They didn’t have the power of another nationality and the protection of personal wealth. If Jen left, neither of her sisters would be able to resist being shoved into this marriage. Zeena would crumble, and the two-years-older Fayza would do something drastic.
So it was up to her to protect them. She had to marry that power-grabbing old man and save them. And along with them, her whole family and kingdom.
She hugged the sobbing Zeena tighter, kissed the top of her head soothingly. “Don’t worry about me, Zee. You know me. I’m a survivor, a winner, and I’ll find a way to...to...”
Words and thoughts petered away. The whole scene in front of her blurred, then disappeared. Nothing remained but a man. The most magnificent male she’d ever laid eyes on...
“To what?”
Jen started at the question, blinked as if coming out of a trance. For seconds she couldn’t remember where she was, why she and Zeena were sharing this fervent hug and why her baby sister was looking up at her with such entreaty.
Then noise and lights and movements and memories started to register again. But her senses remained trained on the man as he stood at the ballroom’s wide-open doors, surveying it with all the somberness of a general studying a battlefield. He filled her awareness, the sheer force of his presence nullifying everything else. As if he had some kind of gravity well that nothing could resist or escape.
Then he moved, and the crowd parted for him, seemingly unable to withstand being in his path. It felt as if he had a spotlight trained on him, illuminating him even as he dipped in areas of shadow. What else explained why he looked more vivid, more in focus than anyone else who was dozens of feet closer?
“Who’s that?”
She blinked again as she forced her eyes back to her sister. Zeena had followed her entranced gaze to the mystery man and was staring at him openmouthed. So he had the same effect on her. Of course he did. He had everyone around mesmerized.
It seemed so weird that she didn’t know who he was, since she felt she...recognized him.
Exhaling at her inexplicable reactions and thoughts, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”
An assessing expression came into Zeena’s eyes as she let her go, before impishness suddenly replaced anguish on her face. “Want me to go find out?”
Jen raised one eyebrow. “And how would you do that?”
“I’ll walk right up to him, introduce myself as the sister of the bride and just ask.”
Jen winced at the word bride, but waved dismissively. “Thanks, darling, but you probably wouldn’t be able to move, let alone speak, if you come within talking distance of him.”
Zeena looked back at the man who kept coming closer to their hideout and sighed. “Yeah, I’d probably turn to stone if he even looked at me.”
So even Zeena with her limited experience with the world in general and men in particular felt the impact of this man. As for herself, she’d been exposed to some of the most powerful men on earth in over a decade of studies, travels and public and private work, and she knew beyond a doubt that this man was exceptional among even those. More than that. He was one of a kind. The way he affected her was unprecedented. And that was from afar, when he was completely unaware of her.
Suddenly, knowing who he was became the most important thing to her. Before she led a mockery of a life dictated by everyone else’s interests, she was due for one thing all her own. What better than to indulge her unstoppable curiosity about this man? After all, where did being perfectly responsible and in control lead her? But then, why should she even need a reason? She was just going to find out who he was, not have a fling with him.
Yeah, right, as if such a force of nature would look in her direction, even if he weren’t here attending her engagement party.
But she would do this, for herself. Even if for some reason she felt the simple action of discovering his identity would have some unpredictable and serious consequences.
Straightening, she rolled her shoulders, as if readying herself for a fight. “I’ll do it. I’ll go investigate.”
Before she strode away, Zeena’s hand on her forearm stopped her. “Just be careful. This guy is radiating something fierce.”
Jen’s gaze went to him again, and she nodded. “That’s called power. The unadulterated form.”
“I guess. But he just feels—” Zeena looked suddenly uncomfortable “—dangerous.”
Jen’s lips curved as she repeated to her sister what she’d just been thinking. “Darling, I’m just going to find out who he is, not have a fling with him.”
Zeena gave an embarrassed giggle as Jen swept her velvet cheek in one last reassuring caress before striding away.
As she rejoined the crowd, heading for the one most likely to know who that man was, Jen exhaled a ragged breath. For Zeena was so right.
She had no doubt this demigod was very dangerous. Deadly. But that only made her desire to find out everything about him even more overpowering.
She zeroed in on Jameel Aal Hashem, her five-years-younger maternal cousin, a walking encyclopedia of social gossip and celebrity news. She’d bet her mystery man hadn’t escaped her cousin’s all-encompassing curiosity.
And she was right. Before she could even ask Jameel, he pointed out the stranger in a fit of ecstatic excitement. After gushing about how he couldn’t believe he was here, Jameel told her who he was. Numair Al Aswad.
And how fitting that name was. He was indeed as majestic and sleek and powerful as his namesake. He was actually known by the English version of his name: the Black Panther of Black Castle Enterprises.
Now that she knew his name, she knew far more about him than Jameel possibly could. Since she’d become deeply involved in the world of business, anywhere she’d turned there it had been, the global corporation he’d founded that was shaping the market in every major field that made the world go round.
As the senior partner, Numair was a leader among the gods of science, finance and technology responsible for Black Castle Enterprises’ staggering success, and one of the most individually rich and powerful men on the planet. And now she’d found out that he was also the sexiest thing to ever walk the earth.
But not much was known about his personal life. Only that he came from Damhoor, a kingdom in her region, but had immigrated to the United States in his childhood, and his parents were long dead. As far as she knew, he’d never been married.
Then at one point, as Jameel joined her in openly drooling over the man, Numair turned and looked straight at them.
At her.
His gaze slammed into her own with the force of a lightning bolt. Feeling as if it had fried her brain, nothing was left in her mind but alarm.
Had he felt her staring at him?
Before her stalled breathing could restart, people moved in front of her, severing the electrified visual contact.
Shaky with relief and disappointment at once, she murmured something to Jameel and hurried away, unable to risk being in Numair’s crosshairs again.
Secure that Hassan hadn’t bothered to look for her, she maneuvered around the few people who recognized her to rush back to her retreat. She wanted to continue watching Numair from its safety. The memory of savoring his magnificence would be what she’d remember from this wretched night.
As she reached her previous vantage point, another jolt hit her again. It was fiercer this time, making her stumble and drop her purse. Cursing when it opened on impact, spilling its contents, she crouched to retrieve them...and felt as if the place was plunged into darkness. The next second, she knew why. It was the massive figure towering over her, seeming to block out the whole world. She didn’t need to look up to see who it was. The current that now mercilessly arced through her told her who it was.
Numair.
As her chest filled to bursting with erratic heartbeats, he dropped to his haunches before her. Before she could raise her eyes to his, his hands, cool and calloused, brushed hers and zapped her with another thousand volts as he took the purse from her limp grasp and put everything back in it, his every move the essence of control and elegance.
As he handed it back to her, she mustered enough volition and looked up...and lost what remained of her compromised balance. Only the hand that shot out to support her stopped her from flopping back on her ass.
Finding herself inches from him was as heart-stopping, literally, as finding herself face-to-face with his predator namesake. All that lethal power coiled and simmering under the polished, perfect veneer of savage beauty.
She now realized she’d gotten it wrong before. He was no demigod. This was a full-fledged god, one who ruled over a whole pantheon of deities. A desert god in specific, forged from its heat and harshness, from its mystery and moodiness and magnificence. He might not have lived long in her region, but his heritage was carved in his every line.
And carved was an accurate word. Every inch of him seemed to have been hewn by some divine force. His all-black formal silk suit and shirt clung to a body she had no doubt was solid, chiseled muscle. The clothes offered not an inch of padding to the breadth of his shoulders and chest, no accentuation to the hardness of his abdomen and thighs or the sparseness of his waist and hips. This was the full potential of the species realized, a powerhouse of virility and manliness.
And that was before she took in the details of his face. From a luxurious mane of raven silk that would reach almost to his shoulders when freed, to stunning emerald eyes that seemed to radiate a hypnosis, to sensual lips and polished teak–colored skin spread taut against a bone structure to tear heartstrings over, he was breathtaking.
Then he was pulling her up to her feet as he uncoiled to his full height, and for the first time ever she felt dwarfed. She stood six feet in three-inch heels, and he still towered over her by what appeared to be half a foot.
Then he did something that once again made her heart hammer as if it was trying to ram out of her chest. He raised a hand and swept back the swath of hair that had cascaded over her face, ensnaring one strand, rubbing it between his fingers.
“You hate being here.”
No preliminaries. Just...bam. Of course he would follow no rules. It made it even worse that his voice was like darkest velvet gliding over her every nerve. Did he have to sound mouthwatering, too?
Without meaning to, she found herself responding, as if under the effect of a truth serum. “I do.”
He nodded, as if he’d already been certain, but approved her corroboration. “This—” he swept the whole scene in a disdainful flick “—is unworthy of your tolerance or your presence.”
She had to force the mouth that kept dropping open closed. “Sometimes we’re forced to put up with much, for the sake of what’s more important than our own preferences or what we think we’re worthy of.”
His lips and eyes hardened, clearly disapproving. “Nothing is more important than your preferences. And your worth is not a matter of opinion. Only the best is good enough for you. The only thing you must always expect and get.”
The heart that seemed to have taken permanent residence in her throat expanded at his praise. Even if it was empty hyperbole, it sounded fantastic coming from him.
“Uh, thanks...but you don’t really know anything about me. And it’s clear you have no idea who I am.”
That dismissing wave again. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew everything I need to know about you. As for your identity, that makes no difference to who you really are, what you truly deserve.”
“Oh, believe me, it does.”
“Because you’re Jenan Aal Ghamdi, and this is supposed to be your engagement party?”
He knew who she was. And it didn’t seem to make a difference to him.
His next words made that clear beyond a doubt. “It’s all quite irrelevant to me. And should be to you, too. You don’t want to be here. But you want to be with me.”
“I—I do?”
“Yes. As much as I want to be with you.” His words were dripping in arrogant certainty. From another man, it would have been offensive. She’d handed other men their asses over way less. From him, though, it was just right. He had a right to such supreme self-assurance.
His eyes flared in the dimness as they caressed her half-open lips before settling back on her no doubt shell-shocked eyes. “Let me take you away from this farce. I’m the only one who can give you everything you need.”
She gaped up at him. Was she so traumatized by the idea of marrying Hassan that she was having a wish-fulfillment hallucination? Creating this god of a man and making it so she’d had the same instant, inexorable effect on him that he’d had on her?
But nothing she could conjure could be as outlandishly incredible as him. No, he was real. He had really followed her here, and he really was offering...offering...
She didn’t know exactly what he was offering. But anything coming from him sounded better than any fantasy she’d ever had. And more impossible.
Her situation might be irrelevant to him, but to her...
Suddenly, everything inside her hit Pause. In seconds, an urge took her over. A plan. It was rash, probably crazy, but it was all she could think of anymore.
This man was even more powerful than the monarchs she’d approached for help. His power was also unbridled by any of their tribal and political shackles, and it was more than enough to resolve Zafrana’s crisis without her sacrificing herself to this barbaric ritual of an arranged marriage. Of course, a man like him wouldn’t help out of the goodness of his heart.
She had a feeling he didn’t have one.
But if he was as interested in her as he seemed to be, they might come to an understanding.
Even if she couldn’t imagine he was that interested, he’d help with something that major. As a businesswoman, she was used to taking risks. The worst that could happen was he’d decline and just walk away. But since the stakes were so high and he was that tempting, she’d risk far more than his mere rejection.
Before she could think again, she said it out loud, making it too late to back down. “There is something I need.”
“Anything.”
His instant, unqualified statement gave her the last shove of courage she needed to make her request.
“I need you to get me out of marrying Hassan.”
