Sheikh's Desert Desire: Carrying the Sheikh's Heir. Maisey Yates

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!

      It had also been bigger than her bathroom in her apartment. There were uniformed flight attendants who performed their duties with bright smiles and soft words—and deep bows to their king. She could hardly forget that sight. Any time anyone on that plane had come close to Rashid al-Hassan, they’d dipped almost to the floor. He hadn’t even deigned to notice half the time.

      It stunned her and unnerved her. She kept telling herself he was just a man, but there hadn’t been a single person on that plane who’d acted like he was. When she’d finally been allowed to phone Kelly and Chris—not Annie, goodness, no—she’d held the phone tightly in her hand and explained as best she could that she would be gone for the next week.

      They’d taken the news of Rashid much better than she had. Kelly, always a hopeless romantic, had wanted to know if he was handsome and if she would have to marry him. Sheridan had clutched the phone tight and hadn’t told her friend that even though Rashid expected her to marry him, she’d rather marry a shark. She’d just said they were taking this one day at a time and would deal with a pregnancy when and if it happened. As if Rashid was reasonable and kind instead of an unfeeling block of stone.

      Chris had told her to be strong, and not to worry about Annie. It would all be fine, he’d said. She’d had to bite her lip to keep from crying at the thought of Chris telling her sister the news, but she’d thanked him and told him she’d be in touch.

      She spread her fingers over her abdomen. What would become of her if there were a baby inside here?

      She stared up at the beam of sunlight filtering into her prison and pressed her fist to her mouth to contain her sob. Nine months as his wife in name only, his prisoner, shut away from the world—and then he would coldly divorce her and send her on her way with empty arms.

      Despair filled her until she thought she would choke with it. Soon there was a noise at the entrance to her prison. A woman in a dress and wearing a scarf over her head came in and sat a tray down on a table nearby. Sheridan shot to her feet and went over to where the woman was removing covers from dishes.

      “That smells lovely.” She was surprised when her stomach growled, especially considering how queasy she’d been feeling since Rashid had come to the store yesterday.

      The woman gave her a polite smile. “His Majesty says you must eat, miss.”

      Must. Of course he did. And as much as she would love to defy him, she wasn’t so stupid as to starve herself just to prove a point.

      “Can you please tell me where His Majesty is? I would like to speak with him.”

      Because she was going to go quietly insane if she had to remain in this room alone with no stimulation. The books—and there were plenty of them—were written in Arabic.

      The woman shook her head and kept smiling. “Eat, miss.”

      She gave Sheridan a half bow and glided gracefully toward the door. Sheridan thought about it for two seconds and then followed her. But the woman was through the door and the door shut before Sheridan could reach it.

      She jerked it open only to be confronted with the same thing she’d been confronted with earlier: a man in desert robes standing in the corridor, arms crossed, sword strapped to his side. He looked at her no less coolly than his boss had.

      “I want to speak to King Rashid,” she said.

      The man didn’t move or speak.

      Anger welled up inside her, pressing hard against the confines of her skin until she thought she might burst with it. She started toward the guard. He was big and broad, but she was determined that she would walk past him and keep going until she found people.

      The man stepped into her path and she had to stop abruptly or collide nose first with his chest.

      “Get out of my way.” She glared up at him, but he didn’t seem in the least bit concerned. She gathered her courage and ducked the other way. But he was there, in front of her, his big body blocking her progress.

      Fury howled deep in her gut. She was in a strange place, being guarded by a huge man who wouldn’t speak to her, and she was lonely and furious and scared all at once.

      So she did something she had never done in her life. She stomped on his foot.

      And gasped. Whatever he was wearing, it was a lot harder than her delicate little sandal. She resisted the urge to clutch her foot and hop around in circles. Barely. The mountain of a man didn’t even make a noise. He just took her firmly by the arm and steered her back into the suite. And then he shut the door on her so that she stood there staring at the carved wood with her jaw hanging open. Her foot and her pride stung. She thought about yanking open the door and trying again, like an annoying fly, but she knew she’d only get more of the same from him.

      She stood with her hands on her hips, her gaze moving around the room, her brain churning. And then she halted on the tray of food. The tray was big, solid, possibly made of silver. It would be heavy.

      Sheridan closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath. She wasn’t really thinking of sneaking into the hall and braining the poor guard, was she? That wasn’t nice. He was only doing what he’d been ordered to do. It wasn’t polite to smack him with the tray when she really wanted to smack Rashid al-Hassan instead.

      She opened her eyes again, continued her circuit of the room. There were windows. All that glass would make a hell of a noise if she busted it. Part of her protested that it was an extreme idea, that a lady didn’t go around breaking other people’s property. Worse, an architect who specialized in historical preservation didn’t go around breaking windows in old palaces, even if the glass was a modern addition to the structure. Which she could tell by the tint and finish.

      But this could hardly be termed a normal circumstance. King Rashid al-Hassan had already made the first move, and it hadn’t been polite or considerate. So why should she be polite