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

grew tight. Rashid had done what he’d promised. Thus far. He’d seemed surprised she’d had no television or computer, and he’d worked fast to correct it. But, as nice as this was, she’d wanted more from him. She’d wanted his time, wanted to understand more about this man who might just be the father of her baby. He could not be wholly unlikable, could he?

      But he seemed determined not to give it to her.

      She picked up the remote and flipped on the television. The one in the living area was mounted to the wall, and it was huge—it was almost like having a movie screen when all the colors suddenly came to life and filled the surface. It didn’t take too long to figure out how the satellite worked—and her throat tightened again as she landed on CNN International and English conversation filled her ears.

      It was nice to hear, but it only brought home how alone she was here. How would she get through a week of this? Nine months of this?

      Rashid had said she could come and go, but only with an escort and only when she had the proper clothing. Since she still didn’t, she wouldn’t attempt to leave her quarters yet. She’d already behaved abominably.

      She could still see him standing there, looking at her with the most furious expression on his face. He’d also, for a moment, seemed not fearful...but, well, something besides angry. Maybe wary was the word. Like he didn’t want to be in the same room with her, but knew he had to be.

      It hit her then that not only was he not attracted to her, but she also revolted him. He was tall and handsome and kingly, and she was a short blond woman who organized parties for people. She was pale and slight compared to him. He was the Lion of Kyr, or some such thing like that, and she was an ordinary house cat.

      Who might just be pregnant with the next king of the jungle.

      She would have laughed if it wasn’t so serious. Sheridan went over to where Fatima had set a fresh pot of tea and some pastries and poured a cup. Despite the nausea, which came and went, she decided to try a pastry and see if it stayed down. After she’d made an impulsive decision to throw the tray at the window, she’d not eaten any of the food that she’d carefully set aside to get to the tray. Things had happened so quickly after that and she hadn’t had time.

      Sheridan frowned as she nibbled on a pastry. Rashid was repulsed by her. It made sense, in a way, and it certainly explained the way he acted.

      But then she thought of their kiss again, of the way it had slid down into her skin and made her want things she’d almost forgotten existed. Even now, the memory of it made her tremble. He’d slid his tongue into her mouth and she’d practically devoured him.

      How embarrassing.

      But she’d thought, dammit, at least for a minute anyway, that he’d been equally affected. He’d kissed her with such hunger, such passion, that she’d been swept up in the moment.

      Yes, swept up enough so that he could carry her to the car before she managed to make a peep. Sheridan set the pastry down with disgust. He’d certainly known what he was doing. And she’d been just sensation deprived enough to let him.

      “Miss?”

      Sheridan looked up to find Fatima standing over her. The two men were leaving, carting the remnants of television and computer boxes with them.

      “Yes?”

      “Do you require anything else?”

      That was a loaded question if ever she heard one. “Your English is good, Fatima.”

      “Thank you, miss. I studied in school.”

      “Have you worked in the palace long?”

      “A few months.”

      “Do you know the king well?”

      She shook her head. “No, miss. King Rashid, may Allah bless him, has come home again after many years away. We will prosper under his benevolent reign.”

      Sheridan wasn’t going to laugh over that benevolent reign remark, though she wanted to. But she also felt a spark of curiosity. “Many years away?”

      Fatima looked a little worried then. “I have heard this in the palace. I do not know for certain. If you will excuse me, miss. Unless you need something?” she added, her eyes wide and almost pleading with Sheridan not to ask anything more about Rashid.

      “Thank you, but I’m fine,” she replied, offering the woman a smile to reassure her.

      Fatima curtsied and then hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her with one last fearful glance at Sheridan.

      * * *

      After a long day sorting through national problems, including one between two desert tribes arguing over who owned a water well, Rashid was glad to retire to his quarters. These rooms had once been his father’s, but he’d gotten the decorators to work immediately so that they no longer bore any resemblance to the man who’d lived in them for thirty-seven years.

      Gone were the ornate furnishings and narcissistic portraits, the statuary, the huge bed on a platform complete with heavy damask draperies. In their place, Rashid had asked for clean lines, comfortable furniture, paintings that didn’t overwhelm with color or subject matter and breezy fabrics more in fitting with the desert. Certainly the desert was bitterly cold at night, but he didn’t need damask draperies for that.

      The palace had been modernized years ago and had working air and heat for those rare occasions when it was needed. Rashid slipped his headdress off and dropped it on a couch. Then he raked his hand through his hair and pulled out his phone. He stared at it for a long moment before he punched the button that would call up his favorites.

      Kadir answered on the third ring. “Rashid, it’s good to hear from you.”

      “Salaam, brother.” He chewed the inside of his lip and stared off toward the dunes and the setting sun. It blazed bright orange as it sank like a stone. He’d debated for hours on whether or not to call Kadir. They weren’t as close as they’d once been, and he found it hard to admit he needed people. “How are you?”

      Kadir laughed. “Wonderful. Happy. Ecstatic.”

      “Marriage agrees with you.” He tried not to let any bitterness slip into his voice, but he feared it did anyway. Still, Kadir took it like a blissfully happy man would: as the uninformed judgment of a bachelor.

      “Apparently so. Emily keeps me on my toes. But she forces me to eat kale, Rashid. Because it has micronutrients or some such thing, she says it’s good for me.”

      “That doesn’t sound so bad.” It sounded horrible.

      “She makes a healthy drink for breakfast. It’s green. Looks disgusting, but thankfully doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.” He sighed. “I miss pancakes and bacon.”

      Rashid was familiar with pancakes, though he’d never developed a taste for them during the brief time he’d spent in America. He almost laughed, but then he thought of Daria cooking meals for him and swallowed. She used to make these wonderful savory pies from her native Ural Mountains. He’d loved them. He’d loved her.

      Rashid swallowed. “I want you to build a skyscraper for me, Kadir.”

      He could practically hear Kadir’s brain kick into gear. “You do? Is this a Kyrian project, or a personal one?”

      “I need a building for Hassan Oil in Kyr. I want you to build it.”

      “Then I am happy to do so. Let me check the schedule and I’ll see when we can come for a meeting.”

      “That would be good.”

      Kadir sighed, as if sensing there was more to the call. “I will come anyway, Rashid, if you wish it.”

      He did wish it. For the first time in a long time, he wanted a friend. And Kadir was the closest thing he had. But a lifetime of shutting people out was hard to overcome. He’d let in Daria, but look how that had turned out.