Cinderella and the Sheikh

chapter Three



The sound of a quiet click woke Rasyn. He opened an eye to see the bright lime green light of the digital clock blinking 2:02 AM. Inwardly, he smiled, congratulating himself on a brilliant, and enjoyable, job with the girl.

Convincing her to join him in Abbas would be simpler now that she'd danced to the music their bodies made together. With his uncle worsening by the day, he would have to use all his charm to do so. He had little time.

Unfortunately, her insistence on the condom had interfered with a chance to impregnate her, which would have sealed his success. Still. There would be more opportunities.

Why not start now? Rasyn reached for her... And only felt warm hotel sheets where she'd lain.

He jerked, instantly alert, sitting up in the bed and turning on the light. Panic stiffened his spine as he saw the crumpled, but empty, linens beside him.

The sound that had woken him. It must have been the door closing as she'd left.

If he lost one moment, he'd lose her, and his best chance to do the right thing for Abbas. He vaulted from the bed to scramble for his clothes. He threw on his pants and jacket, deciding the shirt would take too long.

Only one more thing. He pulled a palm-sized blue box from the nightstand and shoved it into his pocket before dashing through the door.



***



Libby held her chin up as she walked through the too-quiet lobby, fighting the desire to sprint past the front desk. Maybe, she hoped, no one would see her crumpled clothes or missing shoe. She'd picked the front door instead of the service entrance to avoid the gossip-hungry hotel staff taking their breaks. She had to get out before any of her coworkers noticed her. And her missing shoe. She had no clue how she was going to explain that one.

Six feet away, the front door offered freedom. She held down a giggle of relief.

"Libby." A male voice, richly tinged with an exotic accent, shouted her name so that it reached the ceiling.

Her relief fell through the bottom of her stomach. About an hour earlier, that voice had been saying her name in an entirely different way. The elegant couple checking in at the front desk turned to look, and so did Joey, the clerk who had been helping them—the biggest gossip on staff. Busted. It didn't take a psychic to predict public humiliation in her future.

She turned to face the sheikh, her fists clenching at her sides. "Sheikh al Jabar." She forced a smile and held back a scream. "How may I help you tonight?"

His dark hair, which normally didn’t have a lock out of place, was a sexy mess. The impeccable cut of his tailored jacket contrasted with the wildness of his bare chest underneath. It must be obvious to the world that he'd just come from bed.

"Libby." Regret tinged his tone. "Why did you leave me?"

Libby hovered between embarrassment and fantasy. Her mother's stories of her father flashed through Libby's mind. She tried to imagine herself sharing a life with this magnificent, educated, rich man... and failed.

In her peripheral vision, Libby saw Joey's fingers inch toward the phone, as if he was dying to spread the news.

"Is there something I can help you with, sir?" She fought to keep her tone civil. "Hotel Scheherazade will be happy to provide anything you need."

The corners of the sheikh's black eyes turned down as if a woman he liked was rejecting him instead of a woman he seduced trying to escape him. "You are all I need." He lifted a hand toward her face, as if to caress her cheek.

Instinctively, Libby shoved his hand aside, just as the elevator door opened to reveal a small group of elegantly dressed people, including a tuxedoed man who had a professional-looking camera strapped around his neck. Libby caught sight of one person in particular, and everything she'd dreaded for the last week walked up to slap her across the face.

Zahra St. Martin's clingy silver silk dress showcased model-perfect curves to maximum effect. Twin blonde curls framed the line of her neck. Her amber gaze solidified Libby in place, poised in pushing the sheikh away.

Within seconds, Ms. St. Martin had left her group and stood at the sheikh's shoulder. "Sheikh al Jabar." Her tone was smooth and confident. "Is there a problem?"

"No." The sheikh never took his gaze from Libby.

"Has a member of my staff offended you?"

The sheikh narrowed his dark eyes.

"Sir." Libby only had one thing on her mind, keeping her job. "I apologize. I lost my head. I should have known better."

Even as she said it, Libby knew it was far too late. The best job she'd ever had was obliterated with a single stupid act.

The sheikh's jaw clenched.

Ms. St. Martin affected a reassuring smile. "I will see she is treated accordingly."

The sheikh lifted his aristocratic nose and rounded on Ms. St. Martin. "Do not threaten her. She has done nothing wrong. I will decide how she is to be treated."

Libby's throat felt as rough as Manhattan pavement. The sheikh captured her hands and held them to his chest. Shocked by the public display, Libby froze on the spot.

"Love, I told you I'm a man of strong passions. I follow my heart. Today, it leads me to you."

Libby gaped in disbelief as the sheikh sunk to one knee in front of her, pulling a light blue jewelry box from his pocket. With a click, he flicked it open.

A ring with a ruby the size of a dime shone out at her.

"Will you marry me?" the sheikh asked.

A flash of white light temporarily blinded Libby. When she blinked away the dark caterpillars behind her eyelids, she saw the tuxedoed photographer from Ms. St. Martin's group. He snapped about a dozen shots of the sheikh down on one knee.

Panic surged through her paralysis. She had to end this. The sooner, the better. If she knew the sheikh at all, saying no wasn't the way.

Trying to radiate serenity, Libby pasted a smile on her face. It seemed like all the eyes in the crowded lobby were on her, which was probably the truth.

"Of course I'll marry you," she said.



***



It was done. As he opened the door of the hotel suite for her, Rasyn's heart burned with the triumph of it. She was his. The future of Abbas would be secure once uncle decided she was unsuitable to be the future Queen. Their marriage would pave his cousin's way to the throne and result in political stability in Abbas for decades to come. Imaran had proven without a doubt that he was the better candidate for ruler. Only his uncle's willful blindness and grudge against Imaran's parents kept him from the throne.

Rasyn followed Libby into the room, watching the sway of her backside in her shapeless slacks. Soon, she'd have the richest wardrobe money could buy instead of clothes that smelled of salty oil.

For now, he looked forward to peeling her uniform off her.

He slipped his arms around her waist from behind. Her softness warmed him. All he wanted was to bury his face in that silken auburn hair. Well, that wasn't all he wanted to do, but it was all he could do until he got rid of her uniform. He slipped his hand up her belly, searching for the buttons of her shirt.

"Love," he whispered into the pink curl of her ear. "We fly to Abbas in the morning. I assume you have a passport?"

She broke away, keeping her back to him. "No."

"I'll have the embassy make some calls. This will speed things up."

He moved to face her. Her lovely eyes, usually green, shone nearly turquoise with the tears she fought. She lifted her chin in noble defiance.

"I have a passport, but I'm not leaving with you in the morning. I can't marry you."

His plan failed? No, he refused to believe it. She wanted this; she just didn't know it yet.

When a knock sounded at the door, he whispered a curse at the interruption.

A young Latino man entered, holding two elegant glasses and a magnum of champagne with a green and gold label. "From Ms. St. Martin. Compliments of the house—" He broke off when his gaze lit on Libby.

"Hi, Rafael." Libby sat down on the couch, her expression tense.

Something unexpected clamped tight in Rasyn's chest. Just how familiar were these two? He watched Rafael's body language as the man placed the wine on the table and collected their dinner dishes.

Why did he care? Surely not jealousy. No. Possessiveness, of course. The woman was to belong to him, and no other man.

White teeth scraped her lip. "Does your brother still own that bistro by Central Park?" A note of underlying desperation belied her casual tone.

"It opens soon. Not as nice as here, though."

Libby's sighed. "This was my best job ever."

"Was?" Rafael paused with an empty plate in his hand and raised an eyebrow.

Libby laughed, a little too quickly. "Is, I meant to say."

Rasyn pressed a hundred dollar bill into Rafael's hand as he exited.

As soon as Rafael left, Libby began to twist the ruby ring from her finger.

"But you agreed—"

She didn't let him finish. "I know how important it is to keep your dignity in your culture. I didn't want to embarrass you in public. You can blame me if you want. Tell everyone that you decided I wasn't suitable."

"That would be a lie." The very real irritation in his voice was because of her resistance, not because she suggested he lie. He preferred using words to his advantage and convincing people of his point of view rather than giving commands. His cousin's more direct approach occasionally made people bristle, making him less popular than he should be.

"I don't know how to be any clearer. I don't love you."

He'd seduced her only hours earlier. Why was she rejecting him now? He considered his next move. The easiest thing to do was to find a more willing girl and charm her instead.

A far-too-brief taste of Libby left him hungry for more. He enjoyed her company and found himself craving her passion in his bed. Compared to that, some simple girl seemed... dull. If he had to seduce a woman to save his country, he might as well take pleasure in it.

Why was she resisting? Tonight had proven how good they were together. Not to mention that he'd treated her like a queen, offering her a life free from waiting on others.

He swallowed his frustration, moving to sit at her side on the couch. Their thighs touched and he felt the heat of her through their clothes. There was physical pleasure between them, at least. So why did she insist on being so difficult?

“Is it because I am not from your country? Perhaps you think I am a barbarian who believes women are property and you will find yourself enslaved, with no purpose beyond serving my pleasure.”

Libby sighed. “It’s not about your culture. You're not a barbarian. You’re a rich, powerful, handsome man. I'm a waitress. We just don't fit together.”

“The heart will not be denied,” he said, irritated and fascinated by the logic of her refusal. Didn't she realize what an honor it was to be chosen by him? "And I disagree. We fit together perfectly earlier tonight."

A blush rose, high on her cheeks. “You’ll get over it. There’s no way I will let myself fall in love with you.”

Of course she could fall in love with him. Hadn’t she just admitted she found him handsome and powerful? And she had melted at his touch. "Ah, but that is why it is called ‘falling in love,’ in your charming English saying. No one can control it. We have another saying in Abbas. A woman should not marry the man she loves; she should marry the man who loves her."

She looked up at him, her green gaze darting over his features as if searching for the truth.

He caught her face in his hands, her cheeks smooth in his rough palms. "I understand your fears. Things aren't done this way in your culture. You need more time. Come to Abbas with me."