Cinderella and the Sheikh

chapter Five



Twenty-four hours later, Rasyn walked the halls of the Faridah Palace. All around him, the world spun. Maids carried linens to unknown destinations. Self-important tribal sheikhs stopped to greet him. Guards watched his every move.

If things had been different, all this might have been his. Rasyn shoved the thought from his traitorous mind. He had to put Imaran on the throne, where he deserved to be.

"Cousin," shouted a familiar voice.

Rasyn turned to see a face he knew like his own. In fact, it wasn't too different from his own.

Dressed in a traditional black thobe—a robe with a collar similar to the Chinese style—that matched his close-trimmed beard, Imaran walked toward him with the confidence of a natural ruler. His cousin was the only part of this world that he'd missed while he was in New York.

They embraced, pounding each other on the back like the childhood friends that they were.

By unspoken agreement, they walked together. Both knew the destination, the little green courtyard that had virtually belonged to them as boys.

They talked of Imaran's patrols. There had been some armed skirmishes near the border. As if the news of Uncle Anwar's illness had leaked out, the conflict in Jalaal was threatening to spill into Abbas. Another reason for Rasyn to step up his assault on the waitress' heart.

"So, Rasyn, how is my uncle's favorite nephew?"

Rasyn flinched inwardly. Their uncle's partiality was the one conflict between them. Since both their fathers had died of a fever twenty years ago, his cousin had thirsted for their uncle's love. Unfortunately, their uncle preferred Rasyn.

"Please, Imaran, let us not start that." He answered in English, a habit that had remained from their school days, when they'd practiced the language on each other. "I am simply happy to see you."

"There's no need to be modest, cousin. He likes you better. Everyone knows it."

Rasyn shrugged, wishing for the thousandth time his uncle could see Imaran for the man he was. Or Imaran would stop caring. Soon, none of that would matter, he reassured himself.

They arrived at their courtyard, a shaded square with marble paths and date palms that reached to the sky. Childhood memories invaded his mind. They had chased each other, played like brothers and fought mighty battles by land—a backgammon board—and sea—paper boats in the gushing fountain.

"How is he?" Rasyn asked, referring to their uncle.

Imaran shook his head. "Still confined to his bed. You should go see him soon. He will name you heir before long."

Rasyn inhaled deeply. He loved the old man who had been like a father to him since age ten. But his uncle's love had opened a chasm between him and Imaran. He was not going to let it affect the future of everyone who lived in Abbas.

Rasyn sat down on the marble bench, stretching his legs out in front of him as if he didn't have a care in the world—neither the threat of their dynasty being ripped apart nor a fiancée to deceive.

"Uncle Anwar may well name you his heir. You're the one with the plan to improve the country's infrastructure and the degree in International Relations." His own degree in General Arts had been easy and pleasant to acquire. And it kept him out his cousin's classes, a thing that had become necessary after their competition had come to a head in their junior year.

Imaran's strong, tense posture was the picture of dependability. "But your father didn't steal Uncle Anwar's fiancée. I don't know why he bothered adopting me along with you."

Before Rasyn could argue that political decisions shouldn’t be motivated by thirty-year-old grudges, Imaran waved a hand and changed the subject.

"Word has it that you have a mistress with you. Half the palace saw you carry her into your chambers."

After suffering from nervous insomnia for most of the flight, Libby had finally fallen asleep on his private jet and hadn't even woken when they landed.

That suited him. He'd taken the chance to carry her into the palace himself and put her in his rooms without having to fight her on the point of propriety. It was a scandal to have her there, but he needed to keep a close eye on her. Indeed, a little scandal didn't hurt his plan at all.

"No," Rasyn said. "Libby is my fiancée."

Imaran's gaze searched his face as if looking for signs that he was joking. "Congratulations. I guess you'll beat me in that, too."

The bitterness in his cousin's tone made Rasyn flinch inwardly. All he could hope was that the venom between them would disappear when his uncle named Imaran as heir. Just telling his uncle that he didn’t want to rule hadn't been enough. It was up to Libby to convince him now.

"When will I get to meet her? I suppose you're both too jetlagged to come to the reception tonight."

"Reception?"

"For the Prince of Damali. We are opening negotiations in the matter of the Sabr Valley."

The ownership of the Sabr Valley had been disputed since World War Two. It had been a sore point between two otherwise friendly countries.

The negotiations would be a tricky thing. A little mistake could strain relations between Abbas and Damali for years to come. It was no place for an untrained Western woman with little Arabic and no experience in the touchy matters of North African diplomacy.

"I assure you that we will be there." Rasyn smiled. "Please excuse me. I must wake my fiancée."



***



Libby dreamed of being carried in strong arms, cradled like a precious object, into a chamber fit for a princess from the Arabian Nights. In her dream, her prince had laid her down gently on the bed, covered her, and walked away.

But she hadn't wanted him to leave. Every part of her yearned for him. She snuggled into the silken coverlet, but the cool, smooth fabric was no substitute for the heat of his body.

An exotic scent reached her. The scent she'd never mistake—its sweet muskiness was his alone. She inhaled it deeply, remembering his public honor and his private caresses. Her body softened, preparing for his embrace. She felt the mattress dip under his weight as he lay down at her back.

"My love." Warm breath teased her ear.

Tired as she was, all she could manage was a low sound of appreciation. A light scraping of teeth against her earlobe made her spine curl with pleasure. She felt strong, warm fingers slip under her shirt, pressing her rounded belly, circling her navel.

Some tiny part of her brain whispered that she'd promised not to touch him again, but the idea seemed ridiculous. He was her prince. Why would she reject him? Libby turned her head, presenting her mouth for a kiss. Her prince obliged, opening her lips and gently probing deep into her secret places as he skimmed his hand over her nipples.

He tasted of coffee. The bitterness was so powerful that it broke through the last layers of Libby's dream. She opened her eyes to see Rasyn's strong face intense with desire, his nostrils flared wide. Her stomach trembled in awe of his male beauty. She had no strength to keep to her promise to stay out of his bed.

"Libby." He swooped in for a quick meeting of the lips. "Welcome to my home."

She reached up to thread her fingers through the waves of his midnight hair. "Do you treat all your guests so well?"

"Of course." One of his eyebrows quirked up. "But I intend to show you even more hospitality."

Rasyn's rough hand slipped lower, under the waistband of her pants and into her panties. She sucked in a breath through her teeth as he rested a finger lightly on the pearl of her body.

"Unless you are tired and want to continue your nap." His tone was casual, teasing.

Libby answered by trying to grind her body against his hand. Rasyn's warm laugh filled the room. She rolled on her back and pulled his smiling mouth to her, determined to taste her fill of his coffee bitterness.

His fingers probed her damp sex, sending jolts of euphoria up her spine. His knuckles brushed her sensitive bud, making her arch and gasp with desire.

She wriggled out of her shirt, laying her breasts bare for the touch of his mouth. With his tongue swirling over her painfully stiff nipples and his hand pleasuring her sex, she barely had the strength or the concentration to kick off her jeans, but she managed it after a few interruptions.

He suckled and licked her neck, making no move to take his own clothes off, as if he enjoyed the dominant position of being clothed while she was naked. Rasyn's rough jeans scraped the soft insides of her thighs as he pressed his stiff length against her sex.

"Are you ready for me, love?" His voice was a low growl. He reached for his zipper.

She wrapped her legs around his hips. "Condom," she said.

His shoulders tensed, and he frowned at her. What did he think? That sex drove all sense from her brain?

Regret souring her stomach at ending their pleasure, Libby began to push him away.

Sighing, he kissed her. "Have your way." He removed a foil package from the drawer of his nightstand.

Relieved, Libby reached between them and freed him from his trousers. His shaft was a solid heat in her grasp. She stroked the silky tip and traced the curling veins with her fingers. The groans coming from deep in his chest filled her with pride at her feminine power over him.

He pushed her hands away, wrapped himself and entered her body with a feral growl. Libby gasped at the ache of being filled by him.

She peaked, her body pulsing around him. She filled with heat and light and cried her pleasure into the room. Rasyn followed, arching his back until the veins of his neck strained.

He collapsed and rolled onto the bed, his exhausted panting matching her own. Libby curled into his side, kissed a cheek raspy with five o'clock shadow and began to drift back to a satisfied sleep.

"Libby, don't fall asleep."

"Tired," she complained.

His low chuckle echoed in her chest. "We have to dress for tonight's reception."

Reception? Libby could barely lift her head from the silken pillow. Between her insomnia, jetlag, and the buzzing intoxication of their lovemaking, she was in no state to leave the bed, much less go to a party.

She started to drift off. This earned her a poke in the ribs. "Quit it," she said.

"Libby, receptions like this one are part of the life you'll have when you marry me. It is our duty to go."

She opened her mouth to say—again—that she wasn't going to marry him.

Then she thought of his generosity to Mrs. Zippoli and what her mother had said. What if this was her only shot at what her parents had? She couldn’t spend the rest of her life in regret, like her mother. She had to take the chance that they would be great together, as unlikely as that sounded.

"I don't have a dress."

He kissed her hand. "A choice of gowns will be here soon, Princess."

"Please don’t call me that. I hate that name."

"You should try to get used to it. After tonight, that is how everyone will see you. But first, we will shower."

"Separate showers," she insisted. "Any more of you and I'll be too tired to think straight at the reception. I'll probably humiliate myself."

Rasyn smirked at her and carried her into the shower.



***



Libby thought she'd seen enough luxurious ballrooms to ensure she'd never be intimidated by one again. But that was when she wore a black waiter's tux meant to fade into the background, not a royal blue gown designed to draw attention.

Now, she stared at the two-story tall gilded doors in front of her like she was about to go on trial. When they opened, she'd be thrust into a world she'd only seen from behind a serving tray.

Rasyn had told her about the negotiations, probably to be kind, but it had only made her more nervous. She couldn't even hold on to him for support since some attendees might consider it an offensive public display of affection.

"Stop chewing your lip," Rasyn said, under his breath. "The color is coming off."

Libby fought the butterflies in her stomach. Unfortunately, the butterflies were winning.

"Everyone will love you, Princess."

"Don't call me that."

He shrugged. "Why not?"

Libby looked down at the blue shoes peeping out from the hem of her dress. Maybe she should tell him about the last man who called her that name. No, she decided quickly. Their relationship wasn't going to last long enough for him to need to know that. Besides, it was far too personal to blurt out while waiting to be introduced to a room full of strangers, with her only support being a man who was virtually a stranger himself.

The doors started to move. The butterflies started to migrate.

Libby's eyes widened at the display of wealth before her. Every place she looked, gold glittered and jewels sparkled, including on the hundred or so reception attendees, now clapping for the appearance of the sheikh and his fiancée. Two dozen round tables with full formal place settings sat beneath dazzling chandeliers.

She tried to keep her smile intact as she mentally cursed Rasyn for having her introduced as his fiancée. Now she was going to have to put up with it all evening. As if she didn't have enough to deal with in trying to remember the bits of etiquette Rasyn had tried to teach her.

She followed him down the stairs, praying she wouldn’t stumble in her unfamiliar high heels. Beside her, Rasyn looked so handsome, so royal, in his impeccably tailored tuxedo and elegant white bow tie. She might not be his fiancée, but any woman would want to impress him when he looked like an Arabic James Bond. He was so perfect—she just couldn't imagine him needing her the way her parents had needed each other.

At least I won't embarrass myself during dinner by using the wrong fork, she thought. She'd certainly set enough tables to get the cutlery straight.

On the last step, the sole of her new shoe slipped on the silver-veined marble. The floor came rushing up—her short career as royalty came crashing down. The crowd's gasp filled the ballroom.

At the last second, Rasyn caught her waist, rescuing her from a concussion and possible death by embarrassment. She looked up into familiar black eyes, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks. He was holding her. In front of everyone. It was exactly what he'd warned against.

"I’m sorry," she said, for his ears only.

He smiled, obviously trying to comfort her. "You are doing fine."

She got her feet under her. Why couldn't she just have Rasyn's arm around her all night? With that support, she felt like she could face a dozen glittering ballrooms.

Rasyn held back the urge to swing his fiancée in a wide arc and plant a kiss on her gorgeous lips right then. He couldn't have planned a better scenario if he'd sabotaged the stairs himself. Libby hadn't even said a word to anyone and already the entire ballroom saw how unsuitable she was to be queen.

But as the hiss of whispers filled the room and her cheekbones burned a luscious pink with embarrassment, Rasyn was surprised to find himself frowning at the disapproving murmurs.

"Come on, love," he said, leading her to their seats.

A few minutes later, Prince Hani and Princess Sanurah of Damali were announced. The prince was a noble man with silver streaking his hair and a chest covered with bright military medals. The twenty-three-year-old princess sparkled with diamonds, even in her dark hair. She swept through the crowd, nodding and bestowing smiles on everyone she passed.

Rasyn snuck a look at his fiancée out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at the princess and chewing her lip again. She didn’t seem to recognize that she looked almost as elegant as the princess. He'd known she would from the first time he'd seen her, despite that shapeless hotel uniform. Libby's smooth, creamy shoulders made an elegant contrast to the deep blue of her dress. The sapphires he'd placed on her neck earlier glittered—but not as brightly as the emerald of her eyes. Her elbow-length gloves left the soft skin of her upper arms temptingly bare. A hairdresser brought in from town had done wonders with her hair, piling it on top of her head in a style that exposed the seductive curve of her neck.

The princess glided toward them, cool and elegant. Rasyn sensed Libby's body tensing beside him.

"Cousin."

Rasyn turned to see Imaran at his side, looking regal in his tuxedo jacket, which had nearly as many medals as the prince's. When Prince Hani approached, Rasyn stepped back to let Imaran manage the greetings.

"And this is my cousin's companion, Miss..." Imaran let the word drop away.

Rasyn's teeth clenched. Companion. Imaran might as well have called her a whore. And he hadn’t bothered to learn her name.

Libby smiled, seeming to ignore the insult.

"Actually," Rasyn broke in smoothly, "Miss Libby Fay is my fiancée."

The old prince raised a wild gray eyebrow in disbelief. At his shoulder, the princess's lips curved into a pink moue.

"As-salaam alaikum, Miss Fay," Prince Hani said.

"Wa alaikum as-salam, Your Highness." Libby made a decent attempt at a curtsey. "May I say that you're blessed to have such a beautiful daughter."

Rasyn's maintained his calm, though his skin prickled cold, and it wasn’t from the air conditioning. Princess Sanurah's chin lifted. Prince Hani's back stiffened. Not only was it inappropriate, in his country, to tell a man that his daughter was pretty, but Libby had made another mistake. Despite the title, Princess Sanurah was not Prince Hani's daughter.

"Princess Sanurah is my wife." Prince Hani no longer smiled.

Libby pressed her lips together, the flush returning to her cheeks. "I beg your pardon. I’m sorry for my mistake."

"Please, let us sit," Imaran said.

There was a little too much sparkle in his cousin's eye for Rasyn's liking. Rasyn ignored it as he held out a chair for Libby, right next to Princess Sanurah's.

This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Libby, exhausted from jetlag and their earlier activities, was thrown off. The more she tried to be dignified, the more she came across as common. The more she humiliated herself.

His plan to ease Imaran's ascendance to the throne was working. He'd just expected to be happy about it instead of resenting that no one in the room had any compassion for her situation. He had attended so many diplomatic events that they were second nature to him, but this was her first. It was only to please him that she faced the situation with as much bravery as she did.

He took his place across the circular table from her. Their gazes caught, just for an instant. Her eyes shone bright with mortification.

General el Shaji began to make small talk with him, but Rasyn couldn't really pay attention to what the mustached military commander said. Instead, he noticed that Imaran had turned to the Prince on his left and the Princess had turned to the general's wife on her right, leaving Libby to talk to her empty soup bowl.

"Shukran." Libby smiled broadly. Thank you. "You're doing a wonderful job. No one ever says that at these things."

Who was she talking to? Surely not... Rasyn's jaw practically dropped. The waiter. He hadn't even noticed the young man with a dark mole on his face filling the water glasses out of a crystal jug.

The waiter blinked at her, frozen for an instant in pure disbelief. When he recovered, he bowed stiffly before moving to his next duty.

Most of the conversations around the table had stopped to witness the odd event. It took a moment for Libby to notice that the table had gone quiet. When she did, she glanced at Rasyn with a puzzled look, her lips pursed in a confused bow.

The Princess gazed at Libby. Rasyn might have been imagining it, but there didn't seem to be condemnation in her looks. Her drawn-together eyebrows seemed to show curiosity. "Who are your parents, Miss Fay?"

Libby inhaled harshly, her lips parting. A long heartbeat went by before any words came out of her.

"No one important," she said.

He let it go. Of course he'd had a professional look into her background. The file was on his computer. Sadly, there were no skeletons in her family closet. Her father had died when she was young, like his own, but her family held no scandalous secrets. Which was a shame. A terrible family background, perhaps a brother with a criminal record or a thrice-divorced sister, would have made her even less suitable to be queen. And more suitable for his purposes.

The Princess seemed to be interested, too. "They must be very proud that you're marrying so well."

"You're very kind." Libby nodded, although Rasyn doubted that she'd missed the Princess's implication that she came from a low background. "What about you? How many children do you and His Highness have?"

The temperature in the room dropped like a stone. The general's staid, grandmotherly wife actually gasped. It was well-known that the Prince had married the very young Sanurah five years ago in the hopes of getting an heir. It hadn't worked.

The Princess's eyes went dead. "None." Her tone would have made frost shiver.

Apparently, Libby didn't miss the ice. She put her hand to her chest as if trying to keep her heart from pounding.

"Excuse me." Her voice cracked. "I have to go freshen up."

Libby pushed out her chair, crashing into the waiter behind her. Rasyn watched in slow motion as the bowl of seafood bisque that the server had been about to set in front of the Princess plummeted into her lap.

The Princess leapt up, followed by the Prince, red-faced and looking like he might explode in anger. Everyone at the table rose—the general's wife immediately reached for Rasyn's napkin and began to brush the slimy stain on the Princess' dress with it. The waiter dropped to his face on the floor, begging forgiveness as fast as he could.

Libby’s face turned ashen.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, reaching for her own napkin to help clean the Princess’s dress. But the group of women hovering around the Princess pushed Libby back and began to lead the Princess toward an exit.

Libby's emerald eyes filled with glossy tears. Rasyn watched, his emotions warring between triumph and guilt, as she hiked up her skirts and ran from the room.