Surrogate for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 7) Read online

  She blinked through that mist and took a quick breath, taking in the sight of this handsome Arabian man who was fully focused on her now, facing her front and center, tailored tuxedo that looked like it hadn’t been made by human hands, the black of the cloth so rich it almost made her swoon, the shirt so impeccably white, the strong cut of the cotton broadcloth leading her eyes up along the ridge of his neckline to his thick, muscular neck, large Adam’s apple, strong jawline set in a half-smile, cheekbones like high desert cliffs, the ridges straight and symmetrical, catching the soft overhead light and casting his brown skin in smooth shadow, making his dark stubble glisten like black diamonds. And those lips. Oh, God, so full and thick. Dark red and luscious.

  Then she looked up.

  She looked up into his eyes.

  2

  His eyes broke through that mist, cast off that spell, pulling her into a new spell so quick she had to shift on her feet and spread her legs a bit so she could be sure she wouldn’t stumble where she stood in her red dress, entranced by those green eyes. Green eyes set like dark emeralds above his high cheekbones, sharp greens staring into her baby browns.

  “I heard that a woman is ovulating in this part of the room and so I arrived immediately,” he said with that cocky grin which somehow made the comment completely appropriate for a black tie banquet at the Rega Royal’s Grand Ballroom.

  “Wow,” she said without stopping to think. “Your hearing must be very good if you can hear a woman ovulate. What does it sound like?”

  “It sounds like . . . this,” he said with no hesitation as he leaned close, doing it slowly and deliberately, his cheek almost touching hers as he blew gently into the brown curls of her hair along her temples. His fingertips grazed her side as he withdrew, nothing but the thin red satin of her dress separating his hand from her hips, his skin from hers, the touch so shocking that she gasped and drew back from him, breaking eye contact as she touched her hair and blinked and gasped again.

  “So it sounds like sexual harassment?” she said firmly, looking up at him as she tried to control herself even though everything inside her was going certifiably nuts, with tingles and tremors, bursts of electricity, splashes of light, like it was a Fourth of July rehearsal under that red dress, inside those black pan—

  He grinned as he looked down at her, his handsome face not showing the slightest flinch, his eye contact strong and merciless. “Should I call security?” he asked through that grin. “Or would you rather just scream?”

  “OK, so now you’ve moved from sexual harassment to straight up sexism,” Gracie said, folding her arms under her boobs and tapping one foot unconsciously as she felt an annoyingly playful smile break on her round face. “I would do neither. I’d just jab you in the eyeballs and kick you in the crotch. I teach my kids that they should never have to rely on someone else to defend them, and I walk the talk, buddy.”

  “How many kids?” he said, effortlessly diverting the conversation. Now his smile tightened, green eyes narrowed, and he shamelessly glanced down her curves, taking in the swell of her breasts, the contours of her wide hips, her thick bare calves all tight and smooth in those black heels. He glanced at her ring finger, blinked once, and then coolly looked into her eyes like he couldn’t give a damn what she thought about where his eyes—and perhaps his mind—had just been. “And how old?”

  “Eighteen,” she said, rolling her tongue inside her mouth as she held her posture, that first blast of arousal now settling into a steady buzz that she could feel everywhere under that red dress, behind that tight bra, under those black satin panties which seemed to be riding up into her bottom a little.

  “Eighteen years old? You must have been a very young mother,” he said, frowning and glancing at her ring finger again.

  “No,” she said. “Eighteen kids. I’ve got eighteen kids.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose and he cocked his head to the side like he actually believed her. A quick glance at her round belly and then he looked back into her eyes and cocked his head to the other side. A last glance at her ringless fingers, and finally he smiled and snapped his fingers. “Ah, I know. You are an egg donor. Perhaps also a surrogate for women who are unable to carry a child. Yes?”

  Gracie half frowned half smiled as she looked up at this tall, handsome foreigner who really seemed to believe that she had eighteen kids, and had already decided that he had figured out how and why. It wasn’t a bad guess, she had to admit. No ring on her finger. And eighteen is way too many for a straight-up surrogate her age, so egg donor plus surrogate was a smart guess. Most importantly though, how old did he think she was, she wondered as she touched her hair again and firmed up her buttocks and smiled up at him.

  “Yeah, you know they don’t pay us teachers jack in this country,” she said with a shrug. “So I just harvest my eggs and rent out my womb for cash. That’s a great guess, by the way. Not sexist at all.”

  “How is that sexist?” he cried, throwing his long, thick arms up in mock exasperation, ridges of his chest muscles showing through the fitted white shirt beneath his tuxedo jacket. He kept those mammoth arms up, his wing-span on full display as he took a full circle in front of Gracie before stopping to face her and grinning wide. “You are the one who says you are mother to eighteen children, and I am the sexist one? I cannot win with you, yes? Ya Allah, this country and its women! I love it! Who are you? Tell me your name! You must join our table so I can have some entertaining conversations tonight! Perfect! I was just dreading having to converse with these old Arabs and their quiet wives, but now things are looking up. Come. To my table with your eggs and womb, and we will talk more. You are by yourself, yes?”

  “Jonathan and Grace are at our table,” came that nasally voice slicing through everything now, and Gracie almost choked as she gritted her teeth and forced herself to turn away from this man and look over into the gray eyes of Jean Baylor, who was standing like a silver spear of obstruction, hands on her slim hips, innocent look that was so fake Gracie wanted to applaud. “Shall we, Grace? We have so much to talk about!”

  “Um, sure,” she said, blinking hard as she felt that spell break as the man shifted on his feet and took a step back. He touched his chin for a moment, an almost puzzled expression on his handsome face as he glanced at her once more before looking over at Jean Baylor and smiling politely but not formally introducing himself.

  “Jean Baylor Habib,” said Jean to the man. She almost did a curtsey as she held her hand out like he was expected to kiss it. “I’m Abdul Mohammad Habib’s first wife.”

  Gracie almost doubled over as she choked back a sound that she wasn’t sure would have been a snort or a howl. She caught the man hold back his own smile, and Gracie made sure not to make eye contact with him or she’d for sure burst into squeals, she thought.

  “How many wives does Abdul Mohammad Habib have?” he asked with a seriousness that Gracie thought was admirably convincing. “Not eighteen, I hope? That is illegal even in the Islamic world.”

  “Oh, just me, of course,” Jean said hurriedly, turning bright red as she touched her neck and then her hair. “I’m just so used to other Sheikh’s wives introducing themselves as the first or second or junior or senior, that I just—”

  “Ah, you are a Sheikh’s American wife,” the man said, touching his chin and frowning as he rubbed his stubble. “Sheikh Abdul Muhammad Habib? I apologize. I do not recognize the name. Of course, I am not so . . . as you say . . . plugged in as far as such matters go. I live on an island. Literally—we are an island in the Gulf of Oman!”

  “Oh, no wonder I don’t know you either,” Jean said, deftly avoiding the question in a way that made Gracie want to just sit back and watch the performance. “You are . . .”

  “I am . . .” he said, glancing slyly down at Gracie, raising one eyebrow in a way that made her want to giggle and wring her hands together like some of those ten-year-olds in
her class. “I am going to kidnap your friend for the evening. Do not worry, I will return her by the end of the night. All of her. Red dress. Eggs. Womb. The entire ovulation ensemble of Ms. Grace Garner.”

  Now Gracie did in fact giggle and flutter her eyelids like she couldn’t help it, allowing that tingling excitement to flow free as she realized they were . . . flirting!

  “I hope you demand a king’s ransom for my safe return,” she said wryly, taking a step towards him, almost feeling a compulsion to take his arm and let him lead her away to his table, to his world, his island kingdom—which was almost certainly just beyond those heavy maroon curtains lining the side walls of the Grand Ballroom.

  “A queen’s ransom,” he said. “Which is usually much higher than a king’s ransom, because it is the lonely king himself who is paying to get his queen back.”

  Now he offered her his arm with a natural grace, like he was doing it without thinking. And she walked up to him, also without thinking, slipping her hand into the fold of his elbow, gasping under her breath when she felt the enormity of his bicep under that smooth black tuxedo.

  “Careful,” she whispered, glancing at Jean with wide eyes and then back up at this Arabian kidnapper in a tailored tuxedo that probably cost more than her car. “My friend’s husband is the head of security in the land. A dangerous man. He might send his men after us.”

  Now the man frowned and half-turned towards Jean, his eyes narrowing for a fleeting moment, color rushing to his face along with a glimmer of recognition. Quickly he smiled and nodded. “Ah, now I recognize the name. Abdul Mohammad Habib. Mo Habib, yes? Head of Habib Security. I actually have an appointment with your husband later this week. My people do some business with him, though I have never met him. He does mention his wife to my people—in the most endearing terms, of course. Jean Habib. You have been teaching him English, I believe? Ah, my lady. I apologize for not recognizing the name earlier.”

  Jean blinked away what appeared to have started as a ferocious glare directed at Gracie, and she forced a smile and nodded graciously at the man. She didn’t reply though, quickly looking back at Gracie, widening those gray eyes.

  “So you and Jonathan won't be joining our table?” she asked sweetly, glancing once at the man and then back at Grace with the look of a college girl trying to stop a drunk friend from going home with the wrong guy—or with any guy. “We have two spots reserved for you, Gracie. We had to move things around a bit to get those passes and work out the seating, and if I had known—”

  “I told you Jonathan wasn’t coming,” Gracie said as her jaw tightened. She remembered now that she had let Jean send her two passes anyway, and she felt a bit guilty when she realized that shit, it was pretty decent of Jean to reach out and invite her, and it was kinda lame of her to waltz off with some guy she didn’t know instead of—

  “Then I will join your table so those seats are not left empty,” the man announced, now touching Gracie’s hand and locking it tight against his arm as she stared up at him, incredulous at how forward this man was being, how openly he was . . . hitting on her! He looked down at her now, smile breaking wide, voice deep and commanding. “Come, Ms. Grace. It is not yet time for dinner. Let me show you the ice sculpture before it melts. Right now it is a swan, and in three hours it will look like a potato. Come. We must hurry!”

  Now he swept her away in the ballroom, and Gracie tilted her head back and laughed as a breeze wove through her open hair, reminding her of that delicate whisper of his breath against her temple, perhaps inside her temple. Her feminine temple . . . hah!

  God, this feels so good, she thought as she glanced up at the Sheikh, feeling a warmth and a chill, a tingle and a sizzle, her panties feeling tight even as her knees felt weak. So nice to be just straight-up hit on by a man who couldn’t give a damn what the people around him thought! Not like how most guys were these days, almost apologetic even when they actually plucked up the courage to make an advance, like they were hoping the woman would relieve their anxiety and just take the lead in the courtship.

  Not that Gracie had any problem with taking the lead in most areas of her life. Being a teacher was just a symptom of her need to be a director, a controller, someone who laid down the law and enforced it with a firm hand. So many parents these days practiced what seemed to be laissez faire parenting, Gracie thought, where they pretty much let the kids do what they wanted, rewarding them with praise and hugs, smiles and kisses. All that was good, and unconditional affection was important, but Gracie had always seen her role as being the authoritarian, and she liked to give the kids a sense of discipline, a sense that sometimes you just need to sit straight and do what the teacher says. No questions. No comments. I am in charge. I am the ruler.

  And the kids loved it. They loved sometimes being able to not have to think for themselves and simply do what the teacher asked, trusting that she knew what was best for them in the classroom. Rules. Rules. Rules. Gracie the Ruler, they called her—which was an actual, real life thing now: wooden and thick, one of those old-style meter-rules which was about three feet long and had been nailed to the wall in her home-room as a parting gift from one of her classes. They had painted the words “Gracie the Ruler” on the wooden rule, and Gracie had thought it was hilarious. Loving, witty, and hilarious.

  But now Gracie the Ruler felt more like one of those kids lined up for a field trip as she held this man’s arm and let him lead her through the maze of tables, the sea of heavily perfumed men and women wearing everything from Armani tuxedos to Arabian tunics, Middle-Eastern Sherwanis, and even an Indian saree or two. She glanced up at him once more as Jean Baylor faded into the background, and now it was just the two of them in an ocean of strangers, maroon velvet curtains lining the far walls of the hotel ballroom, chandeliers twinkling down at them as he swiftly led her across the carpet.

  Grace could feel the hem of her red dress rise up as she was pulled along on his strong arm, the breeze generated by the two of them swirling its way up her skirts, kissing her bottom, teasing her tummy, tickling her tush.

  “You are a teacher,” he said as he pulled her off to the side of the ballroom, to a relatively uncrowded spot against those thick maroon curtains. They could see the ice sculpture in the distance. It was gigantic and gleaming, and it certainly wasn’t going to melt anytime this century. “I am a teacher as well.”

  “Really?” she said, frowning up at him as she realized she was almost breathless from the excitement of being led through the crowd and tables like that, like she had just come off the dancefloor and was taking a breather before the next song began. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a teacher.”

  “Now you are being sexist,” he said. “I am an excellent teacher, Ms. Grace.”

  “I didn’t say that because you’re a man,” she said, swallowing as she tried to come up with a better way to say, “I said it because you look like a goddamn movie star, and I doubt any girl in your class is going to learn squat other than how to touch themselves. Perhaps touching themselves while they squat. Hah!”

  “Then why did you say it, Ms. Grace?” he asked, turning to face her and stepping close.

  Now she could smell him: a subtle cologne, his clean aroma mixing with the deep shades of fresh tobacco leaf, betelnut spice, red sage, the mix delightfully pungent, soaringly sexy, magnificently masculine. It made her reel for a moment, and she blinked as she wondered if she had eaten enough that day. Then she remembered that yeah, she had.

  “Well . . .” she said, looking up at this exotic stranger whose name she couldn’t remember and who suddenly seemed to be her date for the night. “I just . . .”

  “You said it because you cannot imagine me as a teacher,” he said, his voice low and steady, the vibration of the sound mixing with that manly musk in a way that made Gracie shiver as he stepped so close she could feel his heart, she thought. “Because as a girl you were never attracted to any of y
our teachers. Not like how you are attracted to me.”

  “Sorry, what?” she gasped, her brown eyes opening wide in panic before she narrowed her gaze and took a step back, not even sure where to begin. “Excuse me?”

  “Do not panic,” he said softly, now grazing his fingertips along the smooth white skin of her bare arms, his touch leaving a trail of goosepimples as he leaned close with those luscious lips of his. “I am attracted to you as well. There is no denying it. It is natural and beautiful. In the animal kingdom it is easy to see because the male and female go into heat only during certain times of the year. But in humans it is more subtle, and we have to trust our instincts to know when the timing is right.”

  Gracie frowned up at him in absolute shock as she felt the wetness ooze through her panties, the cooling flow giving rise to an internal heat that slithered up the back of her tingling thighs as she shifted on her feet again, spreading her legs ever so slightly.

  Now from beneath her dress Gracie caught the slightest, most subtle scent of herself, her clean feminine smell, a scent that was pulling her arousal along with it, spiraling upwards through the ether like it was reaching out to him, to this man who was so close that perhaps he could pick up that secret scent . . .

  And God, she saw his nostrils flare out, felt his broad body tense up in a subtle way that she thought only she could see. Slowly he took a breath, filling his lungs as if he really was taking in her scent, and Gracie wasn’t sure if she should faint or scream, step back or go closer.

  What’s happening, she wondered as she sensed movement at the front of the man’s pants even though her gaze was locked onto his. It was like her senses were heightened to an impossible degree, like she could pick up every signal from his body, just like how she was certain he was picking up her warm scent from beneath the thin wet cloth of her black panties. Animals in heat? Timing and cycles? Eggs and wombs? Evolution and . . . ovulation?