A Sheikh for Christmas (All I want for Christmas is... 1)

“So, what do you do this time of year?” she asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

“The holidays. What do you do for them? Muslims don’t celebrate Christmas, right?”

Seemed he wasn’t the only one doing some stereotyping here. Daveed scrubbed a hand over his face and scooted in his seat to face her, stretching his arm across the back of the loveseat to rest his mug of hot milk atop the back. He’d had this conversation far too many times of late. “What makes you assume I’m Muslim?”

She raised wide eyes to him, her expression conciliatory. “Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m sorry. I have a tendency to say things without thinking them through. My bad.” She closed her eyes and shook herself. The movement caused her breasts to sway interestingly beneath the fabric of her T-shirt and Daveed realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.

That of course led to visions of her straddling his lap while he toyed with her taut nipples and he quickly slammed the door on those wicked thoughts. He shifted in his seat and did his best to ignore the twitch in his cock.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t assume things about people.” She gave a sad snort. “I hate it when people do that to me.”

He gulped his milk and searched for his lost sanity. This close to her, he could smell the soap on her skin from her shower, the floral scent of the shampoo she’d used, plus the slight hint of exotic blossoms from that perfume she wore. All the things he shouldn’t think about right now if he wanted to keep his body under control.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man who had vast experience with women. There was no logical reason why he should be so turned on by this quirky socialite on the rocks. And yet, he was. He scooted farther back into his corner of the loveseat as well, to put as much distance between them as possible, and focused on her question.

“I am not Muslim, for your information. I am Christian. My family has been since the fifth century AD.” He finished off his milk, then set his empty cup aside. “Anything else you’d like to know about me?”

She swallowed hard and stared down into her mug, her blond brows knitted. “Heath mentioned to me once that you were a prince or something. Is that true?”

Heath needed to keep his mouth shut, Daveed thought, but saw no harm in responding to what she already knew. “My family rules a small island kingdom off the coast of Saudi Arabia called Al Dar Nasrani. The country is currently a sheikhdom and I am the oldest son, so yes, I would stand to inherit the throne and the title of Sheikh should something happen to my father.” He looked away. “However, my two younger brothers have been doing their best to convince my father to abdicate the sheikhdom and adopt parliamentary rule for the people of Al Dar Nasrani. A true democracy. I would like this as well.”

Melody tilted her head slightly. “You don’t want to be Sheikh?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to be free to live my own life, make my own choices.”

“Like choosing your own bride?” Melody asked. “You mentioned your arranged marriage earlier.”

“Exactly.” Even now, twenty-five years later, resentment still burned hot in his chest. How could a parent, any parent, do that to a ten-year-old child? Shackle them to a marriage that they neither wanted nor understood? And after they’d promised him they wouldn’t too. It was unthinkable, unforgettable, unforgiveable. In truth, that was the main reason he’d left his island home behind and moved to the US right after high school. Of course, his scholarship to Yale had helped in that decision as well. He’d entered their international law program and never looked back. He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ah, well. Doesn’t matter now anyway. That’s all water under the bridge. I haven’t seen my family in years and doubt they’d even recognize me now.”

“What about the girl you were engaged to?” she asked, leaning a bit closer to him, her fascination with his story apparent in her relaxed movements and rapt stare. And damn if her interest and attention didn’t make him feel more like a king than he ever had back home near his father’s throne.

Daveed chuckled and stretched out his long legs in front of him. “Shayma, you mean? Oh, I suppose she’s doing just fine these days. She always was a tough cookie, even at six-years-old. Truth is, I did kind of like her back then, but once our parents forced it upon us I wanted nothing to do with her anymore.”

“Was she pretty? Have you seen her since then? Does she still live in the Middle East?”

Her rapid-fire questions made him smile. “She was very pretty, still is. I saw her briefly at my high school graduation. One of her older brothers was in my class. At that time she looked a lot like that new actress. The one in the Wonder Woman movie.”

“Gal Gadot?” Melody said, giving him an astonished look. “Man, she must be gorgeous then.”

“Yes, she was quite striking. And no, I do not know where she is now.”

“Wow.” Melody sat back, her expression turning pensive. “Do you ever regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Your decision not to marry her? To give up your title and throne?”

“No. Never.”

“I wish I could be so certain of my choices in life,” she said, her tone wistful. “Most days I feel like I have no clue which way to turn.”

“Hmm.” Daveed crossed his legs, his ankle resting atop his knee and settled into his seat. “Tell me more about this Jefferson Hanks idiot. Help me understand why the hell you’d run away with him halfway across the globe without a second thought for the man you were engaged to.”