The Sheikh's Pregnant Lover (Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid 1) - Page 6

He had that way of speaking, in pretty curlicues, and she let the words fall softly across her skin. “What knots, Kyril?” It seemed to Hannah that marriage would only create more of them, but he’d come all this way to find her. She’d let him have his chance to speak.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to marry. I don’t think you understand—” He shook his head, his eyes shining. “I couldn’t forget you. Not for a single moment. You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted to make my wife.” He laughed, the low rumble of his voice sending a wave of pleasure through her belly. “Even I couldn’t have planned it so well. The ancient laws of Al-Dashalid—do you know of them?”

A thought from a guidebook she’d read long ago teased at the edge of her mind. “I’ve heard something, but please, enlighten me.”

“By law, in order to retain my place at the head of the government, I must marry by the time I turn thirty.”

All the separate threads—the baby, the marriage he insisted on so confidently—twisted together at the center of Hannah’s chest. She struggled for a breath. No. This wasn’t the way. She wasn’t in love with Kyril. She’d enjoyed the week they spent together. She would never forget the lines of his body against hers. But marriage? No. They could co-parent without marrying. People did it all the time.

“Kyril—”

He raised a hand, cutting her off. “You don’t have to agree with me now. But it’s a sign, Hannah. We have to get married.” He leaned back against the sofa.

“We—” Her heart beat wildly as she cast about for something to say. Anything to say. ”You’re not thirty yet, are you? If you’re not—” Hannah tried again. “We don’t have to rush into this.”

“What’s the point in waiting? By the time the baby is born, we could be well settled in Al-Dashalid and—”

It was too much. She grabbed her bag and stood. Where was the exit? The room was full of doors, but where was the one that led her out, where she could breathe? “I have to go.”

Kyril was on his feet in an instant. “Go where? Hannah—”

“My hotel.” She fought for composure. “I haven’t checked in yet, and if I’m not there soon, I’ll lose my deposit. We’ll talk soon, Kyril.” She moved toward a hallway, hoping it was the one that led to the elevator.

“Hannah, stop.” Kyril stepped to her side, his hand hovering in the air next to her arm. “I’ve—” She breathed him in, the spicy, clean scent of him, and bit her lip. “Perhaps I’ve come on too strong. We can set this aside for the moment, yes?” His accent was entrancing. As much as she wanted to leave, she wanted to hear his voice even more.

“Yes. Let’s set this aside. We can come back to this in the morning, if—”

“We can come back to it in a month, if that’s what you want. But in return, you must do one thing for me.” Kyril’s expression turned serious, his eyes betraying a care that struck her deeply.

“What’s that?”

“Stay with me.” He gestured back toward the open expanse of the suite. “There are two bedrooms. You can have your own.” She opened her mouth to decline, but then his glance fell back to her belly. “It’s far safer here, with my security team across the hall. For everyone.”

4

The bed in the second bedroom of Kyril’s suite was like a cloud, and Hannah fell asleep in spite of herself. She was in Venice. She lay awake, staring at the elaborate pattern on the ceiling, and before she could stop herself, she’d slipped into a dream, soothing and comfortable. She reclined on a beach chair next to a sparkling pool. It was warm, not hot, and the sun kissed her skin. A sweating drink stood next to her chair and she was content, utterly content, not a single worry crossing her mind. “Hannah,” said Kyril, from somewhere in her dream, but when she turned her head, her cheek touched the cool pillow, and she stirred, stretching briefly in the empty bed before falling back to sleep.

She woke in the morning with a deep, excited breath and leapt from the bed. The private bathroom was a revelation, all dark tiles and gleaming fixtures. The soap was a fine blend of citrus and lavender that made her feel like a princess.

When she stepped out of her room, hair swept back into an elegant bun, a teal sundress flowing around her knees, Kyril was waiting at the breakfast table, buttering a pastry. His face brightened at the sight of her.

“Good morning, Hannah.”

“Great morning.” She sat at the table without a moment’s hesitation and dug in to the delicate bowls of bright strawberries and warm rolls. “I can’t wait to see the city. It’s been years since—” Hannah thought of all the nights she’d spent as a teenager, reading about the great cities of the world on the Internet and wishing she could visit herself. “I’ve wanted to be here for a long time.”

This tour had been a daydream of hers through many long days at work and many long nights of sitting with Helen, cajoling her into doing her homework until Hannah’s own eyes had burned with exhaustion. It had been a long road, getting her sister off to college, and though she didn’t begrudge her any of it, there was a certain weight lifted from her shoulders now that Helen was off on her own.

Kyril glanced down to a newspaper taking up one end of the table. “There’s a special exhibit at the Guggenheim. Perhaps we should start there.” He scanned the column, his eyebrows raised in interest. “Matisse—could be very interesting. I could send a guard right now for tickets.”

“No.” Hannah shook her head. That was a little forceful. “I mean—I already have a full itinerary planned.” She rose from her seat, the soles of her feet sinking into the plush carpeting, and padded back to her room. The printed itinerary was in her purse. Back at the table, she presented it to Kyril, her pulse quickening. She’d filled every moment of the day with sights across the city. Not one hour would be wasted.

He looked at it, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown. “This one—” The pad of his finger lingered over the description of a lace-making tour. “It’s a tourist trap. We’ll skip that.” Hannah was irritated. “But we could still make the glass blowing exhibition later.” He tilted his head, considering. “Though it could be dangerous, being so close to that heat. It might be best to steer clear. There are famous chocolatiers in the city,” he decided. “I’ll send one of my men to scout us a tour.”

“Send him all you want.” She took a bite of roll, the bread melting on her tongue. “I’m not going.”

He stopped, his eyebrows halfway to the ceiling. She could see it clearly on his face—people didn’t flatly deny him anything. Not Sheikh Kyril. Her skin hummed with the risk of it all, of provoking anger in those black eyes. But here, at the sunny breakfast table, she felt bold.

“What?” He sounded as disbelieving as he looked.

Tags: Leslie North Sheikhs of Al-Dashalid Billionaire Romance
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