The Sheikh's Triplet Baby Surprise (The Sheikh's Baby Surprise 3)

leaning heavy to one side before finding her balance. She heard the warm, honey notes of Aziz’s voice as he launched into another story, and she felt her laughter belt from her. Had she ever met anyone funnier?

She leaned back on the couch beside him, no longer listening to his words, instead assessing the way his facial muscles moved, the way his lips swept into a smile. And, before she could think another moment more, she placed her wine glass to the coffee table and pressed her own lips over his in a wide, singular kiss.

No sooner had she realized what she was doing, her eyes opened wide and she sprang back, shaking her head. The Sheikh had stopped speaking, and he looked at her with wide, cartoonish eyes. Beyond them, the TV was screeching with a mad racecar scene. Amity began to stutter, then, unsure of what to say. She felt like a schoolgirl.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Aziz. Oh my God.” She drew her fingers to her forehead and began to pat it lightly, feeling the sweat as it glossed on her skin. “I’m not normally like this. Oh God.” She was breathing heavily, her mind racing. She needed to get out of there. But the pulse, the attraction from the man before her kept her glued to her seat.

Without words, Aziz brought his fingers behind her neck and pulled her toward him gently, easily, and their lips connected once more. Amity breathed a sigh, easing her arms around the Sheikh’s neck, and allowing the kiss to stretch out between them. Their passion felt like electricity, fizzing from his lips down her neck to her breasts. She longed for him to touch her, to feel her. And she no longer had thoughts about that professional line she’d been toeing—no, dancing—ever since she arrived in Al-Mabbar. She’d snapped the line; she’d destroyed it. And here she was on the other side, in the Sheikh’s arms. And she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The Sheikh brought her over him and their kisses became more serious, more insistent. They weren’t messing around anymore. No longer could Amity sense where the line of her body ended and his began. She swept her fingers beneath his black shirt and yanked it up, feeling the pulse of his muscles as he revealed his naked torso to her. She felt a rush as his hands flew over her shirt and flung it across the room, unhooking her bra in the process.

Their kisses turned to so much more—such erotic movements, mixed with sweet kisses and sighs. They made love on the couch almost as if they’d craved each other for months, instead of only days. The music on the television screen was no distraction; the revving Al-Mabbar City outside the windows held no merit for them. They were simply entranced with each other’s body, wholly and completely, without remorse.

When it was over, Amity stretched her body over his and swept her hair across her back. She felt his sweat gleaming on his shoulder, and she leaned her body into him. Her eyelashes swatted against her cheeks, and she drifted off to sleep easily, listening to the rise and fall of the Sheikh’s breath beside her. She felt peaceful, deeply thankful for the moment—knowing, perhaps abstractly, that this bliss would be gone as soon as she awoke.

ELEVEN

Amity awoke alone the following morning. The drapes had been whisked to one side, revealing a stunning blue sky. She rubbed at her eyes, noting that she was naked beneath the blanket, that her hair was a mess against the couch pillow. Beyond anything, her head buzzed with a hangover of immense proportions—unlike any she’d experienced in years.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, rubbing at her temple, at her neck. “What have I done?”

Her words surprised her as the memories came rushing back: the Sheikh’s lips over hers; the way he’d removed her clothes and gazed at her naked body; the way they’d united, as if they’d been waiting for that moment their entire lives. And now, as if none of that had happened—he was gone.

She rose from the couch and grabbed her jeans, bra, and her shirt, whisking them over her body before anyone else spotted her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that the maids hadn’t seen her that morning, sleeping in his arms. But as she combed her fingers through her untidy hair, she reminded herself that she was perfectly capable of pretending that it hadn’t happened. It was probably just another in a long line of sleepovers for the Sheikh, and a mistake on her part. That was all.

She strutted through the living room, toward his bedroom. She wanted to attack this head-on, to start a new day back in professional mode. When she spotted him by the window, tying his silk tie, she gave him a bright, earnest smile.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was chipper, polite. “I hope you slept well.” She could have been talking to any other client in the world.

He turned to her, cinching the tie closed. “Well, there you are! I’m happy to see you.” His words were false, as well. It was clear there was space between them—an awkwardness. They weren’t going to talk about it. “I was going to wake you, but I know you’re probably still jetlagged.”

“That’s all right. I need to get started on my proposals for the day.” Amity bit her lip slightly, hoping she didn’t seem needy, like a child. “Where are you off to?”

“A business meeting,” he said, his voice still upbeat. “The one that was canceled yesterday. I’m running a little bit late, in fact. I’ll catch you later, all right?”

“All right,” Amity said softly. She couldn’t help but feel like she’d missed something, like she wanted to call out to him—to ask him what she’d done wrong. “You have a good day.”

She watched as he strode from the room, almost in race-pace. She knew he was running away from her, away from the tension between them. As his footsteps became lost in her ears, she collapsed on his enormous bed, remembering the previous evening and feeling like her entire body was about to cave in.

Just a one-night thing, Amity assured herself, trying to breathe evenly. She leaned back on the comforter, feeling the high-thread-count fabric beneath her cheeks. Just one night. She’d hardly had many one-night stands in her life, but she was a grown woman. She knew the score. Why, then, did it feel like this one-night stand had hit her, headlong, like a semi on a highway?

“Just breathe,” she whispered to herself. Just breathe. She counted her breaths: the inhales, the exhales, trying to find solace in the way her body kept itself alive. She couldn’t help but remember how wonderful it had been to have his hands on her breasts; how warm it had been to fall asleep on his chest. She couldn’t help but remember how it had felt—for just a moment—to have someone who cared about her needs. To have someone see her as a woman, rather than a PR agent.

But she knew, deep down, that she and Aziz came from different worlds. He was royalty, a billionaire. The moment he left his mansion, women of incredible caliber latched onto him, nuzzled him, reminded him that he was worthy of so much. Champagne burst open for him. Clubs buzzed for him. Amity didn’t exactly attract a crowd of people. She would bet her entire savings that most of her clients didn’t even remember her name. She loved her job, her position in life—but it didn’t match with the Sheikh’s in any way.

But, at the same time, it seemed to Amity that the Sheikh’s true personality didn’t align so well with this life he had in Al-Mabbar City—this life of clubbing, of women, of material possessions. Even after spending just a few days with him, she’d discovered that he was a kind and compassionate man; that he’d rather spend a night inside watching movies than pop priceless bottles of champagne at VIP clubs. Deep down, he was a good, kind and humorous man—the kind of man she hadn’t expected to find at the other end of this mission, nor anywhere else in the world.

Amity rose from the bed, stretching. The hangover rallied high in her brain and she swept toward her suite, on a search for water and whatever Al-Mabbar’s version of aspirin was.

She nearly collided with a maid on the way to her bed. The maid gave her a once-over, linked eyes with her, and lifted a single finger in the air. One moment, she seemed to say. She leafed through her pockets and drew out two pills—seemingly pain-related, Amity guessed.

“Thank you,” she whispered

, shaking her head. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I think I do,” the maid said in broken English. She bowed her head, giving her a subtle wink, before scuttling off to another area of the mansion.

For a moment, Amity’s face burned red. Was the maid referring to her evening spent with the Sheikh? Of course she knew; word had probably gotten around. Her image was already tainted.

Embrace the shame, she told herself. And then rise above it. She remembered the blistering screams of one of her old pop-star clients in the months after she’d been discovered having an affair with a high-end Hollywood executive. The pain had riddled through her eyes, turning her nose red and her cheeks purple. “What am I going to do?!” she’d asked Amity, and Amity had known this couldn’t have been a question about PR. It was merely a question about a broken heart.