The Sheikh's Surprise Mistress (Jatar Sheikh 5)

His masculine grumble did things to my insides, “There is no shame in what we’ve shared.”

“No—I agree. None.” I continued dressing and with each article of clothing he made more sounds of discontent. “I have to get dressed. Not like I can show up nude.”

“If you were mine, I would insist on your nakedness…” He waved his hand to express something, then added with a chuckle, “Always! You would always be my pale, exposed princess.”

I giggled and lifted my arms as if presenting myself, “Easy access?”

“Ahhh—yes indeed!”

We both laughed, but it was tainted with a deep sadness at our parting. When I did leave, he held my hands in his and confidently stated, “When you are ready, return to me, and you will be welcome always.”

I was entirely sincere this time, not playing any games or erecting any frigid protective emotional barriers, “I wish I could, Amir. I just can’t. I have responsibilities. I must start my life now.”

His response haunted me. “Your life is with me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

After a teary goodbye to Anna, I flew home. I slept almost the entire trip, alone in the massive bed on the private jet. I dreamt of Amir and a different life. A life I’d never imagined. When I returned to my tiny apartment, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt my entire life. I went to bed and slept more. I hardly ate for an entire week—but I slept. It was almost as if I were catching up for all the years of not sleeping.

I knew I was in a sort of depression, but I didn’t care. I missed Amir in an unexplainable way. It was as if we’d been together for years—multiple years—a lifetime of years! My small bed felt empty, and I was bereft as if he’d died. I couldn’t logic my way out of this connection we’d forged—and yes, I tried. We’d hardly talked—it had

been entirely physical—but my heart was broken at being separated from him.

I had no choice, though, no other avenues before me. I had to start back into life. I took more interviews and scheduled a trip home to see my grandmother. I distracted myself by cleaning out my closets and drawers—throwing away enough stuff to make room for all the new stuff I’d brought home with me from Dubai.

As life will do, time flew by, and it was soon almost a month since my trip. I’d distracted myself with changes to my resume and three local interviews—none of which I wanted to take. I was hopeful that a big conglomerate corporation based in New York—the interview was in two weeks—would be the one. I knew I wanted to work for them, now I just needed to make sure they wanted me.

I Skyped with Anna whenever we could, even though the drastic time difference meant it was either the middle of the night for me or way too early for either of us. She helped me by asking me as many questions as the both of us could come up with. Everything from casual, telling chit-chat, to more serious stuff, like how I alone could achieve world peace.

It was nice to stay connected with her. Although, after the tenth time she asked me how I was doing in regards to Amir, I had to tell her to stop asking. I had neatly stuffed that episode away in my compartment-like brain and I refused to open the door to Amir. At least, that was how I’d decided to handle my heartache for now.

Anna was glowing and increasing in girth as her pregnancy developed. I, on the other hand, was feeling as if I had the flu. I’d had to excuse myself during our middle of the night conversation so I could throw up. After the fourth day of this happening, a slow dawning settled over my awareness. I frantically checked in my day planner for when I’d had my last period. I wasn’t that regular, so keeping track of it was difficult. I’d also been on birth control up until the beginning of the year, when they’d recalled the hormone I’d been taking. And thinking that I’d given up the party life and had been abstaining and celibate for months prior, I didn’t see the need to stay on it.

Stupid-stupid-stupid fucking idiot! I was pregnant. I knew it, I knew it was Amir’s, and I was suddenly frantic with anxiety. I couldn’t start a new job and be pregnant—or be a new mother. I couldn’t afford a nanny or help. I certainly couldn’t dump it off with Grandma. She didn’t deserve to be saddled with me, let alone a newborn.

I was a wreck, and decided I would simply abort the baby. There would be future pregnancies for me—for me and whatever man I decided I would marry. I was not going to do this bullshit alone. Or at all! I went through the next week hoping against hope I was actually ill, but nothing changed, and I continued to be sick at the worst possible random moments.

Six weeks from the day of my arrival back in the States, I called the clinic and made an appointment for an abortion. It wasn’t like this was new territory for me; this had happened once before. I knew the score and the routine, and I simply wrote “doctor” on the calendar for two weeks in the future. I tried to focus on other stuff and booked my flight for the interview in New York. I was not going to take a detour at this point in time. I just wasn’t!

I was careful the morning of my interview and only drank ginger ale and ate soda crackers. I figured I could manage for an hour and then go vomit my brains out after. Anna and I had talked in the wee hours of the morning, and she’d wished me good luck—she was oblivious to my current state, and I wished to keep it that way.

I survived the interview, but I knew I didn’t give the best presentation. I was so worried about getting sick, that I kind of made myself sick. Although I didn’t hurl during the interview—thank God!—I did lose it shortly afterwards. They told me they had a hundred applicants and it would take at least a week before they could return with an answer—maybe two.

I went home and crashed. The only good thing about my current state was the simple fact I was having no trouble sleeping. I was sleeping like a dead person—and dreaming like a lunatic. The worst part was that my dreams were nothing but Amir—all Amir—only Amir. I would wake up morose and full of shame. Not because of the content of my dreams, but because of the fact I knew I was in love with him and the baby growing inside of me was his. Our love child.

I didn’t have a lot going on, so I stayed around the apartment, waiting for word on the interview. Anna called, and we chatted.

“You don’t sound okay,” she grilled me for the fourth time after I repeatedly told her I was fine.

“Just a little off is all—you know I had that flu? Still recovering.”

“Okay, but I sense something. You know you can talk to me right? About anything! No judgment, Jules—only love.”

“Yeah, I know. But seriously, how is your preggers going along? You haven’t talked about it much?”

She was sweet with her answer, “I know how you feel about kids—and this kind of thing—anyway, I’m fine. Getting sick all the time, though. It sucks. I keep throwing up in planters or trash cans. This place is so big, I can’t make it to a bathroom.”

Then I totally blew it. “I know, it hits at the strangest times, too.”