Carrying the Sheikh's Heir

“That is one way of putting it.” His dark eyes flashed. “I am a king and my country has laws I must obey. You may think us barbarians, but there is a certain logic to the king depositing sperm in a bank outside his nation. It was never meant to be used. Or not under normal circumstances.”

She didn’t want to think about what kind of circumstances would precipitate using the sperm, but she imagined it would involve his untimely death and no heir to follow him to the throne. She might not like him, but she wouldn’t wish him dead.

Yet.

“No, I can see how it might be useful. It’s forward thinking to do such a thing.”

“Apparently not, when mistakes such as this are allowed to occur.”

Sheridan put her hand over her middle instinctively. Fresh anger swirled in her belly. “Calling this baby a mistake is unlikely to inspire my confidence, don’t you think? You want me to give him or her up, but you speak as if you don’t care about him other than as your heir.”

“He will be my heir. Until there is another child, at least.”

Her heart thumped. “Because you can choose your successor in Kyr. Of course.” Her fingers tightened over her flat belly. She didn’t even know if there was a baby in there yet, but already she felt protective and angry.

“It is the way of our people.”

Maybe so, but it seemed a horrible way for children to grow up. Talk about an unhealthy sense of competition. “You weren’t chosen until right before your father died. How did that make you feel?”

His eyes glittered hot and she had the feeling she’d tweaked the lion’s tail. He looked at her as if he would snap her in two with one fierce bite. Yet his voice was still as icy as ever.

“You push me too far, Sheridan Sloane. You should be more cautious.”

Maybe she should, but she couldn’t seem to do so. “Why? Because you might kidnap me or something?”

His dark eyes raked over her. “Or something.”

CHAPTER FOUR

KYR WAS HOT. Savannah was hot, too, but it was also muggy because they were so near the ocean. Kyr was not muggy, though the Persian Gulf was nearby. It was just hot, with the kind of heat that sucked all the moisture right out of you and left you gasping for breath. It was also beautiful, which Sheridan had not expected.

The desert sands were almost red and the dunes rose high in the distance, undulating like waves on the ocean. As they’d approached the city from the airport, she’d viewed tall date palms that grew in ordered rows. Sheridan had been in the same car with Rashid, but once they’d arrived at the palace she’d been taken to what appeared to be a lonely wing with no one else in it. If he had a harem, this was not it.

She still couldn’t believe she was here. She paced around the cavernous room of the suite she’d been shown to and marveled at the architecture. There were soaring arches, mosaics of delicate and colorful tile and painted walls and ceilings. There was a sunken area in the middle of the room, lined with colorful cushions, and above her the ceiling soared into a dome shape that was punctuated with small windows, which let light filter down to the floor and spread in warm puddles across its gleaming tiles.

It was a beautiful and lonely space. Sheridan sank onto the cushions and sat by herself in that big room, listening to nothing. There was no television, no radio, no telephone that she could find. She had her cell phone, but no signal.

She leaned back against the cushions and swore she wouldn’t cry. For someone like her, a person who craved light and sound and activity, this silent cavern was torture. Just yesterday—had it really been only yesterday?—she’d been surrounded by people at Mrs. Lands’s party. And then she’d been in her office, with her beautiful store outside her door, listening to the sounds of people on the street and the low hum of her radio as it played the latest top-forty hits.

She hadn’t exactly been happy, not after the news from the clinic and Annie’s reaction, but she’d been far more content than she’d given herself credit for. Tears pushed against her eyes at the thought of all she’d left behind, but she didn’t let them fall.

Rashid al-Hassan was a tyrant. He’d swept into her life, swept her up against her will and deposited her here alone. And all because the stupid sperm bank had used the wrong sperm. She’d wanted to give her sister a precious gift, but she was here, a veritable prisoner to a rude, arrogant, sinfully attractive man who had all the warmth and friendliness of an iceberg.

He hadn’t let her call anyone until they were on his plane. She was still astounded at the opulence of the royal jet. It was one of the most amazing things she’d ever seen, with leather and gold and fine carpets. The bath had even been made of marble. Marble on a jet!