The Sheikh’s American Fiancée: Desert Sheikhs Book Three Page 5

  “Dakaric,” she began again.

  “What?”

  “That was the best kiss I’ve ever had.”

  A sly smile crossed his face. “Don’t you want a little more, then?’

  She nodded, flinging her arms around his neck, diving into the kiss with more enthusiasm this time. He slipped his arms around her waist, bringing her hard against his body, finding the ways in which they fit together amid the fabric. Kissing her was a high; he wanted so much more of it, there was no way to physically satisfy his desire. He might dream of these kisses for the rest of his life.

  Someone cleared their throat. Christina gasped. Dakaric pulled away, turning toward the noise.

  A guard stood under the arched doorway, a severe look on his face.

  “You two shouldn’t be out here,” he warned in Arabic.

  “My apologies. I was just showing my fiancée the gardens that King Zatar and I would play in as boys.”

  The guard softened at the mention of Zatar. Maybe he hadn’t realized who he’d caught in the darkness. “Just make your way back to the party when you can.”

  Dakaric nodded and then turned back to Christina. “Party’s over,” he whispered. “At least our secret garden party.”

  Her lips tugged downward. “Damn. I was having such a good time, too.”

  “I hear there’s another party out there.” He jerked his head in the direction they’d come from. “Besides, we better find Zatar and ask him about that picture.”

  The mention of her picture seemed to snap her into high gear. She straightened, her arms falling from around his neck. “Yeah. We should head back.”

  He ran his thumb over her cheek, hesitant to break the sexy spell. But her mind was already elsewhere. She was practically pulling him off the patio and back into the palace halls.

  They didn’t talk much on their way back to the party. Once they crossed the threshold of waiters with food platters and drinks, Christina scooped up another glass of champagne and a toothpick full of cherry tomatoes. She chomped on a tomato and scanned the party.

  “There he is.” She pointed with the toothpick of tomatoes, which made Dakaric smile. When she realized what he was smiling at, she shook her head.

  “I’m clearly not fit to be in a royal palace,” she said, a hint of a grin on her face. “How many etiquette rules can I break in one night?”

  “I’d love to find out,” he said. She sent him a sexy look over her shoulder, one that took him right back to his mindset from the patio. He wanted the rest of the party to fade away, so they could find themselves suspended in their own dreamy bubble once more.

  Christina was the first person in too long who actually seemed interested in him. The fact that he was a king was secondary. In fact, it seemed like it barely registered. It was hard to find people who didn’t have an agenda with him, who weren’t willing to step all over others, or even themselves, in an effort to get close to the throne.

  Up ahead, Zatar and Alexis chatted near a long table full of hors d’oeuvres. He clamped his hand down on Zatar’s shoulder while Christina sidled up to Alex.

  “Friend, I need you to help me with something.” Dakaric fished for Christina’s picture, stored in his front coat pocket. “Christina is here on a fact-finding mission. She’s looking for this person, and I think we know her.”

  Zatar’s gaze turned curious once Dakaric revealed the picture. Together, they studied the faded photograph.

  “Doesn’t this look like Sabra?” Dakaric asked.

  Zatar nodded after a moment, squinting at the image. Dakaric could feel Christina’s curiosity as Zatar thought. Sabra had been a longtime maid who had arrived and then departed the palace mysteriously. Her position was never otherwise filled. Maids were uncommon in Kattahar, but the former king Patar never explained why he’d brought one on…and nobody ever dared question him.

  “It really does.” Zatar took the picture from Dakaric’s fingers, then slowly nodded. “I think it’s her.”

  Dakaric swallowed a knot of excitement, then said, “Do you know where she is these days?”

  Zatar shook his head. “She was dismissed years ago. While we were in university. I have no idea where she got off to. I remember she was given a severance of sorts, and then she was just gone.”

  Dakaric frowned, pocketing the photo once more. “How do you think we can track her down?”

  Zatar stroked his chin as he thought, the sharp twangs of the sitar growing louder in the background as the music reached a crescendo. “Your best bet would be to go into town and find Babu.”

  “Babu?” Dakaric nearly laughed. He hadn’t thought of that old man in years. He was a fixture of downtown, known as everybody’s grandfather. He never had a home, instead drifting from place to place as people took him in. As a result, he was better connected than anybody in the country.

  “It might be the only way to know about Sabra,” Zatar said.

  Dakaric nodded. “Thanks, friend.” When he turned toward Christina, she was deep in conversation with Alex. The two of them looked like longtime friends, laughing and talking with ease. So apparently she’d gotten over the feet-kissing gaffe. Dakaric watched them talk for a few moments before stepping in.

  “Darling.” He slid his hand over the small of Christina’s back. She swept her gaze up to him, appreciation shining from her. This playacting wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was fun. Maybe he could convince her to stick around and try it for longer than her two-week time limit. “I hate to steal you away, but I think you should hear the news.”

  Christina said her goodbyes to Alex. Over Christina’s head, Dakaric caught a pair of dark eyes trained on them, practically slicing the air in half with intensity.

  Tirsa stood across the ballroom, her hand wrapped around a champagne glass, the frown unmistakable. But he couldn’t focus on her once Christina swept her attention over him. His entire body pivoted like a plant finding the sun.

  Nobody had ever made him feel like that before.

  As he slung his arm around Christina’s waist, all he could do was smile.

  8

  Christina raised a hand to shield her eyes. The Kattaharan morning sun was no joke, and even at nine a.m., the heat was borderline oppressive. She wore long, loose pants—part out of respect for cultural modesty, part as an attempt to save the Kattaharan people from being blinded by her legs—and a tank top. With sandals and sunglasses, it still wasn’t enough. She craved a garden hose and running water the second she stepped out of the private car Dakaric had called for them. Luckily, his presence at her side made the heat slightly more bearable.

  As in, she would tolerate almost anything in order to get more of him at her side.

  “Just let me know if the heat is too intense,” he said, squeezing the fleshy part of her hip. She stumbled. Luckily, the city center featured loose gravel and uneven paving, so she could act like that had been the cause. But really, every time this man touched her, part of her sanity dislodged and floated away. His warmth against her body caused internal earthquakes.

  And it was only getting worse. Every brush of their skin set her pussy pulsing with a desire she didn’t know how to quench. Except, she did know how to quench it; she just wasn’t sure if she should go there.

  Having sex with her extremely handsome innkeeper who happened to be a king and also her personal tour guide was a good decision in every life but hers. Because here, in Kattahar, she had a mission. And though she had pushed the boundaries last night at the gala, today and onward she had to reaffirm them.

  This was not a personal pleasure mission. Kattahar was life or death for Hope.

  Even if her body was screaming for Dakaric’s attention.

  She slowed as they entered a narrow road, barely wide enough for a modern vehicle. Tiny stalls lined stucco buildings; street vendors jostled, selling everything from brightly woven handbags to what looked like tiger teeth. Dakaric confirmed those were, in fact, tiger teeth. Christina grimaced.

 
The deeper they walked, the louder the street grew. People closed in, everyone in a rush to their own personal destination. The scent of lamb reached her, so delicious smelling she became immediately hungry, even so soon after breakfast.

  Dakaric led her down a series of side streets like the first one, pausing intermittently to ask vendors if they’d seen Babu. Nobody had. In the fifth street, Christina stopped and leaned against a wall.

  “I think I feel like fainting,” she said, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “It seems like we’ll never find Babu.”

  Dakaric assessed her, taking her hand in his. That, at least, gave her a little bit of renewed vitality. “Let’s go to the indoor market. It’s shaded, and we can cool off there.”

  She followed him through the throngs of people, the harsh consonants of Arabic clashing and clattering in the air around her as people argued, shouted, discussed, and laughed. The energy filled her, lifted her, made her mind swirl with the foreignness of it all.

  What would she have done without Dakaric? Her mind reeled as she followed him toward the covered market center up ahead. Without his knowledge of Kattahar or his language skills, she’d have been a fish out of water. And here he was, spending all this time to help her solve her mystery. Sure, it came as part of an exchange. But she could tell that he cared. He was invested.

  He’d never met Hope, but he was fighting for her.

  Tears pricked her eyes as they crossed the threshold into the market. The air was cooler here, scents of patchouli in the breeze now. She wiped at a tear that had fallen as Dakaric guided her with a protective hand on the small of her back. They started a slow stroll through the passageways of the market, pausing occasionally to look at the interesting items on display.

  Hand carved statues in rich mahogany; green and gold rugs that old women beat with sticks, dust filling the air. Enormous bags of spices lined the front of a long stretch of stalls, bright yellow turmeric next to the rich crimson of paprika. She wanted to dive head first into them, even though that was a horrible idea.

  “This market is incredible,” she said as she paused near a display of earrings. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  * * *

  “Zatar and I always used to sneak down here as boys.” Dakaric grinned, running his finger over the edge of the table. “But we never looked at anything. Not for sale in the market, I mean. We came to look at girls.”

  Christina laughed, swatting his shoulder. “Naughty boy.”

  “Boys will be boys.” They wandered to the next stall. Long flutes carved out of native wood.

  “So you didn’t grow up as a prince like Zatar did,” Christina said, “even though you spent a lot of time at the palace. Where did you and your parents live?”

  “In the inn.”

  She lifted a brow. “Oh, wow. I didn’t realize that was your childhood home.”

  “It doesn’t look the same as it used to, since I’ve remodeled and updated so much of it. But the same spirit is there. And if I ever have kids someday, they’ll grow up there too.”

  Christina sent him a warm smile, one that he wished he could have captured on film to look at forever more. “That’s sweet. I know what that connection feels like. My sister and I are getting ready to sell our childhood home, and it’s been difficult.”

  Dakaric creased a brow, his gaze drifting toward the tassels on the edge of her purse. He yanked one gently, but she didn’t notice. “Why are you selling it?”

  “We need the money. For Hope’s medical bills.” The silence after her words spoke louder than her words. She had a dire situation waiting for her back home. “So is that why you still live in Kattahar even though you’re the king of a different country? You can’t leave home?”

  “Basically.” Dakaric grinned, running his hand over a strange figurine that she passed to him to look at. It looked like a pregnant woman bellowing at the sky. “I’ve lived in Kattahar my whole life, not to mention the inn. Leaving would be strange. I divide my time equally between the two countries, at least. But I could never give up Kattahar…”

  “And what do the Al Qalbians say about this?”

  Dakaric shrugged. “I think that there are so many new things about me, they don’t know where to begin. I’m nothing like my uncle.”

  She pondered his words for a moment, sliding a wooden ring onto each finger in turn before setting it back on its perch. “What’s the biggest difference between you two?”

  “That’s easy. He kept our country closed, and I want to blast it open.”

  Christina grinned. “How so?”

  “Tourism. It’s all about tourism and foreign investment.” He felt the familiar prickles of excitement sparking inside him. If he was an unconventional king for Al Qalb, at least he was an unconventional king with a passion. Not to mention a solid plan for getting his country back on the map and seeing revenue. “I’ve started work on renovating some inns throughout the country. Al Qalb has a lot of gorgeous areas, but they need updates and infrastructure…not to mention places to stay.”

  “You’re an incorrigible innkeeper!”

  Dakaric laughed. “You’ve pegged me. I am.” He let the pleasant air hang between them for a few moments. Savoring this feeling, because who knew when he might feel it again? “And Christina, tell me. What is your incorrigible habit?”

  “Reading.” She didn’t even look up as she said it. “That’s why I’m a librarian, after all.”

  “Not such a bad habit to have. Though reading is pointless.”

  Her eyes widened as she lifted her shocked gaze to find his. He couldn’t keep a straight face for long. He burst into laughter at the unadulterated disbelief on her face.

  “That was a joke,” he clarified. “I do a lot of reading. Daily.”

  She clutched a hand to her chest, shaking her head. “I might not recover from that statement all day.”

  He nudged her with his shoulder, urging her toward the next stall. “What’s your favorite genre?”

  She bit her lip, tilting her head as she seemed to weigh her options. “Memoirs. I could read two memoirs a day if I had the time.”

  Dakaric’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out to glance at the screen—Tirsa. He pocketed it again, resolving to check in with her in an hour. He didn’t want to interrupt this lovely morning.

  As he opened his mouth to continue the conversation, his phone buzzed again. Tirsa calling. He silenced it once more. Christina must have caught the frown on his face because she said, “You need to take a call?”

  “I don’t know.” Tirsa called frequently, but she didn’t usually pester like this. Though part of him was eager to write it off as Tirsa wanting to interrupt his time with Christina, he knew he couldn’t reduce her to such pettiness. Tirsa had a job to do, and she did it well.

  When she called a third time, Dakaric answered.

  “Tirsa,” he said. “What is it?”

  “There was a sandstorm.” She sounded breathless, her Arabic coming out choppy and rushed. “This morning, in Al Qalb. One of the small villages has been damaged pretty badly, and I think the water supply has been affected. We need to go home. Immediately.”

  Dakaric stopped walking as the news settled into him. Christina didn’t notice for a few more paces. She turned, concern creasing her face as she rejoined him.

  “Okay. We’ll leave today.” Dakaric’s brain took a few moments to start piecing together a plan. The news settled like sludge inside him. “You organize the plane to get us there. I’ll be at the airport by…” he checked his watch, “one p.m. Is that doable for you?”

  “Of course. See you there.”

  Dakaric hung up and pocketed the phone, Christina’s big blue eyes searching his face. “What was that about?”

  “A sandstorm hit part of Al Qalb. There’s been extensive damage, and the water supply has been affected. I need to return immediately.”

  A soft noise escaped her, one that reminded him of when he’d kissed h
er lips under the moonlight. His heart wrenched in a strange way. He didn’t want to leave her. Not yet. But duty called.

  “Let me come with you,” Christina said, gripping his forearm. His gaze slid down to her slender fingers. “I want to help.”

  Dakaric lifted a brow. “You want to help?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I’ve never been to Al Qalb. And I know this isn’t exactly ideal, but I want to see your country, and I want to be useful. Besides…” she leaned in, “I’m your fiancée.”

  Dakaric smiled, unable to stop himself from sliding a hand around the small of her back. It was like that spot was designed for his hand. “Well, you make a good point.”

  They shared a long, heavy gaze, and the bustle and swell of the world around them faded to a dull murmur as he got lost in her eyes.

  “I won’t be able to make any headway on Sabra or Babu without you,” Christina said. “And after all the help you’ve given me, I think it’s time for me to help you.”

  “I’ll ask Zatar to take over the search while we’re gone. And,” he added,” I should remind you, you’re already helping me.”

  “Helping in a bigger way,” she said. “Helping where it counts.”

  Dakaric nodded, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Yes. Let’s get going now then, shall we?”

  9

  One more thing to add to her list: private jet travel. The transportation of royals. Christina peered out the window of the car as they drove up to a small airport.

  She smiled to herself as the car slowed to a stop and Dakaric opened the door for her. In less than a week, she’d gone from boring librarian to jetsetter rubbing elbows with kings. She should have started an Instagram account before her trip, just so she could upload artsy photographs of champagne flutes and gemstones glittering in her bedroom floor.

  But that wasn’t her style. She’d much rather quietly accompany Dakaric and absorb everything like a sponge, sucking up these precious free moments before the pendulum of her life swung back to its resting point: home with a sick Hope and possibly no solution.