Carrying the Sheikh's Heir(29)
The minarets glowed ocher in the last rays of the setting sun. The sounds of vendors shouting in the streets filtered to him on the wind, along with the fresh scent of spicy meat and hot bread.
Rashid breathed it all in. This was home. Unbidden, an image of Sheridan Sloane came to mind. She had a home, too, and he’d forced her out of it. For her own protection, yes, but nevertheless she was here in a strange place and nothing was familiar.
Guilt pricked him. He should not care about her feelings at all, but if she was truly carrying his child, did he want her upset and stressed? Wasn’t it better to make her welcome?
He sighed again, knowing what he had to do. Tomorrow, he would take lunch with her. They would talk, she would be happy and he would leave again, content in the knowledge he’d done his part.
It was only an hour—and he could be nice to anyone for an hour.
* * *
Sheridan awoke in the middle of the night. It was dark and still and she was cold. She sat up, intending to pull the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, but she wasn’t all that tired now. Her sleep was erratic because of the time difference. She checked her phone for the time—still no signal—and calculated that it was midafternoon at home. She never napped during the day, so it was no wonder she was messed up.
She got up and pulled on her silky robe over her nightgown before going into the bathroom. Hair combed, teeth brushed, she wandered into the living area. And then, because she was curious, she went and opened the door to her suite. The guard was not there. She stood there for a moment in shock, and then she crept into the corridor.
She didn’t know where she was going or what she expected, but she kept moving along, thinking someone would stop her at any moment. But no one did. The corridors were quiet, as if everyone was asleep. She didn’t know how it usually worked in palaces, but it made sense they were all in bed.
When she reached the end of a corridor and came up against a firmly locked door, she turned and went back the way she’d come. There were doors off the corridor, and she tentatively opened one. It was a space with seating, but it wasn’t quite as ornate as hers. It was, not plain precisely, but modern. Personally, she preferred some antiques, but this space was intended for someone who liked little fuss.
She thought perhaps she’d stumbled into a meeting area since it was so sterile. A breeze came in through doors that were open to the night air and she headed toward them. She hadn’t been outside since she’d arrived, and she wondered what it would be like in the desert at night.
She stepped onto a wide terrace. The city lights spread out around her and, in the distance, the darkness of the desert was like a crouching tiger waiting for an excuse to pounce. She moved to the railing and stood, gripping it and sucking in the clean night air. It was chilly now, which amazed her considering how hot it had been when she’d arrived.
A frisson of excitement dripped down her spine. It surprised her, but in some ways it didn’t. She’d never been to the desert before. Never been to an Arab country with dunes and palaces and camels and men who wore headdresses and robes. It was foreign, exotic and, yes, exciting in a way. She wanted to explore. She wanted to ride a horse into that desert and see what was out there.
She heard a noise behind her, footsteps across tile, and she whirled with her heart in her throat. How would she explain her presence here to her guard? To anyone?
But it wasn’t just anyone standing there. It was a man she recognized on a level that stunned her. Rashid al-Hassan stood in a shaft of light, his chest and legs bare. He looked like an underwear model, she thought crazily, all lean muscle and golden flesh. He was not soft—not that she’d expected he would be after he’d pressed her against him—but the corrugated muscle over his abdomen was a bit of a sensual shock. Real men weren’t supposed to look like that.