Falling For Her Reluctant Sheikh

‘A sexy, sensual, romantic, heartwarming and purely emotional, romantic, bliss-filled read. I very much look forward to this author’s next book and being transported to a world of pure romance brilliance!’

—GoodReads on Craving Her Rough Diamond Doc

The angrier she got, the pinker she got, and the more heated her whispers became …

And, despite her tirade, with his close proximity she kept looking at his mouth as she made her displeasure known. When she did subconsciously she’d lick her lips, or for a fraction of a second lose her train of thought.

For once he had no idea how she’d respond to a kiss. Would it scare her off? Make her agree to go back to the palace and then home? Make her want more?

What reaction did he even want? He was no longer certain he could follow through on the idea to kiss her senseless and send her away for the sake of his friendship with her brother.

All his planning didn’t give him what he needed. Curling his hand around that bun her hair had been worked into, he pulled her to meet him and caught her with her mouth open. A tiny sound of surprise and alarm sounded in her throat, but it took very little for her to relax into his grip. Her head fell back and it took no coaxing at all for him to gain entrance into her mouth.

Suddenly it was no longer about scaring her away. It was about the feeling that rolled over him as his hand left her hair and he wrapped his arms around her …

Dear Reader,

In my mind, there are three kinds of sheikh heroes:

1. The kind of sheikh I like.

2. The kind of sheikh I want to shake to death.

3. The hybrid sheikh—the one I want to shake to death, but who eventually wins me over by learning from his mistakes and giving me some good grovelling at the end.

Number threes are my favourite. Throw some sleep therapy into the concept, and I’m hooked. Of all the books I’ve written, this one’s probably my favourite—maybe even surpassing my debut.

Before I got started, I got to do loads of super-fun ‘research’ (note the ironic quotes).

I watched every documentary on sleep and dreaming I could get my hands on. As an unrepentant nerd, this made me completely happy. (‘Research.’)

I read some smoking-hot sheikh books—you know … for mood. (More ‘research’.)

And I spent hours naming fictional countries—something I’d never done before. It was surprisingly difficult but, like most of my brainstorming, I turned it into a fun game and then spent way too much time debating the best locations of the ‘e’ and the ‘a’. (‘e’ and then ‘a’ won, because ‘Merirach’ sounded better than ‘Marirech’. See? Yet more important ‘research’!)

I’d say I hope you have as much fun reading Khalil and Adalyn’s story as I had writing it, but that just seems impossible to me. So instead I’ll say, if you get one quarter of my ‘pleasuretainment’, I’ll consider all those hours of ‘research’ well worth the effort. :)

Amalie X0

There’s never been a day when there haven’t been stories in AMALIE BERLIN’s head. When she was a child they were called daydreams, and she was supposed to stop having them and pay attention. Now when someone interrupts her daydreams to ask, ‘What are you doing?’ she delights in answering, ‘I’m working!’

Amalie lives in Southern Ohio with her family and a passel of critters. When not working she reads, watches movies, geeks out over documentaries and randomly decides to learn antiquated skills. In case of zombie apocalypse she’ll still have bread, lacy underthings, granulated sugar, and always something new to read.

Falling for Her Reluctant Sheikh

Amalie Berlin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Laurie Johnson, my second editor. She once suggested I tackle a sheikh book, something I hadn’t considered before and probably wouldn’t have considered for a good long while without her planting the seed.

To Laura McCallen, my current editor, for supporting my tendency to run around naked in public. Okay, that’s a lie. But she does support my tendency to go off on wild story tangents, something I’m extremely grateful for.

Table of Contents

Cover

Praise for Amalie Berlin

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BOBBING ON WHIPLASH desert winds, Dr. Adalyn Quinn’s helicopter dropped and paused, dropped and paused, descending in the aeronautical equivalent of two steps forward, one step back, each jostle adding another crack to her already brittle nerves.

Digging her nails into her seat base, she pitched forward, stiff and straining against the seat belts across her hips and torso. The overly snug belts, while uncomfortable, felt illogically safer than wobbling about like week-old gelatin, as she had been.

Her older brother tried but had never quite understood the cold, black pit of fear that sank in her middle when she even thought of travel, so there was no way for him to comprehend the abyss that had been trying to swallow her sanity during the long hours of this godforsaken journey. The one he’d tossed her into.

He’d thought himself helpful when he’d said, “Take those antianxiety medicines you never take, to help your trip.”

Because remaining calm while dying a fiery death? So much better than feeling acute terror without pharmacological filters. Sure, she could concede that point. But having her wits artificially addled when she’d probably need them to escape burning, twisted wreckage—supposing she lived that long? Less brilliant.

The idea that one of the vehicles wouldn’t crash was the thought that sounded like fantasy. Naturally, her airborne catastrophe would happen on this last leg of her trip, worlds away from lace balconies and her safe, quiet life.

Her stomach curdled as they fell another few feet. She just had to hold on a little while longer.

The pilot’s voice crackled in her headphones, alerting her to their landing at the former airport site for the Kingdom of Merirach. As if she couldn’t feel it. As if every shift of the wind didn’t brutalize her mind with images of crashes and broken, twisted bodies. After nearly twenty-four hours of this self-inflicted mental torture it would be easy to think she’d become numbed to it, but that primal fear still had the ability to tighten her body until her shoulders stretched stiffly, like old boot leather. She wouldn’t have been surprised if at any second her skin cracked and her collarbone snapped in half.

Broken.

Twisted.

Body.

They touched down with a jolt, bounced twice and settled. She immediately began fumbling with the latches on her belts, trying to get free. To get out of the flying death trap. To get to him.

Adalyn had a rule about putting her life or well-being into someone else’s hands. A simple rule really … don’t do it! But right now it comforted her to think that the distance between her and safety could be measured in feet. He’d be waiting for her.

Jamison’s best friend.

The one she’d never met because she didn’t travel, but to whom Jamison had sent her.

He’d be there, and he’d take her to a nearby hotel where she could eat the protein bars she’d brought for sustenance, drink water purified by her special tablets and sit in the dark with the earplugs she’d brought to create the illusion of solitude.

She could rest. Sleep. Sleep was what she needed. Sleep and alone time somewhere without wheels attached. If she had all that, it might lower her blood pressure enough that she couldn’t see her clothing move from the force of each beat of her heart …

“Door,” she said, dragging the headphones off and hanging them from the armrest on her seat. And then again, “Door.”

Why were they moving so slowly?

She needed out.

Tomorrow she would officially see her patient, work on diagnosing and outlining a treatment plan, then go the heck home.

End of adventure.

The only thing she had going for her now was the darkened interior of the helicopter. No one could see her expression. She didn’t have to work so hard to keep it all hidden as she had on the other planes and vehicles. The last thing she wanted was to put her issues on display and have someone label her hysterical—one of the most offensive words she’d ever learned and had heard daily in the months after the crash.

Outside the chopper, in the not-too-far distance, a ring of headlights provided the only light source, aside from the blinking things on the helicopter controls. Even she—the Queen of Never Ever Traveling—knew what an airport looked like at night. Runways. Dual bands of lights. A big building with lots of people inside. Lots of light.

Here there was only darkness and the cars. One more dangerous vehicle for her to climb into before she reached her assignment.

It really wasn’t any wonder that someone living in a country so recently torn apart by civil war would have sleep difficulties, but she was here anyway.

Seconds later, the door slid open and a blast of cold air surprised her lungs, sending her into a coughing fit. But with the help of her black-suited entourage, she still scrambled from the helicopter. Once her feet hit solid ground she hunched forward and ran toward the cars, clueless as to whether or not the men followed.

Only when she reached the cars, far outside the reach of the rotating blades of death, did she straighten and look back. Two of her escorts—men in suits who’d met her at the airport of the neighboring kingdom—had made the run with her and the rest now gathered her embarrassing amount of luggage and followed.

Should she tip them? Was that expected? Insulting? Her travel book had said nothing about how to treat the servants of a royal house.

The man who had been her translator reached her side and herded her toward one of several identical sport utility vehicles with darkened windows. Though he was careful not to touch her, he wrenched open the back door of the vehicle and gestured to her with such force that she climbed in.

Unlike when he’d retrieved her, the man didn’t even attempt English this time. With so little sleep and such a terrible grasp of the language, Adalyn couldn’t even tell where the words started and stopped in whatever he’d said. He could’ve even said one of the couple of hundred words she’d managed to learn, and she wouldn’t have known it.

How much farther would they have to go?

Once she stopped moving, her body caught up with her lungs—recognizing the cold finally—and she folded her arms across her chest and rubbed them to try to increase their warmth.

“You should’ve worn a jacket.”

The low male voice broke through the sound of her pounding heart and shivering breaths, the first indication she wasn’t alone in the car. She turned and as her eyes adjusted to the low lighting after the blinding headlights she could make out a traditionally robed figure not two feet away in the seat beside her.

“I thought I was coming to a hot place. I was told that it was chilly at night, but I thought that just meant I needed long sleeves, not a parka.”

A soft sound—trapped somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle—answered her. Like strained amusement.

“Are you Khalil?” Please, say yes. She’d made it all the way to his country—surely he would meet her at the airport?

Loud voices outside the vehicle cut through the air and her fellow passenger’s voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “Yes. We will speak further at the palace, Adalyn. It isn’t far.”

“Palace? I thought we would be working in a clinic environment. And I’d stay at a hotel.”

“I do not sleep at a clinic.”

“Right … Sorry …” Of course he wouldn’t sleep at a clinic. Why had she thought that? Because it was familiar. Because that’s how things worked where she practiced … at her clinic. But this place was not New Orleans.

“Later I will explain.” His words clipped the frosty air with short, abrupt sounds. If she could still see her breath, his words would’ve probably floated away in blocky cubes, formed by hard right angles and razor edges.

The front car doors opened, the suited men climbed in and for seconds she could see him under the light of the dome, but he’d already turned away, cutting off the conversation with body language. It was a technique she often used, or had used enough to recognize it.

He fixed his gaze out his window, though at what she couldn’t guess. Nothing, unless he had the night vision of a cat.

The status of her rescue mission suddenly seemed like a charade, as capricious and dangerous as a ride in anything with wheels. Like the large vehicle she was in. It started rolling and banished all other thoughts from her mind—just as cars always did for her. Even now, years later, having to ride in a car felt like a forced march to her own execution.

The only thought that stayed with her as she analyzed every bump and turn for the telltale feeling of a wreck in progress was: What had Jamison gotten her into?

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of miles’ travel, but it took ages. By the time they stopped, her jaw hurt from clenching and she felt just a little light-headed from her breathercise.

Khalil climbed out as soon as the vehicle stopped rolling, before Adalyn could even really get a glimpse of him. “See her settled in the suite adjoining mine.” All she could make out was a tall man with dark robes and the traditional dress that by turns intrigued and worried her.

Once those words were out—and in English, no less—he immediately switched over to his native tongue, leaving no doubt that he wasn’t speaking to her. Well, the sooner she got to her suite, the sooner she could sleep and, she prayed, stop shaking …

Khalil tugged on a clean shirt. A dress suit. At this hour … Since he’d been in Merirach, he hadn’t worn much but the robes, at least when he was in the palace and bound to the demands of his position, but Western dress would probably set her more at ease.

If he was honest, it was more than that. The robes that tradition dictated reminded him what he was doing there, and the responsibility he carried. Of who he was supposed to be. Not himself. But now, dealing with her, he didn’t want to be Sheikh Khalil of Akkari, Regent of Merirach, he wanted to be Dr. Khalil Al-Akkari—the son not born to rule. Maybe it would help them both deal with the situation if they came at it as equals.

Tomorrow he’d have to go back to the robes that helped people in his host kingdom identify him as the current regent, and she’d have to become used to seeing him in them.

Knowing Jamison’s history meant he knew the history of his chubby little sister, too. Jay always referred to her as the world’s biggest introvert. A homebody who considered a trip to the library or bookstore to be her portal to all things exotic. Anyone would be leery of traveling to a country so recently out of a civil war, but someone who never traveled—not even on the best of circumstances—compounded the size of the favor he’d owe her for agreeing to come such a long way to help him out.

It was late so he skipped the tie—he wanted familiarity, not formality. Just to be courteous.

The other courteous thing would’ve been to send one of the family jets to retrieve her, at least then she would’ve arrived sooner and had an easier journey, but that would’ve just triggered questions from his elder brother. Malik always had questions. The sort of questions Khalil had no desire to answer. And if things worked out with Adalyn, questions he’d never have to answer.

He stepped through the door to the adjoining room where she’d been settled, and froze in his tracks. Her back was to him, all supple skin on display, so pale he’d swear she’d never even heard of the sun. The only thing covering her was a scrap of white cotton panties stretched over the plump little cheeks on display as she bent over the bed and dug around in the suitcase for clothes.

She’d had the same idea to change.

She just hadn’t been as quick about it as he had.

She really wasn’t the chubby little girl he’d seen in pictures …

Khalil’s mouth watered so sharply that his jaw ached.

He swallowed, shocked by the pang of want that shot through him.

Smooth, slender and curved … she looked like a cool, life-giving oasis in a barren landscape.

Not yet aware that he’d entered, she continued by straightening with another scrap of white cotton she shook out and pulled over her head.

Khalil closed his eyes, a baby first step that allowed him a small measure of control of his body, control he needed to force a half turn away from her. When he knew he’d be facing the wall, he opened his eyes again, but he could still see her in his peripheral vision.

Damn.

He closed them again. It was either that or give in to the powerful urge to look. Clearing his throat was the best warning he could think of to soften the surprise of his arrival. “I apologize, I should’ve knocked.”

She squawked and then there was a thump, along with some other commotion he couldn’t identify. If it had taken effort to look away, it took even more not to look back.

“Should I come back?” he asked, because he had to do something …

“Yes!” The word erupted from her and set him in motion. As he reached for the door, a more tentative babble came from behind him, “No, wait. You can stay, just don’t turn around for a minute.”

She muttered something beneath her breath, disgruntled words he couldn’t make out. If she was anything like her brother, those words wouldn’t be fit for company anyway.

Khalil stayed in place and stared hard at the carved wooden door.

Count the lines in the wood grain.

Don’t think of the mostly nude woman behind him.

And for God’s sake, don’t look.

He lost track of the lines and had to start again. Keeping control of his mind and actions was easier when he wasn’t tired, but he’d been in the palace for nearly a week this time around … Tired wasn’t a strong enough word for what he was—he was exhausted in a way that even heart-accelerating doses of caffeine couldn’t help.

“You can turn around. I guess I’m decent.” She didn’t sound at all certain.

When he turned back, it was to overly bright eyes and pink cheeks. He locked his gaze to hers in another effort to exert control over his baser impulses. “You don’t look like your picture …” Which was not the way he’d intended to start this conversation.

“Sorry.”

Why was she apologizing? He was the one who’d barged in.

She tugged at the bottom hem of her short dressing robe, the fidgeting making clear her response: sorry was a verbal fidget.

In the picture he’d seen, she’d been at least thirty pounds heavier and the victim of an unfortunate complexion issue. She’d worn glasses and had kept her hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail. She’d looked like someone studious and intelligent. And now … she looked like a dark-haired pixie with large green eyes. And breasts he could clearly see the shape of through the slinky blue material of her robe.

Eyes! Look at her eyes!

He’d had a reason to come into the room …

“Your equipment …” He grasped for his train of thought.

She clutched the robe tighter, eyes widening further as her voice hitched. “My equipment?”

“Not that equipment …” It was all he could do not to groan at yet another verbal misstep. It didn’t help that he’d put her one door away from him, like a shiny-new mistress. And, sweet mercy, did she ever look the part of timid virgin, blushing and stammering the first time her body was exposed to a man’s eyes.

For the first time in Khalil’s life he wished he could take advantage. Tear that robe off her, coerce and tease until she lay back on the thick bed behind her … and welcomed him with open arms. And legs. His eyes wandered down, past the hem of the silky material to the smooth, pale, shapely legs …

For God’s sake, look her in the eye.

“My men have brought your medical equipment to the palace.” He cleared his throat, which had gone dry again. “Where would you like it delivered?”

“Oh.” She shifted around again, fidgeting with the belt and the hem again, anywhere the material folded or covered her. “I assumed that I was placed in this room so that I would have access to your room to monitor you as you sleep.”

With a quick hop—which sent too many interesting places jiggling—she rounded the suitcase and perched on the corner of the bed. Her knees clamped together and she resumed smoothing the fabric down her thighs, willing it to cover more of her body than it had when she’d been standing. “Monitors here, but the camera equipment in your room. I know that sounds really creepy, but it is recorded so I can review it the next day to make sure that I didn’t miss anything, but after that it gets erased. Otherwise I’d just have to hover at your bedside and watch you sleep.”

A short nervous laugh escaped her before she clamped her lips shut, the very picture of distress despite the laugh. “I doubt anyone would be able to get any rest if they felt like someone was standing there, leering at them. My aunt’s cat used to do that in the morning when she wanted me up. Just sit there and stare … And it always worked. Woke me right up.”

Babbling, a sign of nerves. Definitely nervous. Maybe shy, too, if the way she worked to keep him from even seeing her knees was anything to go by. And all that wasn’t what he should be focusing on.

He’d known she would need to monitor him, he was familiar with the method in which sleep studies were conducted, but the way she described watching him sleep only made him think of that long dark hair spread across cool white cotton pillows … and the slinky robe slipping over pale, soft flesh.

She added, “It’ll take several hours to set up all the equipment so I thought maybe we would do it tomorrow. I really won’t be of any use to anyone until I’ve had at least eight hours.”

Right, she was tired. He should say something, stop her babbling.