Cinderella and the Sheikh (Hot Contemporary Romance) Read online

  Cinderella and the Sheikh

  Teresa Morgan

  For Joyce, who held the sheikh's hand.

  Chapter One

  The happiness of one woman was a small sacrifice compared to the fate of a country.

  Sheikh Rasyn ibn Bakr ibn Rahman al Jabar watched her tuck a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Even from across the crowded lobby of Hotel Scheherazade, even separated from her by the glass wall that divided the café from the hotel, she drew his awareness to every move of her lush body. The busy porters and smartly dressed guests bustling around him faded like smoke as he watched her.

  Even from here, Rasyn could see the gray-haired gentleman sitting at her table was dazzled by her too-wide smile. He snuck a glance down her generous cleavage when she set his meal in front of him, as Rasyn wished to do.

  Rasyn folded the paper he'd been pretending to read across his knee, taking care not to smudge the ink onto his Alexander McQueen suit. She was lovely, he had to admit, even to his critical gaze. Lovely enough to tempt any man into making a fool of himself. No doubt she thought herself too fat, but who could explain Western standards of beauty, with their skeletal models and anorexic actresses? Her breasts would spill over his hands as he ran his thumbs over her nipples. Her lush backside would press against him as he gathered her to his hardened body.

  A ripple of guilt threatened his resolve. Of course she had done nothing to deserve what he would do to her. However, for the good of all Abbas, he had to act. His cousin Imaran belonged on the throne, despite Uncle Anwar’s inclinations.

  And it had to be soon. His uncle's illness loomed over Abbas like a shroud. The threat of the country devolving into tribal factions fighting over the succession was very real. Securing Imaran's rise to power meant proving his own unworthiness. If that meant seducing an uninvolved woman, so be it. The alternative meant people would die.

  He would ensure her pleasure, at least. And when they divorced, enough material compensation to ensure she never had to wait tables again. Perhaps even a degree of celebrity.

  Across the lobby, she laughed at something the old man said. Her smile transformed her face from mere beauty to that of an exotic houri.

  She was perfect for his needs. He'd come to Manhattan intending to find an ordinary woman to seduce. But as soon as he'd seen this one, with shining ruby glints in her hair and eyes as green as an oasis, he'd forgotten all thoughts of plain women. He knew that she wasn't immune to him, either. The second they'd locked eyes, nearly a week ago, she'd dropped a tray of drinks, scattering liquid and shards of glass across the floor.

  That's when he'd chosen her. She was beautiful, tempting, and vulnerable to him. No one would wonder why he fell for her. Perhaps her clumsiness would become an asset.

  And she resisted him. It had been too long since he'd had a challenge. By avoiding him and hiding behind her veil of politeness, she sharpened his appetite for her. He'd never had a problem convincing people of the rightness of his own point of view or convincing women to share his bed. If she'd fallen into his arms like other women had, he wouldn't have minded, of course. And he would have treated her with the same respect he'd treated them. But her refusal to acknowledge his charm showed strength of character he admired.

  Yes. He smiled inwardly. She was perfect. Beautiful.

  And oh-so common.

  ***

  Libby Fay winced when she saw him sitting at the largest table in her section, nearly dropping the fettuccini primavera she carried.

  In the month since Hotel Scheherazade had opened, the latest high-end boutique hotel in mid-town Manhattan, Libby had served her share of New York celebs and visiting Arabic hotties. Most of the Middle Eastern and North African VIPs, in their five-thousand dollar suits and traditional headdresses, hadn't even bothered to meet her eye. The only way she knew they'd noticed she existed was the over-the-top tips they left on the table.

  But Sheikh Rasyn al Jabar was different. Not only did he meet her eye, he stared until she felt heat rise in her cheeks. He was doing it now; his black-eyed gaze stalked her as she moved around the café making sure her guests had everything. Difficult to ignore. Impossible to deal with.

  For a week, he'd been around every corner. Every mealtime, he ended up in her section. When she got off work, he was in the lobby. When she tried to escape to the park across the street to have her lunch, he found her on her park bench. She wanted to scream in frustration. How much longer would the man stay?

  Every encounter seemed to get more humiliating. And it had started off painfully enough—with him watching as a stupid teenager tripped her into dropping a tray of drinks. Her stomach churned at the memory of the mortification.

  Libby wove past tables full of smiling patrons, catching bits of their chatter as they savored their meals. When she saw her own customer—she'd just relieved the waitress who had taken the order—her happiness nearly made her forget the man staring at her from across the room. Nearly.

  The woman wore a faded blue suit that would have been the height of fashion twenty years earlier. Silver streaked the stylish twist of her burnished auburn hair. Not a single strand would dare fall out of place—tidiness was a habit of her long nursing career. Her smoky blue eyes held a sadness that never quite went away.

  Losing your true love after only six years of happiness could do that to you.

  "Mom." Libby smiled as she set the plate down. "What are you doing here?"

  Her mother's smile nearly reached to those sad eyes, but not quite. "I had to see the new restaurant where you work."

  "I thought you didn't have time this trip." For Anna to come to New York and not see her daughter had been unusual. Libby sometimes suspected she was her mom's best friend.

  "I have to rush off. I'm meeting the girls for a show at two. This was all I could manage, but I just had to come see you." Anna glanced down at her Club sandwich. "Looks lovely. It's a little like playing restaurant, just like we used to. You always loved that game."

  "I did," Libby said. Only it wasn't for the reason her mother thought. Being a single mom hadn't been easy for Anna. She'd had to work so hard. And the only time the darkness in her eyes had lightened was the rare occasions they got to go out for dinner. At seven years old, Libby had learned that playing restaurant, even if the gourmet food was peanut butter and jelly, had the same effect.

  "That man over there seems to be trying to get your attention. He's very handsome. And well-dressed. Do you think he's a doctor?"

  Libby followed her mom's line of sight... straight to the sheikh's table. Her stomach clenched as dark eyes flashed back.

  His male beauty came with a knife-sharp edge. Cheekbones that slashed down from those invading eyes toward a fierce jaw. Night-dark brows and sleek black hair. Only the fullness of his lips lent any softness to a face carved by testosterone.

  The heat of embarrassment blazed in Libby’s cheeks at being caught looking. A doctor? Like her father had been? Libby stifled a laugh. "No, Mom. He's royalty. Apparently he's next in line to rule Abbas. North Africa. His name's Rasyn." Emphasis on the sin, she added mentally.

  Her mother beamed. “A prince. I’ll bet he tips better than a doctor. Something about him reminds me of your father. The eyes, I think."

  Libby was shocked. Her father had died when she was five. Libby had only a vague memory of a protector who could scare away any monster, and her mother's stories of their perfect relationship.

  Despite her own missteps—a couple of year-long relationships with men who turned out to be anything but charming—a marriage like her mom and dad's was her greatest goal. As her mom had said so
often, they’d been perfect for each other, and Libby had vowed to hold out for nothing less. Having that kind of relationship with an arrogant, pushy, self-important sheikh? Libby bit her lip to hold back the threat of laughter.

  "The management frowns on us getting involved with the VIPs. There was a lecture." Zahra St. Martin, the hotel’s owner, gave every new female employee a no-holds-barred warning.

  Libby couldn’t stand around and chat while customers waited. She said goodbye to her mother, telling her that lunch would be on the house. Anna promised she'd be back soon.

  Libby took a deep breath and braced herself. It was no good sending one of the other servers. The sheikh was a patient man, she'd learned, and would wait at the table until she came to him.

  Really, it was best to get it over with.

  But... she took a second to button the black shirt of her uniform right up to the collar before crossing the café to his table. The piercing impact of his gaze undid the buttons.

  "Your mother is lovely. I can see where your own beauty comes from." His low voice made the hair on the nape of her neck prickle. "Charge her lunch to my suite."

  Hiding her annoyance at his perception, Libby pulled out her notebook and hovered her pen over it. "What would you like today, sir?"

  Sheikh al Jabar raised his left eyebrow. A sure signal for one of his double entendres.

  "I want what I've wanted from you since we met." He looked at her from under languorous, half-hooded eyes framed by coal-tinged lashes. Those eyes seemed to strip her dull uniform from her body, leaving her standing exposed in the crowded café.

  From the first day that he'd walked into her section, all silk ties and pressed suits, he'd made his desire clear—as if he were singling her out for a night of pleasure in his personal harem. She'd seen the jeweled socialites tip their Gucci sunglasses to check out his world-class butt as he crossed the scarlet and gold lobby and buttoned-tight businesswomen nearly drop their BlackBerries. Any of them could be hanging off his broad shoulders right now, running their fingers through his ebony hair.

  Instead, he was alone at her table, staring at her like she was the last drink of water in the desert. A look that made her thighs tighten.

  She hardened her resolve. Steady girl. Think of your bank balance—low from setting up the first apartment that she didn't share with three other people.

  "Perfect. If you can tell me what you'd like, I'll bring it to you here, or have it sent to your room," she hinted, hoping he would decide to eat upstairs, saving her the uncomfortable response of her body to the masculinity he broadcast on every frequency.

  "Sent to my room?" Black anger darkened the sheikh's face for an instant, as if the suggestion that she wanted him gone was an unbearable personal insult. It was gone before she could react, replaced by a smile she'd seen before. The one he used to charm hotel staff into prioritizing his requests. "Yes, room service. An excellent idea. You leave here at nine o'clock each night. I will phone for a late dinner for two just before that."

  Now it was Libby's turn for anger. Acid rose in her chest at what kind of 'room service' he thought he was getting. "I don't deliver."

  "You will come to me." He threw a wad of cash on the table.

  ***

  Ten thousand dollars. Libby cursed the sheikh silently. Screw him anyway, thinking he could buy anything—or anybody.

  Even as she rolled the linen-covered cart in front of her into the hotel elevator, she knew that the ten, crisp, one-thousand-dollar bills were doing their job exactly. She couldn't trust anyone else to give back the money. Who wouldn’t be tempted to skim just a little off the top?

  He'd meant for the money to bring her to his room. It worked. Sheikh al Jabar had a talent for getting his own way.

  Libby blew out a sigh and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. At least she wasn't going for the reason he imagined. From the dinner he's ordered, he obviously had a good imagination. Under the stainless steel covers were Moroccan chicken bastilla and mushroom ravioli with truffle oil. For dessert, an Irish cream-chocolate fondue. Besides all that, two bottles of champagne with ice-cold droplets of water dripping down their elegant necks.

  A menu for seduction. Well, someone else would have to be on the sheikh's platter tonight; she was only there to return his ridiculous tip. You could buy a lot of champagne for ten thousand dollars, but none of Libby Fay was for sale.

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open on the twelfth floor—the honeymoon suite, naturally. Nothing but the best for this particular sheikh.

  As she wheeled the cart closer to his suite, her heart started doing a drum solo against her ribcage. He clearly had seduction on his mind, and every time he came close to her, her body responded in wicked little ways.

  Stopping in front of the penthouse, Libby squared her shoulders and rapped on the door, then waited.

  A few breaths passed. Libby bit her lip. Maybe she hadn't knocked loudly enough. She raised her hand to knock again.

  At the last possible moment, when her hand was less than an inch from hitting wood, the door opened. Too late to stop herself, all Libby could do was open her palm to avoid punching the sheikh in his chest.

  Her hand landed on solid muscle, covered by an oh-so-thin layer of silk. The connection sent an instantaneous jolt up her arm. His body heat seeped through her fingers, deep into her blood. All thought fled from her brain and she stared at her own hand petrified against his body in an intimate gesture.

  Only his breath rising in his chest broke the spell, and to her horror, his liquid black eyes stared down at her. An arrogant smile tilted the curve of his lips.

  She wrenched her hand away and folded her arms across her chest, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks. "Your room service, sir."

  "Please." He opened the door and motioned her inside as if she was an honored guest. That mocking smile didn't go away.

  She rolled the cart into the opulent suite, flinching a bit when she heard the door clack shut behind her. Heat traveled up her spine. She had to get out of there before she gave in to the crazy urges making her wonder if it would really be all that bad to kiss the sheikh.

  Libby moved the cart to the dining table and began to arrange the dishes in two orderly place settings.

  "You came to me." The low thrum of his voice, coming from behind her, sent her temperature rising.

  Finished with the task, Libby took the folded-over stack of bills from her pocket and placed them on the table. "I don't want to offend you," she began her prepared speech, "but you have to know this tip—this baksheesh—is far more than I can accept. I am sure an honorable man would not want a woman to think that he was trying to buy something that isn’t for sale."

  Libby braced for his anger. She had no clue how things were done in his country. If she offended him, he could report her to Ms. St. Martin, the hotel owner, and she would be out on her butt. Bye, bye perfect job. Hello, poverty.

  He nodded. "Of course."

  "Of course?" Confusion flickered through her.

  The sheikh came toward her, his cursed smile never leaving his face. Gentle fingers touched her chin. With him standing so close, she suddenly became aware that her black uniform probably still smelled of fried onions from the kitchen.

  "You must believe me that I was not trying to buy your 'services.' We don't know each other very well, you and I. You don't know to call me 'Rasyn,' not 'sir.' And I didn't know if you would take this money and not visit me. Or if you would take this money and offer your 'services' in return." His voice, as deep and liquid as his eyes, entranced her. He stood close enough that she could feel his body heat. "I had hoped that you would behave as an honorable woman, doing as you did."

  Libby's jaw dropped. "This was a test? For what?"

  "To see if you are who I imagine you to be. Passion has led me astray in the past. But this, with you... I sense that you're different."

  Different. Really? No one had ever said that in a way that was so flattering.


  "You're a beautiful woman, with hair that smolders with flame, and the fire of emeralds in your eyes. I have seen your kindnesses to people over the last week. And now, you've proven your worth is as great as a princess."

  A princess?

  The sheikh—Rasyn—dropped his hand to the curve of her shoulder. Libby gulped and took a step back to put some distance between them. She'd been warned, like all the Hotel Scheherazade staff, that Arabic people had smaller personal spaces than Westerners, but her thoughts were scattered. She needed them back. "I think your passions are leading you astray again."

  "Libby, do you believe in love at first sight?"

  Libby's heart pole-vaulted into her throat. She spoke without thinking. "You can't be serious." She shook her head, feeling as if she’d fallen into a Hollywood fairytale. An unlikely love story between a hotel waitress and an Arab sheikh.

  Rasyn ran his fingers through his hair, and for an instant, his smile disappeared, replaced by weary lines around his mouth. Just as quickly, a wry grin was back on his face.

  Libby's confusion made the room seem to spin. What had she just seen? A hint of the true man hidden behind a gloss of expensive suits and false confidence?

  "Very serious. At this point, I can't understand why every man on the Earth isn't in love with you."

  In love. In love. The words echoed inside her skull. "I have to go. I shouldn't be here."

  "Libby." He made her name sound like a caress. She stopped in her tracks. "I understand. But before you do, I'd like you to consider something. I leave tomorrow. I will never return here. The memory will be too painful. Whether you choose to believe me or not, I love you. I would like you to spend the evening with me, sharing a pleasant meal and some conversation. That is all. I will never ask anything more of you."

  Libby put a hand on the table, to steady herself. How was she supposed to deal with that?

  Rasyn caught up her hand and planted a kiss in the center of her palm. "My beauty."