Sheikh With Benefits Read online

  She deflated, becoming a stick figure in her sexy dress. He'd come to care for this kind woman who sensed what he didn't want to show the world. Seeing her this way, this defeated... It made him want to do anything he could to make her feel better.

  Anything except comply with her request, of course.

  "Well, I need to sleep with someone," she stated, in the tone she might use to say she was out of bread and needed more. "I'm getting old."

  "You are not getting old." The idea was ridiculous. She should stay single for a long time. His earlier thoughts of her marriage seemed ill-advised to him now.

  "You don't have to be nice to me. I'm going to turn thirty in exactly one month. I'm getting old and dried up and I can't be shy anymore. If I keep doing what I'm doing, I'll end up alone."

  He nearly smiled at the thought of her, in that dress, being 'dried up' like some kind of grandmotherly widow in a traditional black chdar that covered everything but her hands and face. As he was about to tell her so, something she'd said earlier clicked in. I need to sleep with someone...

  "Arya, are you telling me that you are—"

  She cringed, as if the word caused her physical pain, and held up her drink-free hand in the universal motion to stop.

  "Pul-eeze don't say that word," she begged. "I will never speak to you again if you do. I'm twenty-nine. It's vomitous. I need to be like everyone else."

  I will not permit you to be like everyone else, he thought. She would stay as she was. He would see to it somehow. She was far better in beige than in this dress that made men fantasize about peeling the clothes off her. Slowly. One inch at a time. Drawing out their own torture. Revealing naked flesh bit by bit.

  The shoes could stay on. Of its own accord, his mind painted a compelling picture. Arya wearing nothing but those stiletto heels, her freckles, and a look of anticipation. On blue silken sheets, like the ones on his own bed.

  He willed his unruly mind to concentrate. "Why my brother?"

  This time, Arya did not blush. On this point, she had decided. "He's attractive and I've heard—" She paused for a beat. "That he'll do a good job."

  A good job, he was too well-trained to rage at her. A good job. Instead, he hid one hand in the pocket of his trousers. "So you want to pick your first lover by his efficiency?"

  Arya's gaze flicked toward his crotch. It took all his self-will to keep control of the body part that seemed to interest her.

  Or perhaps he was mistaken. When he'd asked her how she'd known about his headache at that reception, she'd explained about the tiny line between his eyes. It was possible that it was not the contents of his trousers that interested her, but the hand in his pocket. He always hid his fist that way when his anger threatened to show in public. She saw what no one else could, so perhaps she saw that as well.

  She raised and lowered her shoulders in a shrug. "No one else is volunteering."

  For an intelligent woman, she was quite stunningly clueless. Three-quarters of the males in the room were volunteering for anything she wished them to do. The only thing keeping them from pouncing on her like she was the last gazelle left in the herd was his presence. Without his protection, she would be some seducer's victim this very moment.

  But he couldn't protect her from herself if she chose a one-night stand she would regret for the rest of her life. Perhaps someone who would not treat her as she deserved. Who would ruin her first experience. Or make her fall in love with him and then walk away from her.

  Her heart would be broken. She would crawl back into her beige dresses and never come out. He had to admit he liked some things about this new Arya. The naked dress was too much, but it wouldn't hurt her to show off her lovely shape a little more. Just a little. And the shoes could stay.

  This blossoming flower had to be handled with care, and his brother was not the man to do it. And this was not the night. However, if she drank any more, she would end up in some stranger's arms, to her regret. And his own.

  "Your Highness?"

  He realized he was looking at the inside of his eyelids. He'd attempted to shut out the world by closing his eyes. In public. He disliked showing so much emotion. It was beneath him.

  "Fine," he told her.

  "Fine?" The questioning way she said the word spoke of confusion. In her concern for him, she had forgotten the topic of conversation.

  "Fine," he told her. "I will ask my brother if he wishes to sleep with you."

  Chapter Two

  Arya Mokri treated herself to a view of Javad's backside as the dancers grinding to a hot club remix parted way for him to stride uninterrupted across the floor to his brother, and sighed inside. She would never sigh out loud. Her father had trained her too well to show that much emotion in public.

  Instead, her heart ached with every impossible dream she'd ever had, all bottled up inside, where no one would ever touch them. And there, walking away from her with purpose in his step, went the best dream in her heart, the one more impossible than the rest put together.

  It had been so much better before they were friends. Then she could admire him from across the room. Maybe she could have gotten over her crush on him, but no, she'd had to interfere one night when that tiny line of pain appeared between his eyebrows. No one else noticed it, but it had blared like a foghorn to her.

  After her mother's death, the job of taking care of her father, of playing hostess, had fallen to her. Her father didn't even have to tell her that every one of his needs should be not only met, but anticipated.

  She didn't mind the tasks. They made her feel useful, especially next to her sparkling sisters. But she didn't want to feel useful to His Royal Highness Javad Shirin. She wanted him to look at her the way he looked at other women when he thought no one was watching. What she wanted from him was a big problem, since not only was the man out of her league, he was also her father all over again. No doubt he had emotions, but they were kept locked in a vault, in a secret room, guarded by vicious dogs who hadn't been fed in a week, that you could only enter with a retinal scan, and possibly crisscrossed with those green laser lights you saw in movies.

  He wanted her to dance with him, was a bit obsessed with it. She never would. If she did, he'd be able to look into her eyes and see how she really felt about him. How she respected his intelligence in handling delicate negotiations, recognized the care he took of his brother from the shadows, and admired his hot ass.

  In short, he'd see that she was in love with him. Every day that passed, with each event where she saw him, it got worse. Two weeks ago, after he'd consulted her for her opinion on a potential trade treaty with the North African country of Abbas, she'd begin to dream of him. Now even her sleep wasn't her own. She had to do something about it before she was beyond hope.

  So, why offer herself to his brother? Darius was equally safe and dangerous. He had no long-term agreements with any woman. As ruler, if he were seen too many times with anyone, he would be obliged to offer her marriage to avoid offending her people. To other women, that made him dangerous, but as far as she was concerned, it made him safe. It meant she could have a fling with him and not worry about consequences. Her father would forgive her if he ever found out. After all, when your king propositions you, loyalty is more important than your virtue. You have an obligation, at least that's what her father would tell her.

  The part that made Darius dangerous to her was his resemblance to Javad. When they slept together, she would close her eyes and think of the man who wasn't touching her.

  Darius spent more time in the gym, while Javad was taller and leaner, less muscled. More like a real man, she felt. Not someone who worked out to make himself into something he wasn't. The brothers shared dark eyes so brown they appeared black in this light. Long lashes almost too pretty to belong on men. And Darius' jaw was shadowed nearly grey where his beard would grow if he permitted it. Javad's skin was the color of golden sand all over his face. Probably all over his body, too.

  As for having Javad off
er her to his own brother, that was a tiny bit of evil that had come from inside her. Her personal piece of bitterness. True, she would never be able to make the proposition on her own. She was too shy. It didn't have to be Javad doing the asking, though. She liked the cruelty of it, to both of them. Having him ask punished his lack of interest in her, and it twisted the knife inside herself. Maybe seeing him willing to offer her to someone else would finally prove to her stupid heart that he didn't care for her. Would never care for her.

  It might cure her love for him.

  Across the room, Darius clapped his brother on the back and laughed. At her? She felt herself turning crimson. Of course. Of course. Why would a man like that want her? Of course he would laugh. Javad's usual serious expression broke into the hint of a smile—for him, the equivalent of a belly laugh. He was probably just as amused by the rejection. Probably thought it was a great joke. Because it was. She'd reduced herself to a joke.

  Well, if she'd wanted to make herself fall out of love with him, seeing him enjoy her humiliation was a great start. In the future, when she needed to erect a barrier around her heart, all she had to do was think of this moment, with matching pairs of black eyes enjoying her mortification.

  The wallflower part of her urged her to melt into the scenery. Make yourself fade into the crowd, it advised. You can disappear.

  And she could. She could disappear whenever she wanted to. But tonight, here, in this dress that had been made especially for her by her step-mother's designer, in front of him, she didn't want to. If neither of the self-important sheikh brothers wanted her, she would find someone else and rock his world. His universe, maybe.

  "Another drink?" she heard, in a very male Australian accent.

  She looked into eyes as green as the appletini the man offered. This one had a sugared rim and a cherry impaled on one of those little plastic swords. She glanced over the man's shoulder to see tiny lines at the corners of Javad's mouth. For him, that counted as a full-blown scowl. Probably the most emotion the man had ever shown.

  What she wouldn't give to see him lose control in public. But he never would. He would always be as buttoned up as his three piece suits. Even if he wanted her, which he didn't, she could never live with a man who demanded everything and showed nothing.

  Just like her father.

  "Thank you," she said to the man with the green eyes and blue tie, taking the drink. She was going to need it.

  He had nice hair. Blonde and spiky. It didn't look as soft as Javad's. But it would do. She tried to mimic the smile she'd seen her sisters use to devastating effect on dozens of men.

  "Do you mind?" Without waiting for her answer, he took the plastic sword out of her drink and used his tongue to flick the cherry off it, into his mouth.

  Arya felt the color of a maraschino pour into her cheeks. Her words dried up, leaving a squeak that she managed to swallow. She wanted someone who showed his emotions, not who broadcast them on every frequency.

  But it was just for one night. What did it matter? Still, her stomach threatened to mutiny at the thought of taking her clothes off in front of this guy.

  "Excuse me," said a male voice so familiar it stung. "I will speak to Arya. I will bring her back to you."

  Javad. Thank God. Rescued. As he took her arm and lead her away from the Aussie, warm relief filled her to her hairline. Except for his promise to bring her back.

  "I am not bringing you back," Javad said in her ear, an irritating edge to his voice.

  That's right, she reminded herself. She was angry at him. She remembered now, and it came barreling back. He'd practically howled with laughter at the thought of her being the object of a man's seduction. He found the idea of it ridiculous.

  Well, he would see how wrong he was.

  She wrenched her arm out of his grip, only overcoming his strength because he wasn't expecting it. He reacted with surprise, for him, raising his right eyebrow half a millimeter, an expression no one would notice but her.

  Just as she was about to spin away to return to her Aussie, he spoke. "Have you changed your mind, then?"

  Changed her mind about what? Wait. Wait, did he mean Darius? Her nerves began to jitter wildly. "He agreed?"

  Even she couldn't read his blank expression. He showed no outward clue to what he was thinking or feeling. He simply, with his usual decisive calm, moved to whisper in her ear.

  "Come, I'll take you to the place."

  His words made no sense. "What?"

  "Is there some problem?" Looking away from her, as if they were discussing the weather, he scanned the room methodically. "We can stay here if you like."

  "Tonight? You set it up for tonight?" How she managed to get the words out, she didn't know. Was this happening? And was it happening to her?

  Javad twisted his wrist ever so slightly, making the watch he loved so much jingle. Usually this indicated some great emotion. Likely he'd been enjoying the party and wanted to stay. "Is there some point in waiting?"

  His serious expression confirmed his words. Now really meant now. It seemed so soon. So immediate. So final.

  The worst part was that he didn't care for her. This made it all real for her. He didn't care if she slept with his own brother, or anyone else. She suddenly felt like she had drunk too much to deal with this. Or not enough.

  "I'm not ready." Not ready to sleep with Darius. Not ready to deal with the ultimate rejection from Javad. Twenty-nine years old, and not ready for anything that other people could do easily. The only thing keeping her from sinking to her knees was a lifetime of diplomatic training.

  "Nonsense," he told her, and it took a moment for her to remember the topic of conversation. Right, it was her not being ready to sleep with Darius. "You look beautiful tonight. Any man would be lucky. I am tempted to take you for myself."

  She had been looking at the floor between her feet, and now glanced up in surprise. But Javad wore his most guarded expression.

  Don't say those things to me, she wanted to beg. Have some pity. You don't know what you do to me when you say that.

  "Oh," she managed to squeak out.

  "How attractive you are when you blush," he told her, as if saying something like that had no effect on her at all. "And you blush often."

  He offered her his arm, and she automatically rested her hand in the crook of his elbow. She'd done this a million times with her father. But never before with Javad. The contact, even through the fine fabric of his jacket, seemed too intimate to bear. She wanted to slip her fingers up his arm and feel the strength of his muscle, while at the same time, she wanted to drop her hand and run.

  "Try to look queasy," he instructed her. Only a second passed before he looked down into her face. Was that a tinge of amusement in his midnight eyes? "Excellent job."

  She gave him a watery smile as he started maneuvering through the crowd. As they went, he managed to communicate to the people they passed that she was ill and he would escort her home. All without a word. She was certain that no one suspected him of helping her with a sleazy plan. No one even thought she was leaving with him. The prince and shy Arya? It would make them laugh. In fact, a certain energy magnate's trophy mistress went so far as to express a wish that she would get well soon.

  Arya was pretty sure she'd gotten over her blushing and was now a nauseated green. As they climbed stairs decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars, Javad didn't relent. "I don't know how you managed to stay a vi—"

  "Please," she begged, in a hissing whisper.

  "Of course," he continued as they emerged onto the street. "I don't know how you managed to do that all these years. You are a stronger person than you believe. I think it takes much to resist physical urges until you meet the right person."

  Certainly he could say so, she thought. He was a few years older than her, but she just knew he had plenty of sexual experience. He'd simply been discreet about it. No one had ever connected his name with any of his liaisons.

  As he handed her into the wai
ting limo, that suddenly seemed irrevocably sad to her. To have to hide your feelings for someone you liked enough to sleep with. To never be able to show you cared for someone you'd done the most intimate things with, or even to appear with them in public. She had always known that Javad wore a mask, like his brother, but maybe it was only now that she truly appreciated how difficult that was for him.

  She'd thought it was easy for him to say he admired her for waiting because he didn't know what it was like. But maybe he truly regretted the life he had to lead.

  He entered the limo by the other door and slid into the seat beside her. His expression was as careful as usual.

  Chapter Three

  Javad slid his eyes over Arya's body as she gazed out the limo's window at the street scene sweeping by. The main street of the capital was flanked by buildings of pink granite, balconies curving out from every large window. Three storey tall palms hung heavy with yellow dates ripening on long hanging stalks. Street lamps illuminated the night with glowing light.

  It was no doubt romantic to someone like her, who had grown up in frigid Ottawa. He had visited the embassy there once, in the autumn, when the trees were the color of fire, their branches lit with crimson and gold leaves. He had been sixteen or seventeen at the time. Arya's father had escorted him to a park called 'Gatineau,' where Javad had longed to collect some of the unusual leaves, press them between the book he was reading, and bring them back with him. But Arya had lifted a glowing orange one from the ground and her father had berated her for touching garbage. She'd dropped it, dutifully, and not even looked down with regret.

  She'd been skinny and plain then. Perhaps fourteen. Saminah, her stepmother, had taken little notice of her except to praise her for being quiet and taking care of her boisterous younger sister, who ran around as she pleased. Javad had brought an expensive scarf for the ambassador's wife as a present, and had nearly given it to Arya instead. But he'd known that to do so would be inappropriate. So he hadn't. He had barely acknowledged her existence.