Lynn Raye Harris - Carrying the Sheikh's Heir

There was a knock on her door, and her partner popped her head in. Sheridan swiped her eyes again and smiled as Kelly came inside the small office at the back of the space they rented for their business.

“Hey, you okay?”

Sheridan sniffed. “Not exactly.” She waved a hand. “I will be, but it’s just a lot to process.”

Kelly came over and took her hand, squeezed it before she sat in a chair nearby and leaned forward to look Sheridan in the eye. “Want to talk about it?”

Sheridan thought she didn’t, but then she spilled the news almost as if she couldn’t quite help herself. And it felt good to tell someone else. Someone who wouldn’t sob and fall apart and need more reassurance than Sheridan knew how to give. If her mother was still alive, she’d know what to say to Annie. But Sheridan so often didn’t.

Kelly didn’t interrupt, but her eyes grew bigger as the story unfolded. Then she sat back in the chair with her jaw hanging open.

“Wow. So you might be pregnant with another man’s baby. Poor Annie! She must be devastated.”

Sheridan’s heart throbbed. “She is. She’d pinned all her hopes on me having a baby for her and Chris. After so many disappointments, so many treatments and failed attempts of her own, she’s fragile right now....” Sheridan sucked in a breath. “This was just a bad time for it to happen.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. But maybe it won’t take, and then you can try again.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” The doctor had said that sometimes they had to repeat the process two or three times before it was successful. And while it seemed wrong on some level to hope for failure this time, it would also be the best outcome. Sheridan stood and straightened her skirt. “Well, don’t we have a party to cater? Mrs. Lands will be expecting her crab puffs and roast beef in a couple of hours.”

“It’s under control, Sheri. Why don’t you just go home and rest? You look like hell, you know.”

Sheridan laughed. “Gee, thanks.” But then she shook her head. “I’ll freshen up, but I’d really like to work. It’ll keep my mind occupied.”

Kelly looked doubtful. “All right. But if you find yourself crying in the soup, you have to go.”

* * *

The party was a success. The guests loved the food, the waitstaff did a superb job and once everything was under control, Sheridan went back to the office to work on the menus for the next party they were catering in a few days’ time. Kelly stayed behind to make sure there were no last-minute issues, but Sheridan knew her partner would come back to the office after it was over.

They were a great team. Had been since the first moment they’d met in school. Kelly was the cooking talent, and Sheridan was the architect behind the business. Literally the architect, Sheridan thought with a wry smile. She’d gone to the Savannah College of Art and Design for a degree in historical preservation architecture, but it was her talent at organizing parties that helped make Dixie Doin’s—they’d left the g off doing on purpose, which worked well in the South but not so much when visiting Yankees called it doynes—into the growing business it was today.

They’d rented a building with a large commercial kitchen, hired a staff and maintained a storefront where people could come in and browse through specialty items that included table linens, dishes, gourmet oils and salts and various teas and teapots.

Sheridan settled in her office to scroll through the requirements for the next event. She had no idea how much time had passed when she heard the buzzer for the shop door. She automatically glanced up at the screen where the camera feed showed different angles of the store. Tiffany, the teenager they’d hired for the summer, was nowhere to be seen. A man stood inside the shop, looking around the room as if he had no clue what he was doing there.

Probably his wife had sent him to buy something and he had no idea what it looked like. Sheridan got up from her desk when Tiffany still hadn’t appeared and went out to see if she could help him. Yes, it was annoying, and yes, she would have to speak to the girl again about not leaving the floor, but no way would she let a potential customer walk away when she could do the job herself.

The man was standing with his back to her. He was tall, black haired and dressed in a business suit. There was something about him that seemed to dwarf the room, but then she shook that thought away. He was just a man. She’d never yet met one who impressed her all that much. Well, maybe Chris, her sister’s husband. He loved Annie so much that he would do anything for her.

In Sheridan’s experience, most men were far too fickle. And the better looking they were, the worse they seemed to be. On some level, she always fell for it, though. Because she was too trusting of people, and because she liked to believe the best of them. Her mother had always said she was too sunny and sweet. She was working on it, darn it, but what was the point in believing the worst of everyone you met? It was a depressing way to live—even if her last boyfriend had proved that she’d have been better off believing the worst of him from the start.

“Welcome to Dixie Doin’s,” she said brightly. “Can we help you today, sir?”

The man seemed to stiffen slightly. And then he turned, slowly, until Sheridan found herself holding her breath as she gazed into the most coldly handsome face she’d ever seen. There wasn’t an ounce of friendliness in his dark eyes—yet, incongruously, there was an abundance of heat.

Her heart kicked up a level, pounding hard in her chest. She told herself it was the hormones from all the shots and the stress of waiting to see whether or not the fertilization had succeeded.

But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t even that he was breathtakingly handsome.

It was the fact he was an Arab, when she’d just been told the news of the clinic’s mistake. It seemed a cruel joke to be faced with a man like him when she didn’t know whether she was pregnant with a stranger’s baby or if she could try again for her sister.

“You are Sheridan Sloane.”

He said it without even a hint of uncertainty, as if he knew her. But she did not know him—and she didn’t like the way he stood there sizing her up as if she was something he might step in on a sidewalk.

She was predisposed to like everyone she met. But this man already rubbed her the wrong way.

“I am.” She folded her arms beneath her breasts and tilted her chin up. “And you are?”

She imbued those words with every last ounce of Southern haughtiness she could manage. Sometimes having a family who descended from the Mayflower and who boasted a signer of the Declaration of Independence, as well as at least six Patriots who’d fought in the American War of Independence was a good thing. Even if her family had sunk into that sort of gentile poverty that had hit generations of Southerners after Reconstruction, she had her pride and her heritage—and her mother’s refined voice telling her that no one had the right to make her feel as if she wasn’t good enough for them.

He did something very odd then. He bent slightly at the waist before touching his forehead, lips and heart. Then he stood there so straight and tall and, well, stately, that she got a tingle in her belly. She imagined him in desert robes, doing that very same thing, and gooey warmth flooded her in places that hadn’t gotten warm in a very long time.

“I am Rashid bin Zaid al-Hassan.”

The door opened again and this time another man entered. He was also in a suit, but he was wearing a headset and she realized with a start that he must be a bodyguard. A quick glance at the street in front of the shop revealed a long, black limousine and another man in a suit. And another stationed on the far side of the street, dark sunglasses covering his eyes as he looked up and down for any signs of trouble.