Ransomed for the Sheikh_A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel
RANSOMED FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
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BY ANNABELLE WINTERS
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (USA)
Curves for the Sheikh
Flames for the Sheikh
Hostage for the Sheikh
Single for the Sheikh
Stockings for the Sheikh
Untouched for the Sheikh
Surrogate for the Sheikh
Stars for the Sheikh
Shelter for the Sheikh
Shared for the Sheikh
Assassin for the Sheikh
Privilege for the Sheikh
Ransomed for the Sheikh
THE CURVES FOR SHEIKHS SERIES (UK)
Curves for the Sheikh (UK)
Flames for the Sheikh (UK)
Hostage for the Sheikh (UK)
Single for the Sheikh (UK)
Stockings for the Sheikh (UK)
Untouched for the Sheikh (UK)
Surrogate for the Sheikh (UK)
Stars for the Sheikh (UK)
Shelter for the Sheikh (UK)
Shared for the Sheikh (UK)
Assassin for the Sheikh (UK)
Privilege for the Sheikh (UK)
Ransomed for the Sheikh (UK)
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
Copyright © 2018 by Annabelle Winters
All Rights Reserved by Author
www.annabellewinters.com
If you'd like to copy, reproduce, sell, or distribute any part of this text, please obtain the explicit, written permission of the author first. Note that you should feel free to tell your spouse, lovers, friends, and coworkers how happy this book made you.
Cover Design by S. Lee
PRIVILEGE FOR THE SHEIKH
ANNABELLE WINTERS
1
Madeline Morris spat blood. It didn’t bother her. She’d been hit in the face before (you shoulda seen the other guy . . .), and this was just a busted lip. At 16 she’d already had her nose broken twice learning how to fight, and by the time she was old enough to buy cigarettes or vote, she’d come to enjoy the metallic taste of blood. It was like a magic potion that took her over the edge, gave her that last bit of fire to finish a fight her way.
“Always work a right-hander clockwise,” her fighting instructor would tell her. “Keep his dominant side in check. That’s it, Maddy. Stay tight, compact, elbows close to your body. Gives him a smaller target, and allows you to generate more power from your legs. You’ll always be shorter than most of your opponents, but you have a strong lower body, so you’ll need to get in close and finish with the uppercut. There you go. Oh, shit . . . OK, stop. Don’t kill him, Maddy! We’re running out of sparring partners here!”
“Tell Dad to give him an extra ten grand for the broken jaw,” Maddy would mutter, spitting out her mouthguard and grinning as she watched men bigger and taller than her go down hard, their eyes going wide in shock when they got a full taste of Maddy’s tight fists of feminine fury.
By twenty-five, Maddy Morris was already known on the streets and alleys of Atlanta as a top collector for her father’s organization, and her record was almost perfect. The only folks who didn’t cough up the cash were those that had the good fortune of being killed by someone else first—and even then, Maddy Morris and her father would go after their next of kin for the debt.
The Morris Family didn’t get messed with much—mostly because they stayed within their zone: the bookie business. Charles Morris, Maddy’s father, had started out as a bookie, and he’d stayed in the business, always resisting the temptation to expand into drugs, robbery, protection, or making hits for money. It kept them out of competition with the larger mafia network, the international drug gangs, and even the local street runners. If anything, their biggest competition was Vegas!
Is that who these guys are, Maddy wondered as she sucked on her broken lip and scanned the dark room where she’d been locked for the past three days. They’d ambushed her on a routine collection—well, not so routine: Maddy had sensed something was off when she got there and the guy answered the doorbell. Nobody answered the doorbell when they saw Maddy and her henchmen on the front porch.
Two shots had rung out almost simultaneously, and Maddy’s guys had dropped immediately as blood splashed on the white painted walls of the small colonial-style house on the outskirts of Atlanta. She’d been startled, but she didn’t run or even duck down, instinctively knowing that if she were the target, she’d already be dead. Her men had been taken out with precision, which meant that someone with serious skills had planned this. Serious skills, and serious plans.
She hadn’t seen a face through all of it, and when the masked men came from all directions to take her, she’d just smiled and taken deep breaths, remembering her training and telling herself that it was a good sign they wore masks. It meant that letting her live was an option. Still, she’d tensed up when they went for her hands. Maddy never carried a gun or a knife—her fists were her weapons. And so when they tried to get those heavy-duty plastic ties around her wrists, she’d shoved off and that’s when she’d been hit in the mouth. The blow had been solid, just enough to get her blood pumping. Oh, God, how she’d have loved to go one-on-one with them. Line them up and give each of them a chance to try their worth against her in the ring. Of course, they knew this, and they had her outnumbered to the point where even the taste of blood wasn’t enough to make her try anything too stupid.
She didn’t say a word until they got to where she was now. She’d been gagged anyway, and the black hood over her brown tresses wasn’t conducive to conversation. She’d tried to follow a mental map of the twists and turns of the van she’d been pushed into, and when it stopped she vaguely knew they were on the West side of Atlanta. Then they’d tossed her into this room, and finally she’d spoken:
“I know what each one of you smells like,” she’d said. “And when the time comes, I’ll be able to pick up your scent in a crowded room if I have to.”
The man who’d hit her turned and gave her a thumbs up, clearly not wanting her to even hear his voice. It sent a vague chill down Maddy’s back, but it also gave her more confidence that they weren’t going to kill her. Not yet, at least. And so if this wasn’t about revenge, a vendetta, or something personal, then it had to be about money.
But this sent another chill up her spine, because although she and her father did very well, they were still just working-class gangsters. Charles Morris’s decision to stay away from the big-money crime had kept them in business, but had also made sure they stayed relatively small-time. They’d never expanded beyond Atlanta. They never did more than take bets, offer the occasional street loan (only to existing clients), and then collect with a high degree of efficiency. They also paid their debts with a high degree of efficiency, Maddy reminded herself, and maybe that’s why they’d been targeted: because these guys knew Charles Morris would pay up. Especially for his baby girl. His only child. He’d do anything to keep her alive, and whoever these guys were, they knew it. And they also knew that they needed to keep their identities tied down and secret, or else Charles and Maddy and every thug who was loyal to them would hunt them down and string them up on a peach tree somewhere between Atlanta and Macon.
S
o Maddy had stayed quiet, which wasn’t hard since no one had stepped into the room with her in the three days she’d been here. The door would open and someone would shove some snacks and bottled water in there. There was a commode behind a wooden partition in the far corner. No windows. No furniture.
Then on the fourth day the door swung wide open and stayed open. Immediately Maddy jumped to her feet, already in her fighting stance as she blinked in the light pouring in through the door. A man was in the doorway. Tall, broad, heavy with muscle. He smelled different—not like the guys who’d taken her. He smelled clean, exotic, rich. Like sandalwood and desert sage, red spice and tobacco leaf. He wasn’t from around here, she could tell. But he was here for her. She could tell that too.
“If you attempt to use those fists on me, I will have you blindfolded and gagged, with your wrists bound to your ankles. Then my men will drag you all the way up the stairs, down the concrete driveway, and toss you in the trunk of my limousine. When we get to my private plane, you will be put in a cage in the baggage compartment, in the place reserved for transporting animals,” the man said, his voice smooth and deep, with an accent that sounded Middle Eastern and refined, like this man was well travelled, like he’d spent time in England and Europe as well as the United States in addition to the East. But it wasn’t the accent or even the words he used that got to her. It was the way he dropped those words out there. He was dead serious—so serious that he spoke with a lazy confidence that made Maddy’s body tingle from the inside out. “The other alternative is you can behave yourself and walk out this door, shower and change in a hotel room, and then join me in the front cabin of my plane. I highly suggest the second alternative, because it will be a long flight, Miss Morris.”
Maddy stayed in her stance, fists clenched, tongue neatly tucked away against the roof of her mouth so she wouldn’t bite it off if she took a shot to the jaw. A part of her wanted to relax and listen to this man’s smooth, confident voice. A part of her yearned to take that shower, to smell nice, to smell like a woman again. But she wasn’t going to simply give in to some strange man with a fancy accent. She wasn’t going to give in to anyone, anytime, anywhere. She had no idea what was happening other than she’d been kidnapped and tossed into this hole. This man—whoever he was—wasn’t her friend. Perhaps he was the ringleader, the guy behind it all. Either way, she wasn’t giving in. No way in hell.
And so Maddy stepped forward, fists tight, elbows close to her body, leading with her left as she readied her right hand to deliver the knockout punch. But the man sidestepped her with the grace of a dancer, spinning around and grabbing her from behind so fast it took her breath away. His right arm slid around her neck in a deadlocked chokehold, and he pulled her so tight against his body that she didn’t have enough space or leverage to fight him off. With barely a grunt he lifted her clean off her feet, his left arm holding her by the waist so he wouldn’t break her neck with his strength, and Maddy gasped when she felt the entire length of the man’s rock-hard body pressed against her from behind. She could feel his massive pectorals press against her back, his hips and crotch against her round, tight buttocks, and she wasn’t sure if it was the chokehold or the lack of food that was making her lightheaded, but in that moment she wanted to simply collapse against him. Still Maddy fought to stay in the fight, and she tried to elbow him, her eyes going wide when she realized it was like elbowing a stone wall, his abdomen was so hard and muscled.
“I’ll kill you,” she spat, gasping as she felt him slowly increase the pressure on her throat as he dragged her to the door.
“Perhaps. But not today,” he whispered against her cheek from behind as she felt herself slowly being overcome by his strength. She felt him turn his head toward the door and speak to someone else: “Iihdariha,” he said, and it sounded like Arabic, though she couldn’t be sure. “Mithlama qult.”
And then he released her as abruptly as he’d overpowered her, holding her just long enough so she wouldn’t drop hard to the floor. Before she could try to swing at him again, four men were on her with nylon ropes, pushing her down and twisting her body, tying her wrists to her ankles just like he’d threatened as Maddy howled in rage, snapping her teeth like a beast as she tried to fight.
Then she felt the silk blindfold go over her eyes, the gag go over her mouth, and as she breathed heavy through her nose, she felt herself being dragged up the stairs like a hog-tied animal, just as he’d said.
And just before she heard the door of the trunk slam shut above her, she heard his voice once more, his lazy confidence sending that same tingle through her bruised body:
“Now you have learned that I do not make idle threats, Madeline Morris,” came his voice from above, and Maddy swore she could hear a tinge of amusement in it, perhaps anticipation. “In time you will learn more about me. More than you ever want to know. But there is no hurry. We have plenty of time. The rest of our lives, in fact.”
2
THREE DAYS EARLIER
Sheikh Imraan Al-Wahaadi blinked as he tried to push away the memories brought on by the voice on the phone. Memories that brought with them the unbridled rage of a young child watching his family being ripped apart, his parents at one another’s throats, his safe, secure world shattered by events he couldn’t understand. And all of it traced back to an American man, a one-time friend and associate of his father’s. A man called Morris.
“My parents are dead, and if I had my way, you would be too, Morris,” Imraan said over the phone, breathing deep as he tried to come to terms with how the old American gangster could still be alive. He must be a fossil by now, the Sheikh thought. Perhaps he has called to apologize, to make peace with his enemies before he moves on to the next world. Ya Allah, I should have had him killed when I had the chance. I still do not understand why I did not!
“Imraan,” came the voice of the old American.
“You will address me as Sheikh,” Imraan said quietly. “We are not on a first-name basis, old man.”
“Two decades ago we were,” said Morris, a little strength returning to his voice. “When you were barely ten years old. I taught you to box, to deliver a punch. More importantly, I taught you to take a punch and stay upright.”
The Sheikh laughed, but it was a hollow sound that emerged from his tight chest and flexed abdomen. “And you certainly delivered a punch, did you not?”
Morris was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. “And you are still standing, aren’t you?” he replied after the pause. “And so is the kingdom of Wahaad. What was it . . . nine billion in oil revenues just last year? Not to mention the seven billion in fees for the solar power you’ve been exporting to the smaller kingdoms of the Middle East through the infrastructure you’ve invested in over the past decade.”
“So you learned to read the Financial Times, old man. Congratulations. Not bad for a man who dropped out of American public school at age fourteen.”
Morris laughed, the sound coming through like a cough over the phone. “So you do remember me well enough.”
“A king does not forget his enemies, Morris. Just because I have risen above the act of revenge does not mean I have forgotten.”
“Fair enough,” Morris said. “You were too young to understand what happened back then. And so I won’t blame you for holding on to it for all these years.”
Imraan ignored the concession—or perhaps it was a provocation. Either way, he wasn’t taking the bait. “What do you want, Morris?” the Sheikh asked quietly.
Morris was quiet, but the Sheikh could hear him breathe. “I need a loan,” the old man finally said, his voice shaking as he said the words.
The Sheikh frowned, and then he burst out laughing. “The big-time American loan-shark needs a loan from a filthy Arab?” he shouted. “Ya Allah, I suspected you were going senile in your old age, but now I am certain of it.”
“Imraan,” came the old man
’s voice, a dead monotone tinged with dread. “I mean Sheikh Imraan. Listen to me. Think back to when our paths crossed twenty years ago, when you just a boy and all of us were like family. Your father, your mother, you, and—”
“Do not dare speak of my family as if you were a part of it,” snarled the Sheikh. “Or else I will do what I swore to do when I was that angry boy of twelve. I swear it, Morris. Do not push me. You do not know what I am capable of, what I am willing to do . . . ya Allah, what I sometimes yearn to do!”
“Let me finish,” Morris said. “Please, Sheikh. Let me finish.”
The way Morris addressed him as Sheikh gave Imraan pause. He could sense the desperation in the old gangster’s voice. And indeed, he must be desperate if he’d called Imraan after all these years. “Go on,” said the Sheikh. “Finish.”
“Think back,” said Morris. “There was someone else all those years ago. A girl you played with in the gardens of your father’s palace. A few years younger than you but almost your equal in fire and spirit even back then.”
The Sheikh closed his eyes as the memories came roaring back, and his head spun as he saw images of that dark-haired girl, full of spunk, brown eyes always wide and alert, little fists always clenched as she tried to join in their boxing lessons. He’d almost forgotten her as he’d pushed the memories of that time into the far recesses of his mind. Almost. He knew the memories were there, but somehow he couldn’t access them. He frowned and concentrated, and suddenly something clicked.
“Your daughter. Yes, I remember. What of her?”
“She’s been taken.”
Imraan paused. Then he shrugged, even though Morris couldn’t see him. “So what? You are a criminal. These are the risks of your profession.”
“I know. But we’ve always stayed small-time, never messed with the big outfits, never entered the world of drug-running or stepped into old-world mafia territory. In twenty years nobody’s even tried something like this, let alone pulled it off. It feels different. Real. This is serious, Imraan. Sheikh, I mean.”