Uncorked for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 14) Read online

  “You have also exhausted my patience,” interrupted the Sheikh, pushing off from the wall and strolling towards her. “I do not want to hear about presentations and numbers and bank loans. I want to hear about what you want so badly and why you want it. So just talk. Go on. Tell me what you want, and why you want it so badly that you are wearing a pantsuit so bright it is giving me a headache.”

  “Oh, God, the pantsuit!” she said, almost doubling over as her eyes widened to where the Sheikh thought they would pop right out of her head. “I told her the color was obnoxious, but she insisted on it! Oh, my God, the pantsuit!”

  The Sheikh listened in wondrous amusement as this woman talked to herself about some friend—perhaps imaginary—who’d selected her outfit and helped put together some presentation that no doubt suffered from the same deficiency in color selection. Ya Allah, this woman has no filters, it occurred to him as he listened to her mutter and rant and openly have an argument with herself about what she should have worn and how she should have prepared for this train-wreck of a presentation. No filters at all.

  “You are always yourself,” he said suddenly, cutting off her monologue. “Always. All the time. One hundred percent yourself. Yes?”

  She cocked her head and frowned. “Yes. Of course. Who else would I be?”

  The Sheikh grunted and shrugged. “No one else. I do not think you could be anyone else if you tried. So I will take the trouble to ask again: Who are you, and what do you want?”

  4

  Who am I? What do I want?

  The questions ricocheted off the white walls of the room along with his voice, and his scent came to her as she breathed deep and tried to get her head straight. It was a simple pair of questions, but for some reason it opened up something in Nat and she just stared up at the Sheikh as he towered above her.

  “Who am I?” she repeated, her own voice sounding distant and faded as she nodded absentmindedly. She hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and she’d emptied three bottles of wine last night with dinner. Was she hungover? Dehydrated? Still drunk maybe? Was she kidding herself about who she was, about who she wanted to be, about who she could be?

  She heard the Sheikh clear his throat as if to make a point, and then she felt him step up so close she swore she could feel his shadow envelope her. Nat blinked when she felt him touch her hand, and when she refocused on the real world she saw that he’d pried that folder from her fingers and was nonchalantly flipping through it.

  “Natalie Norwood. Vintner,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow as he pulled out a sheet with her curriculum vitae and briefly scanned it before letting it casually drop to the carpeted floor. “So now I know who you are.” He licked his fingers and turned through the pages of the presentation, raising his eyebrow again, then frowning and looking up at her. “What is this? A proposal to buy a . . . a winery? You are looking for me to invest in a winery? I cannot do that! I do not touch alcohol! It is considered haraam! A tool of the devil!”

  Nat frowned as she looked into his green eyes. It had occurred to her before, but only now did she acknowledge that the man was handsome. It sent a chill through her tense body—the kind of chill that makes you feel warm, hot, dizzy. Dizzy? Ohgod, please let me not faint!

  “No,” she said, still frowning as she swallowed hard to contain the acid reflux as the wine still in her system made itself known. “Maybe I wasn’t clear in the presentation. You already own the winery. I actually want to buy it from you.”

  “I own a winery?” the Sheikh said, his face going dark with color as he scanned the papers in his hand and then crushed them into a ball and tossed them towards a shining steel trash can in the far corner of the room. “Impossible. I have strict rules governing the kind of investments my money managers are allowed to make on my behalf.” He paused, cocking his head and turning towards the closed door. “Siddiqui,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Ya Allah, that bastard! If he has . . .” The Sheikh trailed off, grimacing and then raising his voice. “Laila,” he called. “Laila!”

  The assistant with no stockings and one shoe entered the room so fast Nat was certain she’d been listening at the door. It occurred to Nat that it shouldn’t matter whether Laila had been listening at the door, and the thought sent another chill through Nat as she watched the Sheikh turn to his assistant and rattle off something in what must have been Arabic.

  “Ana la 'astatie alqawl,” Laila replied, her eyes going wide as she met his gaze and then quickly looked down. “La 'aerif.”

  Laila headed to the silent computer on the long teakwood desk and tapped a few keys, her smooth forehead wrinkling slightly as she feverishly scanned the screen. Her face was now a deep red—almost merlot—and she glanced away from the screen and into the Sheikh’s green eyes. “Lm yukhbirni abdaan,” she said quietly, shaking her head as if to say she had no part in whatever horrible news the computer screen had just delivered. “Lm yukhbirni abdaan.”

  The Sheikh snapped his fingers and pointed at the door, and Laila turned another shade of red before nodding her head and heading for the exit. She shot a quick look at Nat on her way out, and Nat shifted on the couch when she saw the young assistant’s eyes travel up and down her curves—and that peach pantsuit.

  There was a moment of silence so thick Nat swore she could have cut it with a cheese-knife. She stood there in her peachness and watched the Sheikh rub his heavy stubble and stare at the floor. Clearly this matter of owning a winery was a major concern to this man. Nat wasn’t an expert on Middle Eastern culture, but she did know that alcohol was forbidden in traditional Muslim societies, and clearly this was a tradition Sheikh Zameer Al-Ladaak took seriously.

  Well, that’s great, Nat thought as the wheels began to turn and she finally felt the dizziness evaporate as she reminded herself who she was, why she was here, and what she wanted. She wanted what she deserved, and the winery was her place, dammit. It was more than that, it occurred as she prepared to speak: it was her! She was that place! There wasn’t anything else in her life. There certainly wasn’t anyone else. She was married to that place. Everything about her self-image and identity was tied to that place. It was hers, she decided as the thought that perhaps she was still drunk flashed across her mind. It was hers, and she wasn’t leaving this room without it.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked softly, trying not to show her excitement. After all, this was the perfect scenario, wasn’t it? She desperately wanted to buy the winery, and obviously the Sheikh desperately wanted to sell! If she just held her horses and acted cool, she might even be able to negotiate the price down a bit! Maybe take out an equity loan and convert one of the older buildings on the property into a bed-and-breakfast like she’d been suggesting to old man Ashford from day one. Eventually turn the winery into a resort, maybe. A resort with merlot for breakfast, of course . . .

  “Sorry, you said something?” the Sheikh asked, blinking and refocusing on her as if he’d forgotten she was even in the room.

  Nat’s frown deepened as she looked at the Sheikh’s handsome brown face and realized that he was deeply affected by this winery situation. It surprised her—perhaps because of the impression she’d gotten from his interaction with Laila and the way he’d casually asked if she was a prostitute.

  “I asked if there was a problem,” Nat said, touching her hair and standing as tall as she could, which barely got her above his shoulder-level. “But clearly there is. Wanna talk about it?”

  The Sheikh blinked again, his thick red lips twisting into a smile. “Do I want to talk about it? What are you, my psychiatrist?”

  “Do you need one?”

  The Sheikh laughed. “Probably. But it will likely be of no use. Luckily I am a king, so I do not need to make excuses for my behavior or morals.”

  Nat shrugged. “Fair enough. So you’re saying owning a winery is a moral issue for you?

  “Indeed. Alcohol is considered
haraam in the Islamic faith. And so if it is a sin to drink it, producing and selling it is a much greater sin, yes?”

  “Sure. OK. I get that,” Nat said, feeling the excitement rising in her breast as she prepared for her pitch. “So then we have a deal?”

  The Sheikh laughed again, his green eyes flashing as he narrowed his gaze at her and wagged a finger in her face. “Ya Allah, you really want this, yes?”

  Nat took a breath. “Yes,” she whispered, a shiver passing through her as she acknowledged the truth of how badly she wanted it. Instantly she knew she’d made a mistake by showing emotion—every negotiation book she’d read over the past three weeks had warned against it. Shit, she’d probably just given up whatever leverage she had.

  The Sheikh rubbed his jaw and turned away from her, slowly beginning to pace the room. He stopped at the desk and placed his heavy fist on the smooth teakwood tabletop, taking a deep breath as he gazed blankly at the computer screen. “What will you do with it?” he said quietly, still not looking at her.

  Nat forced herself out of the funk she’d slipped into when she thought she’d screwed up, her eyes widening as she pictured the future of the Ashford Winery—or perhaps the Natalie Norwood Winery and Resort! Sure! Why not! It sounded famous already, didn’t it?

  “Well, it’s got some basic limitations on how much can be grown and harvested every year, but I’ve got some modest plans for expansion,” she said in a tone as close to stoic as she could muster. Peggy had advised her to play up the growth opportunities when it came to pitching the banks for a loan, but to be ambivalent about it when it came to negotiating the purchase itself. It would be best if the Sheikh didn’t think there were opportunities to grow this into a big business, right?

  “Expansion?” the Sheikh said, turning and raising an eyebrow. “So you plan on continuing the wine production?”

  Nat swallowed hard as she tried to make sense of the Sheikh’s question. “Well, yes. Of course I plan to continue wine production. It’s a vineyard. We grow wine grapes and we make wine. We don’t do anything else.”

  “But you could do something else?”

  Nat just stared at the Sheikh. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “With the land. The property,” said the Sheikh. He squinted at the computer screen. “Ashford Winery,” he muttered as he typed the name into a web browser. “Let us see. Ah. Almost fifty acres. A river flows through the northwest quadrant. A small lake in the southwest of the property. Hills. Trees. Ya Allah, there is a lot you can do with this land.”

  Nat rubbed her eyes as she felt the dizziness from her lack of food, liquid (other than wine), and a good night’s sleep. She could almost feel new wrinkles forming on her forehead, fresh crows-feet streaking their way across her temples from the weeks of going through spreadsheets and bank contracts with Peggy. And now it felt like she had no idea what was happening here. Was this some negotiating tactic to throw her off? Pretend like you really are some mad—excuse me, eccentric—king from some strange foreign country so I lose my mind trying to understand you?

  “OK, I think we’re getting a bit off track here,” she said calmly, smiling as best she could. She wanted to go all Virginia farmgirl on him right now, but she sucked it up and decided it would be better to use her “Natalie Norwood, Vintner from Virginia” persona than the one she’d been trying to leave behind for almost two decades: Natty the foul-mouthed farmgirl, shoes always gross from the cow-dung, hands always sticky from the udders, thighs always sore from the way her boyfriend-of-the-month had taken her when she dropped her knickers and placed her hands against the rough stable walls and told him to go as hard as he could.

  Nat felt that dizziness come back in strong as the memories of the person she once was came roaring back. Perhaps it was because the Sheikh had thought she was a whore. She’d been called that before—never by any of the guys she’d fucked, but by the other girls in school and college. Slut. Whore. Harlot. Once another girl had called Nat a “seductress,” which had sounded so sophisticated that Nat didn’t even care that the girl had meant it as an insult.

  What about the Sheikh, she thought as she felt her gaze move up along his perfectly cuffed and creased trousers, beautifully filled-out crotch, the way his fitted shirt pressed against his flat, hard stomach, the way his body broadened through his chest and shoulders. His neck was thick and muscular, his jaw broad and masculine. She’d never seen anyone like him, Nat realized as she felt a strange arousal building beneath her peach pantsuit. Did he call me a whore as an insult or was he simply asking me a question? And that comment about how she was being paid anyway, so he might as well take her . . . shit, was he serious? Did he want to—

  She stopped herself just in time, snapping herself out of a strange daydream where Zameer had ordered her to remove her pantsuit so they could burn it together. The Sheikh was still talking when she returned to reality.

  “Yes, there would be a view of both the hills and the river from this spot here,” the Sheikh was saying. He’d pulled up a map of the property online and was studying it with interest. “Excellent. All right. It is decided.”

  Nat felt her heart beat faster and then almost stop as the Sheikh straightened to full height and turned to her. He smiled, but it was not a cruel or spiteful smile. If anything there was a hint of feeling in it—something that took Nat by surprise once more. Who was this guy? What made him tick?

  “What’s decided?” she said slowly.

  “All of it. I cannot sell you the property, Ms. Norwood. Since I own it now, anything that happens on that land is my moral responsibility. Which means that since I know you will continue to produce and sell alcohol on that land, I cannot make this deal. I am sorry.”

  “That’s . . . that’s just . . .” Nat started to say. She clenched her fists by her sides, curled her toes in her shoes, closed her eyes and took several long breaths before looking at Zameer. “It’s just ridiculous. You aren’t responsible for anything that happens there if you don’t own the land! That’s basic American law!”

  “I do not answer to any law, let alone American law. I answer only to Allah’s law, and my own moral code,” said Zameer, and she could see in his eyes that he actually believed the crap he was spouting.

  “All right. OK,” Nat said, thinking as fast as she could about how to play this. “What if I promise to stop producing wine on the land?”

  The Sheikh snorted, his eyes narrowing as he took a step towards her. “I do not believe you.”

  “You’re calling me a liar?”

  “Absolutely. You have lied before, and you are lying now. Without the income from your filthy alcohol sales, you will not be able to make payments on the bank loan, and they would seize the property.”

  Nat felt her mouth open wide with indignation, but then it occurred to her that hell, the Sheikh was right: She had lied before and she was damned well lying now. She just couldn’t think of a response other than to tell him what he wanted to hear. Too bad he didn’t believe her. So now what?

  Nat frowned as she tried to stall for time. “What would you do with the land?”

  Zameer shrugged. “Build a vacation home. Perhaps open the land to the public as a park. I have not decided.”

  “You haven’t decided? But I thought you said all of it was decided. So you’re a liar too, it seems,” Nat said firmly, taking a step towards the Sheikh and crossing her arms beneath her breasts.

  The Sheikh glanced at her chest and blinked before looking back into her eyes, a half-smile forming on his lips. “Fair enough. But that does not mean you are not a liar. Neither does it give you an excuse to be a liar.”

  “But it does cast some doubt on this so-called moral code you’re talking about. Unless lying is part of it, of course.”

  Zameer raised an eyebrow, and Nat felt a chill run down her back when it occurred to her that shit, this guy was a king and she’d just
insulted him! Oh, God, was he going to have her sent back to his kingdom and thrown in prison with this Siddiqui guy? And then what? Flogged in the town square? Buried naked in the sand and stoned to death? OK, stop being so dramatic. You’re in the goddamn capital of the United States! He’s just a guy. Just a regular guy, Nat.

  “My moral code is my own damned business,” the Sheikh said quietly, and Nat could see that she’d gotten to him. She wasn’t sure how or why she’d gotten to him, but there was no mistaking the change in his expression. Something was going on behind that cool, confident, who-gives-a-damn exterior.

  Nat’s thoughts raced as words and images of their interaction came rushing back, and only now did it occur to her that the Sheikh had seemed extraordinarily opposed to alcohol. He’d been genuinely shaken when he realized he owned the winery, and later he’d called alcohol and the act of selling it filthy. Nat knew folks who stayed away from certain food or drink because of religion, and most of them simply avoided the forbidden items. None of them actively hated those items, did they? No. There was something else going on here.

  “You’re right,” Nat said, things clicking as she felt the words come even as a different sort of chill ran down her spine, making her tighten her buttocks when she realized what she was thinking. “Your moral code is none of my business. But wine is my business, and I’m damned good at it. So before you decide to destroy my vineyard and turn the land into a goddamn park that no one’s gonna go to because it’s in the middle of nowhere, why don’t you come take a look at my operation. One week. Spend a week at the vineyard. See what I do. See the pleasure it brings to people. Then you can evaluate whether or not you’re willing to take on the moral responsibility of selling me the land knowing I’m going to continue to produce wine.”

  Nat spoke so fast she almost bit her tongue, while a voice inside screamed, “What the hell are you thinking, you dumb bitch?!” Was she seriously inviting a goddamn king to spend a week at the vineyard? With her? Where would he sleep? In the vintner’s cottage with her? In the migrant workers’ building? In a freakin’ tent? And what would she do with him? Get him drunk and make him sign over the property? Show him her boobs and say, “Show me the money!” But most of all, what would she do if he . . . if he . . . if he said . . . yes?