The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement: The Safar Sheikhs Series Book One Read online

  Even though Calla made him want to be very, very stupid.

  Sitting next to her in the backseat of the car was a challenge, because every inch of him buzzed hot and wanting with thoughts of touching her. Brushing his lips against hers. Feeling that smooth, silken skin pressed up to his once more, like their legendary wedding night. Fatim sighed tersely, looking out the window, forcing himself to think about anything other than her.

  The upcoming soldiers’ training. He frowned. The way the royal tents smelled after the camels were brought around. His frown deepened. A whiff of Calla’s perfume reached him, and then that silky hand touched his wrist. Screw it. He was fighting a losing battle.

  He whipped around to face her, and she drew a sharp breath.

  “Whatever you need me for,” she went on, “I’m here. We agreed.”

  He clenched his jaw. She made this too hard. Or maybe it was just too easy. They shared a long look, and something flashed in her eyes that told Fatim she was feeling every ounce of this alongside him. He threw reason to the wind and leaned forward, capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

  Calla made a small noise and returned the kiss with eagerness. She pressed herself against him, and Fatim tugged her onto his lap, wrapping his arms around her small frame. Her ass settled right on top of his stiffening cock. Their kisses went deeper, hungrier. Time swirled on, until the car stopped at the palace and he was seconds from ripping her clothes off in the back seat.

  “Sir,” the chauffer said.

  Fatim ripped himself from Calla’s intoxicating lips and blinked a few times to orient himself. Her chest heaved, a heavenly distraction. He squeezed the tops of her hips as he struggled to bring himself back to earth.

  “Well…” Calla began.

  Fatim grunted. The driver got out, leaving them in a rapidly-warming car. He searched her face. Every inch of him wanted to take her up to her room and finish what they’d started. His cock pulsed hot beneath her ass. She shifted slightly—maybe even rocked her hips—and he sucked at his teeth, digging his fingers into her sides.

  “Well what?” he asked, fire licking through his veins. They weren’t going anywhere. They’d do this right here.

  Calla opened her mouth to respond just as the driver returned. Fatim couldn’t hide his irritation as the driver stuck his head inside the car.

  “Sir, there’s an issue inside. The children seem to be sick.”

  All echoes of sexiness completely disappeared. Calla’s face fell, and the two of them scrambled to exit the car.

  “What’s the problem?” Fatim demanded as the driver hurried alongside him and Calla.

  “Vomiting, apparently,” the driver said. “And maybe fever.”

  Calla and Fatim sprinted past the driver and into the palace. Fatim arrived at the children’s room on Calla’s heels, where he quickly dismissed the palace employee who had been sitting with them while they were at the parent-teacher conference.

  “Rashid? Nara?” Fatim pushed open the bedroom door where his two children shared a room. The palace had plenty of extra rooms, but his children liked to share ever since their mother had passed.

  The sight wasn’t pretty. Both kids were sweating and curled up in their beds, looking listless and sad.

  Calla’s stricken face seared through him.

  “I’ve got this,” she said.

  “Let me help.”

  “You can’t be getting sick too,” Calla warned, a tone to her voice that he wasn’t used to receiving. “You have too many responsibilities to be laid up right now.”

  Fatim didn’t argue—she was right. Still, he rushed over to his children and pressed a kiss to their foreheads.

  “Rest up, little ones,” he said softly and then let himself out of the room.

  10

  Fatim spent the rest of the evening strangely satisfied. Like he’d really accomplished something. The feeling only intensified as he ran through various meetings with tribal leaders, secure in the knowledge that he not only had an amazing woman back at the palace to watch over his children, but that she was his wife. Being married could still lead to productivity. This was the sweet spot of his plan.

  He wrapped up business close to ten p.m. and headed to the dining room. He poked his head into the kitchen to alert the cook that he was ready for dinner. As he sat in his seat, looking out at the empty dining room table, anxiety gnawed at him. He wanted to check in with Calla and the kids first. See how they were doing. Maybe Calla hadn’t even eaten. He popped his head into the kitchen, told the cook to double the food and have it delivered to his room, and then hurried toward the bedrooms. He found Calla in the children’s room, eyes closed as she sat slumped in a chair.

  He crept quietly toward the beds, not wanting to disturb her. The dress she’d worn to the parent-teacher conference earlier had a big stain on the front. The children were asleep. Fatim watched them for a few moments before gently squeezing Calla’s shoulder.

  She didn’t stir. Fatim squeezed her shoulder again and then brushed his knuckles against her cheek.

  Nothing.

  The sight of her sleeping, chest rising and falling gently, stole his breath. He watched her for another moment before trying again.

  “Calla,” he whispered, running his knuckles over her heart-shaped jawline. She was beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Beautiful, and he wanted to kiss her again.

  It happened before he could control it, like earlier in the car. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. She was cashmere and heat, her lips a delicacy. Calla stirred finally, eyes fluttering open.

  “Oh,” she whispered, their lips just inches apart. “Hi.”

  He smiled, pulling back. “Sorry if I overstepped. You wouldn’t wake up.” He swallowed back the swell of desire urging him to go further. “I had to resort to drastic measures.”

  She touched her lips, then straightened in the chair. She looked over at the children.

  “I’m so happy they finally slept,” she whispered. “They tossed and turned for a long while.” Her gaze fell, then she swore softly. “I didn’t realize I’d stained this dress.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” he assured her, grasping her hands. He urged her to stand. “Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “I’m starving.”

  “I’m having dinner delivered to my room now.”

  Calla hesitated, looking back at the children.

  “Let them sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll check in on them before we go to bed.”

  His own words shuddered through him. It sounded like he was implying that she’d spend the night in his room, which he hadn’t necessarily intended…but he wasn’t against it either.

  Calla smiled as he led her out of the bedroom. He shut the door behind them, grasping her hand as he led the way to his bedroom just across the hall. It wasn’t necessary to hold hands…but it felt nice. It felt right.

  Inside his room, a palace employee was just setting up dinner on the large, round table by the door. Calla’s eyes lit up, and together they dug into a feast of pita and quinoa and exquisitely roasted beef tenderloin.

  Once they were dabbing their mouths with napkins, Fatim said, “You should go take a shower. You’ve been with the children all day.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure? I feel like it’s my job to be in there with them.”

  He leveled her with a look. “Yes, well, as their father it’s also my job. You take a shower. I’ll handle the rest. Promise.”

  Calla sent him a grateful look and let herself out of the bedroom. Fatim made his way back to the children’s bedroom, easing onto the chaise longue by their beds. With sick kids, it would be better for him to sleep here tonight. As he settled in, something silky soft grazed his hand. He tugged a scarf from the crease of the cushions. Pressing it to his face, he realized he knew the scent. Knew it well.

  Calla.

  His Calla lily.

  His fingers found the rough edge of a tag and he peered at it in the dim
light. CC. This was one of her creations. He fingered the silky material again. It was remarkable. Exquisite. Totally unique. He tucked it up at his side as he lay back on the chaise, drifting off to sleep with the scent of Calla lingering in the air.

  Sometime during the next evening, all the fevers broke, and the children went back to their regular routines. A twenty-four-hour bug if Calla had ever seen one. And thank goodness, too. The incessant worrying and fawning was taking its toll. She wouldn’t have eaten or showered last night if it hadn’t been for Fatim’s good sense to force her to do both.

  Fatim doted on her as much as he did the children. It warmed her in a way that she had to remind herself was just part of their agreement. Even though it seemed very real and very heartfelt, it probably was not.

  Because how could it be genuine when they had only married so he could avoid the consequences of an ancient law?

  Still, the way he’d brushed his lips against hers the evening before betrayed something just a little bit more than avoiding ancient laws. Or maybe that was just her, being sentimental and romantic because the king of this tribal nation wanted to put his lips against hers. Probably he was just taking full advantage of their situation without worry of the emotional consequences. Men could do that. Men always did that.

  Fatim urged her to return to her design work, and over the past week her studio from the city center had been relocated to the palace for both practicality and marital reasons. It didn’t look good for a tribal queen to have her own studio in the city center, Fatim had said, and Calla quickly agreed to relocate. She just needed to bring Rasha with her.

  As Calla’s only Amatbahn friend, she needed her more than ever as the new queen. Because not only had her work space relocated—so had her bedroom. After the kids’ illness, Fatim had suggested that they begin sharing his bed. For appearances. She’d agreed, like a lovesick fool. And without Rasha, Calla would be lost.

  Calla rushed to the royal tents where her design studio now sat, bathed in lush, natural light and more shelves and storage options than she could have ever fathomed. Rasha was there, working on a skirt.

  “Hey, lady!” Rasha chirped as Calla entered. She left the heavy flap open to signal to the other tribal women that she was available, a practice that Fatim had counseled her on. The whole idea of integrating into the tribal community, especially with the other wives, still seemed distant and foreign. They hadn’t been married long, and now two days had been lost due to the children’s illness. She knew it would come with time, but she was eager to earn her place in the hierarchy. She still just felt like a hired wife, though nobody else in the royal sector technically knew.

  Rasha and Calla quickly fell into a work flow. Calla resumed work on some traditional dresses that she planned on selling now that her name was more in the public eye. About a half hour into her stitching, a few women entered the tent.

  “Good morning,” Calla said, sending a bright smile their way. Three ladies had sauntered in, and Calla recognized them as wives of prominent tribal leaders. They’d attended the wedding, and Calla had spoken with them briefly about her traditional designs. Excitement thrummed through her. Here, at least, was a window of opportunity to really wow them. Show them how much she could be like them, that she belonged here. “It’s so nice to see the three of your again!”

  The wives smiled politely and murmured their greetings, keeping their hands clasped against their long, swishy dresses.

  The tallest one, who had her hair swept back into a long, elegant black braid, said, “We actually haven’t met.” She bowed slightly, as was the custom for greeting the queen. “I wasn’t able to attend the wedding. My name is Sharisi.”

  Calla tried not to let the embarrassment stain her face. She was the queen, dammit. She needed to remember who she’d met and who she hadn’t. “My apologies. The night was such a fun whirlwind. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sharisi.”

  The other two women smiled demurely while they fingered finished pieces hanging on display. Calla adjusted her dress as they perused the studio, Rasha sending quizzical looks every so often. The three women conferred amongst themselves as they fingered the best traditional dresses that Calla had ever made. She nibbled on her lip, awaiting feedback, or praise, or something.

  “These are very nice,” one of the other wives said, offering a forced smile. The three of them looked ready to leave, heading toward the tent entrance.

  Very nice. Not quite what she was expecting. All traces of former enthusiasm were gone.

  “Are there any that pique your interest?” Calla asked, hurrying to intersect them. The tribal wives liking her designs was a crucial part of the plan. And honestly, she hadn’t thought it would be hard to make something they’d be excited about.

  The three guests shared a glance that Calla couldn’t read.

  “These are very traditional,” offered Sharisi.

  Calla blinked. “Well, isn’t that what you’re looking for?”

  The tribal wives shared anther unreadable look before the short one said, “Actually, I was hoping for something a bit…different. Less traditional.”

  Calla’s eyes widened. She had plenty of non-traditional things. But this didn’t quite make sense yet. “But I thought that’s what we all wanted here,” she said, gesturing around them, to the collective we-ness of their place in the tribe as wives. “You know. Tradition.”

  Sharisi rolled her lips inward. The short one spoke again.

  “This is not tradition,” she said, her voice coming out a little harsh. “This is a Western woman making what she thinks is tradition.”

  Calla frowned, looking back at her dresses. Something in her words cut deep.

  “We were hopeful that King Fatim’s choice in a Western wife would bring more modern influences into the tribe,” Sharisi added.

  Calla couldn’t respond. She felt rebuked. Badly. This was her worst nightmare coming true—silent, unequivocal rejection from all of those around her. Or what felt like it.

  “But these are very nice,” the third wife added, and then the three of them quietly left the tents.

  Calla stared at her dresses for a long time, trying to decide on one reaction other than tears, which were pressing at her eyes and threatening to spill.

  But she wouldn’t cry. Not about this. Not if she could help it.

  She was a queen now, and she needed to act like it.

  Which meant she needed a conference with her king. Immediately.

  11

  Calla stormed up to Fatim’s office nearly blind with hurt and doubt. The whole trip here had been pointless. Marrying Fatim was the worst decision ever. Her designs were horrible and would never gain traction.

  Of course, she knew that she was trapped in the hurt cycle, and that it would pass. She just needed to feel sorry for herself and then get over it. But this rebuke from her tribal peers definitely qualified as something to bring up to Fatim.

  She knocked three times on his office door, heard something that sounded like “Come in!” and pushed through. Fatim startled, sitting up in his chair. He lifted a finger to signal “quiet.” In the background, she heard the deep male voice of someone through his computer.

  “Brother, something has got to give,” the voice counseled Fatim. She could tell he was in the middle of a video chat by the way he stared at the screen, frowning.

  “Yes, well, we’ll see,” Fatim replied.

  “You can’t keep working this way,” Fatim’s brother went on. “And if you try, the tribe will suffer.”

  Calla realized she’d interrupted probably an important conversation. Some of the hard edges of her hurt started to fade away as she automatically attuned to what Fatim might be going through.

  “Amad, I’ll need to call you back,” Fatim said, his voice tight. “Chat soon.” He clicked a few times and then turned to Calla, flashing a smile. “Hello there.”

  Calla shuffled toward the big seat facing his desk, picking at a nail. “I’m so sorry. Did I interr
upt something really important?”

  “No. Definitely not. Just getting some brotherly advice that I didn’t ask for.” Fatim gestured to the chair. “Please sit.”

  Calla eased into the seat, studying the creases of her dress. Suddenly, what she’d come to talk about felt a little silly. She wanted to calm down a bit more, at least. Thank God he had been occupied, or else she probably would have burst in here, crying and pitiful. Better to switch to his troubles for now.

  “Is there anything I can help with?” Calla asked, folding her hands on top of her skirt. “I love brainstorming and troubleshooting. And if it’s something that affects the tribe, maybe an outside perspective can help.”

  Fatim watched her for a moment, seemingly considering her words. Then he exhaled sharply. “That’s a good point. Actually, Amad is trying to convince me to hire an assistant.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “That sounds like a great idea. You probably could have used an assistant years ago.”

  The air went out of him, and he slumped back into his chair. “That’s what I was afraid you would say.”

  “I’m sorry,” she hurried to add, “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ll be honest, I’ve been thinking about integrating someone to help make things more efficient. There’s so much going on in the tribe now—far more than in past times.” He sighed, his gaze drifting across the office. “I’m tired of being the middle man between so many tribal leaders. But that’s tradition—everything goes through me.”

  She remembered the words of the tribal wives in the seamstress tent. Maybe the tribe wasn’t so against modern things and change. “Why don’t you just delegate?”

  “That’s exactly the Western concept I fear will alienate my tribe.” He clicks a pen, studying his lap. “But I think it’s what we need. I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s not. But…” He gestured around him. “Here we are.”