Innocent in the Sheikh's Palace

  Akin interjected. “Your son is the next ruler of Baaqi. That wouldn’t change no matter what stage of pregnancy you were in. I would die protecting his life, today or any other day, as is my honor and duty.”

  Hannah straightened and looked at him with confused mistrust. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “You don’t know that, Ms. Meeks,” he said with dry irony. “The future is extremely unpredictable, as our present circumstance demonstrates. Neither of us expected this would be our destiny an hour ago, did we?”

  “My destiny hasn’t changed.”

  “It very much has,” he informed, experiencing an uncharacteristic shred of pity. He might have spared some for himself if he didn’t know what a useless emotion it really was. “Our rulers are born in Baaqi, Ms. Meeks. Therefore, you are coming with me. You may stay as our guest and provide the loving care and guidance you clearly intended to bestow on him as he grows up there, but that is where he will grow up.”

  Canadian Dani Collins knew in high school that she wanted to write romance for a living. Twenty-five years later, after marrying her high school sweetheart, having two kids with him, working at several generic office jobs and submitting countless manuscripts, she got The Call. Her first Harlequin novel won the Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First in Series from RT Book Reviews. She now works in her own office, writing romance.

  Books by Dani Collins

  Harlequin Presents

  Untouched Until Her Ultra-Rich Husband

  Cinderella’s Royal Seduction

  Confessions of an Italian Marriage

  Feuding Billionaire Brothers

  A Hidden Heir to Redeem Him

  Beauty and Her One-Night Baby

  Innocents for Billionaires

  A Virgin to Redeem the Billionaire

  Innocent’s Nine-Month Scandal

  The Montero Baby Scandal

  The Consequence He Must Claim

  The Maid’s Spanish Secret

  Bound by Their Nine-Month Scandal

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Dani Collins

  Innocent in the Sheikh’s Palace

  For my editor, Megan Haslam, who brought up some key points when I pitched this book (e.g., make sure there aren’t any other stray samples!). And for you, dear reader. Social isolation is my normal, but it’s so much easier to bear knowing you’re here with me in these fantastic fictional worlds.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM PLAYING THE BILLIONAIRE’S GAME BY PIPPA ROSCOE

  CHAPTER ONE

  DRIVING IN NEW YORK was, hands down, worse than taking the subway, even on a Sunday. Hannah Meeks hadn’t had much choice, though. She had come straight from a weekend research trip upstate and the clinic had been adamant she arrive by ten, offering to send a car for her if she couldn’t get there on her own steam. They’d even given her a special code to open the gate to their private lot, promising her a spot.

  None of that was a win when she had to be outside at all. Today was the sort of weather her grandmother would have said was “great if you’re a duck.” Ducks weren’t dumb enough to be gadding about in this, though. Only her.

  Hannah couldn’t imagine what the emergency was. She’d paid all of her instalments on time and her pregnancy was progressing without hiccups. Well, a few actual hiccups on the baby’s part, which she’d been assured were normal.

  She punched in her code and nearly froze her hand off. The rain was turning to sleet, bogging down her wipers as she entered the mostly deserted parking lot. The drive to her small walk-up would be even worse, and she would need every type of good luck charm to find a parking spot within a six-block radius.

  Maybe they would let her leave her car here for the night, not that walking to the subway station would be a picnic, either.

  She sighed as she carefully turned her car’s nose into a spot to the right of the entrance steps. Her sedan fishtailed as she touched the brakes, leaving her car at an angle that probably took up two stalls. She didn’t bother trying to fix it. Frankly, she needed the extra space to open her door all the way. Her belly had her sitting so far back from the wheel that she could barely touch the pedals.

  Checking her reflection, she heaved another sigh. She rarely wore makeup and had a few more months before her adult braces could be switched for a retainer. Why had she thought this pixie cut was a good idea, though? Her hair had just enough curl that the little wisps turned up on the ends, especially where they landed against the frames of her glasses. No matter how she smoothed the front, her bangs sat crooked. She looked like a six-year-old who had cut her own hair with garden shears, then put on her grandfather’s horn-rims.

  She jammed her hat on, pulled on her gloves, buttoned her coat and gathered her phone and keys into her bag. Her windows were starting to fog, and when she tried to open her door, she found it had—seriously?—frozen shut! Well, now what?

  She dug into her bag for her phone, thinking to call into the clinic for assistance, but just then, an SUV pulled in a few spaces over. A man leaped out of the passenger seat and popped open an umbrella before he opened the back door for another man.

  The door was slammed, and the men would have hurried into the clinic, but she snapped to her senses and gave her horn an urgent series of toots, then squeakily rubbed a hole into the foggy window beside her.

  “Help! Excuse me! Can you help, please?”

  She heard one ask a question in a language that might have been Arabic. They wore woolen overcoats and their heads weren’t covered, but they both had dark skin, black hair and closely trimmed beards.

  “I need help!” she shouted louder as they stood there. “My door is frozen.”

  And I’m going to need a powder room ten minutes ago. Panic stations, gents.

  The one with the umbrella grumbled something, but the other impatiently took it. It was useless anyway. A gust of wind drove the sleet sideways, turning the umbrella inside out. He shoved it back at the other man and came to glower at her through the little circle she’d made in the fogged glass.

  Her heart leaped in surprise, alarm, fear. Maybe a hint of desire?

  He was a blurred impression of height and intimidation, thirtyish, and good-looking despite his frown. His overcoat gaped and showed a dark blue suit that appeared to be tailored and probably was. The clinic catered to the supremely wealthy. She was very much a charity case who’d got in on a who-you-know, after doing a huge favor for the head administrator’s wife.

  “What are you shouting about?” he demanded.

  “My doors are frozen. I’m stuck!” She demonstrated by trying the latch and giving the door a shove with her shoulder.

  He frowned and tried it himself. Then he circled her car, trying all the doors with enough force to make the car rock. None opened.

  He said something to the man trying to fix the umbrella. A third man emerged from the SUV while the first came back to her window and asked, “You’re sure it’s unlocked?”

  Oh, dear God. She wanted to die then. She pressed the button and heard it release.

  Her would-be knight yanked opened the door to let i
n an icy blast—and that was just off his thunderstruck expression.

  “I am so sorry.” Had he ever heard of pregnancy brain? “I forgot that I hit the locks when I came into the city. You never know when a carjacker will try to jump into your car at a stop light, you know?”

  He did not know. He dared carjackers to even think about looking in his direction. He continued to glare at her with exasperated disgust while the wind tried to tousle his short, thick hair. Silly wind. Nothing tousled him. He thrust out a hand, glance hitting her belly as she twisted to get her feet onto the ground.

  “I can manage,” she lied, feeling even more ridiculous as she tried to shoulder her bag and search out a safe place for a firm grip while the parking lot looked to be an ice rink.

  “Can you?” he asked with scathing sarcasm. “Give me your hand. I’m not going to be responsible for a woman in your condition slipping and falling.”

  “Thank you.” She begrudgingly took his hand and her heart leaped again, this time with a sharper, higher skip and a resounding thump as it landed back in her chest.

  She had expected his palm to be smooth, but his grip was calloused and incredibly strong, making her feel ultrafeminine even as she heaved herself out of the low car with the grace of a baby hippo. She tried a nervous smile, but he was the furthest thing from interested in anything beyond getting her into the clinic and out of his un-tousled hair.

  All three of the men were swarthy and handsome, wearing expensive overcoats and deadpan expressions. But the one who had helped her seemed to be in charge. While he held her hand, the other two made themselves busy. The guy with the umbrella rushed to close her door and steady her other elbow, and the third man raced ahead to trigger the automatic doors as Hannah kept a waddling pace across the slippery sidewalk and up the snow-caked steps.

  “This is very heroic of you, thank you,” she said, gripping her rescuer’s firm arm.

  The umbrella-holder followed behind them, trying really hard to keep the umbrella over his partner, but it was moot. They were all soaked and her dark knight in woolen armor spoke impatiently again in Arabic, brushing him off.

  They stepped through the first set of doors and she sighed with relief as they all wiped their feet on the mat. She hurried through the second set of doors, past the reception desk, blurting, “Hannah Meeks” as she headed straight into the powder room she had used on previous visits.

  A few minutes later, considerably more comfortable, she tried again to do something with her reflection. It was a lost cause. Her hair now had a dose of static thanks to her hat. Fine brown strands stood straight up, making a halo around her red-nosed face.

  Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to face her rescuer in the waiting room. If she did, perhaps she could smooth things over by offering to take on any urgent research projects he might have. It was basically her only marketable skill beyond her paid position as a university librarian, but it had come in handy with the making of junior here. But who was her savior? And who were the other two men he was with? It seemed like they could be his bodyguards. With those signs of wealth, it definitely fit that he might need protection, but why was he coming to a fertility clinic without his partner?

  Making a donation? She snickered into her hand at her own pun and decided to quit speculating about him since he’d likely already forgotten about her. She was extremely forgettable, as she had been reminded as recently as a year ago, when she’d bumped into the young man who’d taken her virginity her freshman year of college. He’d stared at her blankly, flummoxed that she’d greeted him by name. Humiliated, she had wound up lying and saying they’d met at a faculty event.

  Ignoring the scorch that arrived against the back of her heart, she tugged her thick brown pullover down her belly, as if that would change anything. The knit bounced right back up, revealing the plain black camisole she wore tucked into the stretchy panel of her maternity jeans. So classy.

  Hannah was not one of those women who glowed through pregnancy while transporting a cantaloupe behind their belly button. Nope. Her front was as big as one of those giant yoga balls some of her colleagues sat on at their desks. Her butt was wide as a delivery truck while her breasts had barely grown a cup size. She was the opposite of a figure eight—an egg. She still wore her hiking boots—having visited Grammy’s resting place before driving back to the city—and the shoes that were good for tramping through the cemetery reading gravestones didn’t exactly lend grace or comportment.

  It’s a girl, her grandmother would have said. Girls steal their mother’s beauty.

  Hannah gave a wistful sigh at Grammy not being here to meet her great-grandchild, but she doubted Grammy would have approved of Hannah’s method of conception.

  At twenty-five, Hannah had quit waiting for Prince Charming. She had never had any beauty to be stolen. Boys had been cruel, and men forgot her. Even women failed to notice her enough to ask, Can I help you find a size?

  Hannah was that dreary cliché: a spinster librarian. But she had recently taken her future into her own hands. She had always known she wanted a family. She was confident her child wouldn’t care if she had crooked teeth and freckled skin, a few extra pounds and a tendency to sniffle her way through allergy season. Being a single mother wouldn’t be easy, but it would be easier than being alone.

  For the first time in her life, she was optimistic for her future. Excited and confident. She refused to let anyone make her feel insecure about how she looked, even herself.

  She quit fussing with her reflection and left the powder room. A nurse stood at the counter, waiting expectantly for her.

  * * *

  The Crown Prince of Baaqi, Sheikh Akin bin Raju bin Dagar Al-Sarraf, was trying not to allow the unthinkable into his head, but he didn’t lead his country’s military so successfully by failing to add up the evidence before him. In fact, his keen intelligence and ability to recognize and defuse small conflicts before they grew into wars was one of his greatest assets.

  The facts he’d been gathering the last few days were foretelling only one disastrous, explosive outcome. It was a circumstance so infuriating that he cast about for any other explanation, but he instinctively knew he was wasting precious brain power and time.

  A sperm sample was unaccounted for. An urgent meeting with the head administrator of the clinic had brought him from his father’s sickroom. The nurse had insisted on waiting for the very pregnant woman toddling toward them to reappear before showing both of them into a meeting.

  What a bizarre woman. She seemed utterly, cheerfully ignorant of the gravity they faced as she flashed a mouthful of metal and said, “Thank you again for your assistance.”

  His bodyguards had been alarmed by her honking and demand for assistance earlier. Akin, however, had instinctively known what he faced the instant he glanced at the lone woman arriving for an appointment on a day when the clinic was otherwise deserted. It wasn’t a round of gunfire, but the next few minutes would tear gaping holes through his life. He knew it.

  His second impression of her wasn’t any more reassuring than his first. She had her overcoat over her arm but was still very bulky with heavy pregnancy. She had removed her hat to reveal an asymmetrical punk rock haircut that was the furthest thing from flattering. Her face was round and bare of makeup behind dark-rimmed glasses that turned her eyes into mousy brown beads. Her lips thinned into a self-conscious line as she succumbed to what he imagined was a habit of hiding her teeth.

  “Hi, Hannah.” The nurse’s smile faltered as she swung her attention toward him. “Dr. Peters will see you now.”

  Hannah flashed Akin another oblivious smile as she swept past him.

  Akin might be in deep denial, but that didn’t stop him from taking every sensible precaution. He issued a few brief orders in Omid’s direction.

  Omid nodded and took out his phone.

  When he fell into step behind her down the nar
row hall, Hannah glanced over her shoulder with confusion and tried to see past Akin to the waiting room.

  “Do you work here?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Then why—”

  “Here we are.” The nurse knocked once and pushed into an office.

  Dr. Peters rose and greeted them with a tense, apprehensive nod. His balding head was shiny with perspiration. His hands nervously smoothed the lapels of his white coat. He started to come around to shake Akin’s hand, but Akin stopped him with a flick of his wrist, silently telling him to skip the niceties.

  “Your Royal Highness.” The doctor bowed slightly. “Have you met Ms. Meeks?”

  Ms., not Mrs. A small mercy? Akin’s mind raced to the next steps in what he needed to do to recover from this ambush.

  “Not officially. Hannah. And you’re a Royal Highness?” Hannah’s surprise was filled with confusion as she looked between them. When the door clicked closed behind the nurse, Hannah finally began to look concerned.

  “Sheikh Akin Sarraf,” he introduced himself, using his simplified English address to save the doctor bumbling through his full name. He and Hannah were about to become closely acquainted. No use standing on ceremony.

  “The Crown Prince of Baaqi,” the doctor impressed on Hannah.

  “Am I, though?” Akin asked in a light tone that made generals shake in their boots.

  The doctor went white.

  “I don’t understand why we’re both here,” Hannah said in bafflement, glancing warily at the closed door.

  “You will. Have a seat,” Akin said.

  The doctor sank back into his own, hands trembling as he shifted a couple of file folders on his desk.

  Hannah took the arms of a chair and lowered herself into it, but Akin remained on his feet, arms crossed, bracing himself for the bombs that would land in the next few seconds.

  “I presume you found the misplaced sample?” he prompted.

  “What sample?” Hannah blurted, snapping her head around and proving herself not completely lacking in the ability to make a deduction. Her hands took hold of the arms of her chair so tightly her knuckles went white. She leaned forward as though ready to leap back onto her feet.