Page 11 of Sheikh's Accidental Pregnancy

Tariq looked at Sara, who just raised her eyebrows and stayed silent, giving him the dubious honor of elaborating on his falsehood. Looking at her was a mistake. The fitted pants, the creaminess of her exposed skin… He wanted to see more of what her outfit teased at. She was fit, her legs and arms defined. Perhaps she did yoga. No, he should not have let his brain go there.

“The airline said it could be as long as a week,” he told the boutique employee. Sara’s eyes grew big as plates.

“Sheikh Tariq, I can’t—” Sara started to back toward the door, seemingly hoping to make her escape.

“I’m paying.” A small price to pay for making sure she had proper clothing.

She stopped and narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

The shop woman cleared her throat. “Won’t you both please come this way. My name is Amira, and I’ll be happy to assist you in finding everything you need.”

Amira led them to a small room. Upholstered chairs stood along one wall, a changing room opposite them. Amira asked Sara about what colors she liked and took some measurements. Sara’s fair face flushed as she realized he was watching the process.

“And what occasions will you be dressing for over the next week?” Amira asked.

“Business meetings, evenings out. We were hoping to lunch at Zainab’s today. Perhaps some sightseeing. And quiet evenings at home.” He felt the corner of his mouth curl up at how her cheeks went from warm pink to blazing scarlet. He hated to admit it, but this was almost fun.

The next half hour unfolded like a movie montage, with Amira bringing them outfit after outfit, Sara disappearing and reappearing as if she were a magician’s apprentice. He sat in his chair and watched, mostly silent. Sara was so expressive, he could tell in a moment when she loved something, when she hated it, and when she was trying to contain her reaction.

To his surprise, she did have a sense of style. He agreed with her unspoken assessments every time, and he would nod or shake his head to Amira, silently indicating his approval or dismissal until they had accumulated a good pile of everyday outfits she could wear almost anywhere.

Then they started on the evening wear.

“Sheikh Tariq, this really isn’t necessary,” Sara protested while Amira was out of the room. “My friends are probably waiting for me. They’re going to think I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Perhaps that’s my plan.”

She snorted, a most unladylike noise he had to work to not laugh at. “You hate me. If you kidnapped me, it would be to throw me down an oil well or get me deported.”

“I am not a barbarian, Sara.”

“Hmpf. I’m not so sure.”

Amira bustled back into their dressing room with a gown draped across her arms. “You said evenings out, but I wasn’t sure how formal those events will be. This is probably too much, but I just couldn’t resist bringing it to you. It will be stunning on you, my dear.”

“Oh, no. I don’t need anything this fancy. It’s too much.”

“Try it on,” Tariq said. “I want to see it on you.”

“Fine. But this is the last thing. I really do need to get to the restaurant.”

“Wonderful,” Amira said. “I’ll just go find you some shoes and select some other necessities.”

Sara retreated into the changing room. A moment later, Tariq heard mutters and curses coming through the slatted door.

“Is there a problem?”

“I can’t reach the zipper.”

Tariq’s body betrayed him, rising and crossing the room before he even knew what he was going to do. He opened the door.

And stopped breathing.

The gown—one shade off-white and toward gold, the color of the desert in sunlight—dipped dangerously low, just hinting at the presence of cleavage. Rose gemstones sparkled at the neckline and crisscrossed her torso, then formed the illusion of a belt curving around her hips and dipping down the center of the flowing skirt.

The short sleeves didn’t seem to be helping hold the gown on, because Sara had one hand plastered to her chest and the other tight against her waist.

“Hey!” She glowered at him. “I didn’t invite you in here.”

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