Sold to the Sheikh (14 page)

“Do you have a quarter?” she asked.

Bewildered, he gave her the coin and watched her buy the brown station wagon a twenty-minute reprieve. Was anyone really that conscientious? That concerned with the welfare of people they’d never meet? Bashir didn’t think he’d ever noticed a parking meter in his entire life.

She ran up to him, smiling brightly, and threaded her arm through his. “So are you gonna tell me where we’re going?”

Bashir shook his head, and allowed himself a slow smile of his own. “Though I wanted to give certain parts of you a chance to rest and recover,” he said, enjoying her now familiar blush. “I thought you might enjoy a different sort of physical activity.”

And with that, he led her inside.

~  ~  ~

“A batting cage?” Stella said, understandably surprised to find an athletic facility underground on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. “A batting cage!”

She didn’t know of any in the city besides the one at Chelsea Piers, and she was reluctant to go there, knowing how often Robert used the facilities. Didn’t matter how vast they were; just the chance of running into him set her teeth on edge.

But apparently there was an actual batting cage hidden away uptown. It was bizarre. And it was the real deal. There were kids with families, young athletes, coaches—the works. The memories of her time playing softball flooded into her mind, filling her with warmth and with a competitive edge. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be really
good
at something. And she had been good; she’d been better than good—she’d been great. There was nothing quite so satisfying as connecting with a tricky pitch and knowing that you’d sent it flying farther than anyone thought you could. Hitting was one of the hardest things in sports, and Stella had been damned good at it.

Robert had basically refused to go to batting cages with her. He’d always insisted they do something he was better at, like squash, or golf, and in retrospect Stella realized it was because he just couldn’t handle losing to a girl. He had really been that petty.

Probably should have been my first clue
, she thought ruefully.

But now Sheikh Bashir had taken her to an actual batting cage. He’d teased her, and publicly spanked her almost to the point of orgasm, and he’d held her in a way that made her feel more cared for than she could ever remember rightly feeling, and now he’d taken her to a freaking
batting cage
.

‘Thrilled’ wasn’t even the word. Stella was ecstatic.

“How did you know?” she asked as the Sheikh returned from the front desk bearing gloves and helmets. Even wearing a batting helmet, he looked amazing. His soft white polo shirt did nothing to hide his muscular chest and shoulders, and his arms, hefting various bats, rippled with tightly coiled cords of muscle. He still looked like he could command a room. Like he could command a legion, even in a polo shirt and jeans. Stella swallowed hard.

Focus, Stella!

“Seriously, how did you know?” she asked again.

The Sheikh turned towards her, his usually stern face a mask of mocking innocence. “Whatever are you talking about?”

She punched his arm. “Come on. A batting cage? It was just a stroke of genius? Or are you
actually
psychic?”

She was only half-kidding. His ability to read her bordered on scary.

“I believe your impressive collegiate exploits are a matter of public record, Ms. Spencer,” he said calmly, handing her a thirty-two inch bat, exactly the right size. “If one were so inclined to look.”

Stella’s stomach flipped over at least a few times. He’d cared to look her up? Just to see what kind of date she might enjoy?

Holy moly, is this a date?

When had her wild, impulsive, scandalous weekend as a paid submissive consort morphed into a wholesome, all-American courtship?

Well, not exactly a courtship in the strictly traditional sense. Her ass still stung a little from the morning’s activities, and already her body was coming alive at the thought of what else Sheikh Bashir might decide to do to her.

Stella pressed her lips together, and tried not to look at his muscular arms.

“Do you even know how to hit, big guy?” she asked.

“I was hoping you might show me,” he said seriously.

Was there anything not perfect about this man?

C
HAPTER 17

CRACK!

Another solid line drive sent shooting off of Stella’s bat. She almost hit the pitching machine with that one—again. She was breathing heavily and sweating, and she knew her hair was a mess under her helmet, and she was as happy as could be.

“You really are excellent at this!” Sheikh Bashir called from behind her. He was leaning into the protective netting, hands threaded into the mesh like every enraptured baseball player who’d ever watched her hit. Only the Sheikh’s eyes seemed to flash and dance, and Stella couldn’t help but wonder what
else
he was thinking about.

The red light came on, indicating this session was over. It was just as well—Stella could feel the soreness begin to take root in her arms and shoulders.

“I’m out of shape,” she said, taking off her helmet and shaking out her hair.

Sheikh Bashir grabbed the waist of her jeans, his fingers brushing just below where her panties would have been if she’d been allowed to wear them, and pulled her to him for a hard, hungry kiss.

“You are the perfect shape,” he said gruffly.

It was all Stella could do to maintain her composure. “Would you like me to show you how to hit?” she managed to say.

“Of course,” he said, smiling. “It does not look so dissimilar to cricket, but I would love the help.”

He moved past her, ready to take up position at the plate. She still didn’t quite believe it. He seemed so…

“You’re really ok with a woman showing you how to hit a baseball?” It was tough to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

Sheikh Bashir turned back around, his brow furrowed. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be?” He seemed genuinely confused. “A man who feels less in such a situation would not be much of a man to begin with.”

Stella gave a short laugh, thinking of her ex. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “I’m sorry I even—”

“Don’t worry yourself, Stella. Besides,” he said, taking up his position at the plate again, “I would expect someone who is so thoughtful as to put change in other people’s expired parking meters to be equally kind and thoughtful in all other arenas of life. I believe you will be a good teacher.”

So he’d noticed that. She guessed it was sort of a weird thing to do in front of someone else, but it always made her feel good. Expired meters were the most random trigger memory for her, bringing her back immediately to a pretty ordinary day when her dawdling had made them late, and her stepdad had gotten a parking ticket. She still remembered putting her hands over her ears as he yelled at her, while her mom simply looked away. Not the best memory.

But what really struck her now, as an adult, was how perversely grateful she’d felt that her parents had even been paying attention to her. Stella suspected that her stepdad hadn’t ever really wanted kids, though he’d convinced himself that he did long enough to marry her mom. For the most part, growing up, she was just left alone, as long as she wasn’t any trouble. That day with the parking ticket, she’d actually relished the brief feeling that she’d mattered. When she’d told Robert that story, he’d looked at her with such undisguised pity that she’d immediately changed the subject. Ever since then, each quarter that she put into an expired meter was like a little prayer for other lonely kids, just a small attempt to add to the general goodwill in the universe. Stella knew it was silly, but she didn’t care. It was the sort of private, personal ritual that she’d always expected to keep secret.

And she was wondering if she could actually explain that to another human being. No, not just to any human being—to Sheikh Bashir.

Wow. That was
not
like her. Not anymore.

“Stella?” the Sheikh said. He looked concerned. That just made it worse.

Get a grip, woman
.

Luckily, Sheikh Bashir didn’t need much instruction. From the way he moved it was obvious that he was a natural athlete, and whatever they did with cricket bats seemed to translate pretty readily to baseball. He took her few pointers on his form in stride, incorporating them into his swing flawlessly. She couldn’t help but be impressed.

“You are actually looking pretty good,” she said. “Just keep your eye on the ball.”

He grinned. “Always.”

Stella exited the cage and pushed the button. With a
clank
, the brand new pitching machine whirred to life. Stella had set it to sixty miles per hour in what she now realized was a sort of preemptive aggression; she’d so expected Sheikh Bashir to be a jerk about this, like every other guy, that she’d put the machine on the hardest setting just to teach him a lesson.

Whoops.

Sheikh Bashir jumped back, startled, as a baseball rocketed past him and bounced wildly off the back wall. He looked over his shoulder with a look, and then turned back and took his stance.

And hit the next ball.

Oh, wow. Maybe cricket was tougher than it sounded.

He punished fastball after fastball, the muscles in his back churning with explosive power with every swing. It was something to behold. Stella was feeling altogether inappropriate for a batting cage by the time Sheikh Bashir’s session was over.

He took off his helmet, smoothing his long, dark hair with his wrist. There was a slight sexy slick of sweat on his forehead.

“How’d I do?” he said, smiling. But he wasn’t talking to Stella. He was looking right next to her, and…down?

Stella looked to see a little red-haired girl of about eight standing next to her, clutching the cage just as Stella had been. Apparently Stella hadn’t been the only one totally mesmerized by the Sheikh’s performance, but Stella had been so engrossed that she hadn’t even noticed the little girl appearing out of nowhere.

Good job
.

“He’s pretty good, huh?” Stella said. The girl nodded furiously. She was looking at the cage the way other kids looked at toys or Christmas presents. Stella recognized that look oh so well.

“Are you here with your family?” the Sheikh rumbled, closing the cage door behind him and squatting down to the girl’s height. She shook her head, suddenly shy. “My name’s Bashir,” he said, and held out his hand.

The redheaded girl hesitated just a moment, then stuck her arm straight out. Sheikh Bashir laughed, and took her tiny hand in his.

“I’m Rebecca,” she said.

“Are you here with a grown up?” Stella asked. Little kids wandering around on their own made her nervous. Someone should be watching out for this little girl.

“Over there,” she said, scrunching up her nose and pointing to another cage. There was a single adult man and two preteen boys egging each other on. “They won’t let me have a turn,” she said. She sounded resigned, as though that was just the way it was and always would be.

Sheikh Bashir frowned. “Well, I will,” he said. “And so will my friend, Stella. You know she was a champion softball player in college?”

The girl’s eyes grew so wide Stella almost felt ashamed of herself. She wasn’t famous or anything, she just played softball.

“Really?” the little girl asked.

“Want me to teach you how to hit?” Stella said. “You can go back and show up your brothers.”

The girl’s mischievous smile was priceless.

They spent a good twenty minutes with Rebecca, teaching her the basics. Sheikh Bashir lobbed gentle underhanded pitches while Stella helped her get her form down. By the end, she was swinging on her own and had knocked one or two into the Sheikh’s shins, who grinned and bore it admirably. The only person who kept looking over her shoulder to see if Rebecca’s dad had taken any notice that his little girl had wandered off was Stella. With each passing minute, she grew to hate the beer-bellied, baseball hat-wearing man in the other cage. Clearly Rebecca wasn’t all that important to him.

Well, she should be important to someone, at least important enough to teach baseball to.

“Rebecca!”

Stella narrowed her eyes and waved to the man at the other end of the cages. He lumbered over, not comfortable with his middle-aged weight, with a slight frown on his face.

“Rebecca, it’s time to leave. Come on,” he said. He hadn’t even introduced himself.

“I’m Stella,” she said pointedly. “This is Bashir.”

The man adjusted his hat. “Nice to meet you,” he said finally. “Come on, Rebecca, we gotta get you kids back to your folks.”

Without another word or so much as a question, he led Rebecca back towards the front desk, where the two boys were already roughhousing. From where she stood Stella could tell that one of them—the one with the bright red hair—was probably Rebecca’s brother, the other his friend.

“This may be unkind, or simply ignorant, as I have no children,” Sheikh Bashir said behind her, “but I am glad that that man is not her father.”

Stella laughed, surprised at her relief. “Yeah. I was just thinking that.”

“Every child should be wanted,” he said softly, and put a hand on her shoulder. Stella turned, mortally embarrassed that again he’d somehow read her thoughts, but for once, his eyes weren’t studying her. They were looking into the distance, as though seeing the past.

Maybe there were some things Sheikh Bashir understood all on his own.

Impulsively, Stella hugged him, crushing herself against his chest. She wanted to smell the sweat of his exertion, wanted to feel the heat of the body that had so dominated her life the past few days, which had brought her such pleasure and such unexpected comfort.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said into his chest.