The Sheikh's Pregnant Prisoner. Tara Pammi
07a-6f3a-53f2-899a-fb042ef8d73a">
Lauren swayed at the coldness of Zafir’s threat.
His resentment was like a force field she couldn’t penetrate. And she began to understand that his anger held a glimmer of pain that disconcerted her. “If you care about the welfare of the baby then let me go, Zafir. I would never deny you your rights.”
“No,” he said, and his voice was raised enough to reverberate around them. “Get this into your mind, Lauren, for once and for all. I will never let a child of mine grow up without knowing me, and nor will I agree to be a stranger who lives a million miles away.”
She slackened against the wall. “Then we have a problem.”
“I do not see one.”
Her stomach tightened into a knot. He was too calm, too sure of his own mind, which sent panic rippling along her nerves. “I live in New York—you live here. I’d call that a major problem.”
“Your life in New York is over.”
His will was like an immovable, invisible wall.
And still she tried to bang away at it—because the alternative was unthinkable. “You can’t dictate what my life is … force me to turn it upside down. I’m not one of your minions.”
His gaze became hard, his tone relentlessly resolute. “If you want to be a mother to my child, you do it in Behraat.”
TARA PAMMI can’t remember a moment when she wasn’t lost in a book—especially a romance, which was much more exciting than a mathematics textbook. Years later, Tara’s wild imagination and love for the written word revealed what she really wanted to do. Now she pairs Alpha males who think they know everything with strong women who knock that theory and them off their feet!
The Sheikh’s Pregnant Prisoner
Tara Pammi
For my lovely and wonderful editor, Pippa—for these ten books and many, many more to come.
Contents
COULD HE BE DEAD? Could someone as larger than life as Zafir be truly gone? Could someone she had known for two months, someone she had laughed with, someone she had shared the deepest intimacies with, be gone in the blink of an eye?
Lauren Hamby pressed her hand to her stomach as dread weighed it down.
It had been the same for the past two days. The more she saw of the colorful capital city of Behraat and the destruction the recent riots had wreaked, the more she saw Zafir everywhere.
But now, staring at the centuries-old trade center building, every nerve in her vibrated. The answer she had been seeking for six weeks was here, she could feel it in her bones. All she had was his name and description but she was desperate to find out what had happened to him.
Desperate to find out about the man who had somehow come to mean more than just a lover. More than a friend, even.
The richly kept grounds were a lush contrast to the stark silence in the city. The glittering rectangular shallow pool of water lined on either side by mosaic tiles and flanked by palm trees showed her strained reflection. She walked the concrete-tiled path laid out between the pool’s edge and the perfectly cut lush lawn, her heart hammering against her rib cage.
Marble steps led to the enormous foyer with glinting mosaic floors, soaring, circular ceiling and, she couldn’t help smiling, palm trees in giant pots.
There was so much to look at, so much to breathe in that the sights and sounds around her dulled the edge during the day. But at night, the grief pushed in with vehemence, pressing images of him growing up in this country.
She saw him in every tall, stunning man, remembered the pride and love with which he’d painted a picture of Behraat to her.
“You coming, Lauren?”
Her friend David had spent the past few days capturing footage about the recent riots in the city.
She looked up and averted her face as he pointed his camcorder at her. “Stop filming me, David. Is my asking to see the records of people who died in the riots so necessary to your documentary on Behraat?”
Her gaze moved past the reception area, taking in the spectacular fountain in the middle of the hall, the water shimmering golden against the light shed by the orange, filigreed dome.
A hum of activity went on behind the gleaming marble reception area.
Her rubber soles made no sound as she walked past the fountain toward the reception desk. The glass elevator pinged down, a group of men exiting.
A quiet hush descended over the activity. Her nape prickling, Lauren turned, the sudden shift in the very air around her raising goose bumps on her skin. Six men stood in a circle