Sliding glass doors led to a marble balcony on one side. On the other, she noted a full en suite bathroom with jets in the tub. Nothing too impressive for a girl who spent most of her life in daddy's hotels.
Out of curiosity, she opened the walk-in closet to find that a wardrobe had been provided for her. Her wardrobe, in fact, right down to the running shoes her stepmother hated.
She couldn't help nodding in appreciation of the sheikh's attention to detail. Though with a country full of people to carry out his orders, it couldn't have been that hard to get someone to steal her clothes from her hotel room and bring them here.
He probably thought it would make her more comfortable. She couldn't have felt more violated.
The copy of the crown with the Palm of Askar that Elise had made her sat on a low table in front of the couch, she noted. It had been moved out of her luggage.
She got out of her dress and into some Lululemon loungewear, trying not to think of some unknown person's hands all over her stuff. Ugh.
She checked the clock on the bedside table. 11:30. Sleep probably wouldn't come tonight. Not after the day she'd had. Oh well. She might as well lie down and try.
And that was when the sea shanty started.
What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? the voice in her head belted out with enthusiasm. That stupid voice, back with a vengeance.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore, she told herself. You're not going crazy. You're just stressed, she assured herself. You need some sleep.
But the voice continued. Irritatingly, it didn't seem to know any of the other words to the song, but just kept repeating the line she did know.
What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we--
What. The. Hell.
Just like herself, the voice had zero singing talent.
Stop. Please just stop , she begged, sitting up straight in the bed.
Oh, so now you're talking to me, the voice responded, mercifully giving up the singing.
Who are you and what are you doing in my head? she asked.
The better question, the voice suggested, sounding even more like an eleven-year-old girl, is why don't you remember me? You used to listen to me all the time.
Who are you? Noelle repeated.
Me? I'm the one who's going to get you out of here, matey, declared the voice.
Something familiar teetered on the edge of Noelle's memory.
Matey?
Noelle swore she heard the voice sigh. When did you turn into a landlubber?
Why do you talk like a sailor? she asked. Oh God, she really was losing it.
Sailor! As if! The voice's indignance filled the air. Well, the air inside her head, at least. I'm no mere sailor. I'm Bonnie Read, pirate princess, at your service. Yarrgh!
Two
B ONNIE R EAD . T HE name sent Noelle's brain spinning.
Bonnie Read was... Well, Bonnie Read was Noelle. Or she used to be, at least.
When she was a kid, she'd read about the lady pirate Anne Bonnie. Anne had been a pirate in the 1700s and discovered a fellow woman dressed as a man on one of the ships she'd taken--Mark Read was, in fact, Mary Read.
The two women had bonded over the patriarchy and piracy and gone on to be feared across the seven seas. As a kid, Noelle had decided that she was going to be a pirate princess when she grew up, and she'd taken the name Bonnie Read.
Bonnie Read had been her imaginary friend, the voice inside her head that had talked her into doing all the bad things that had made her dad mad at her. That tree she'd fallen out of had been a ship's mast. The bully she'd punched had been a rival pirate. The silverware she'd buried in the backyard? Hidden treasure. Which maybe wouldn't have been so bad if she'd remembered to make a map to it.
Nothing is better than buried treasure. X marks the spot , Bonnie declared, unapologetic. Then you decided to ignore me. You shoved me aside. You weren't my friend anymore.
I grew up , Noelle countered.
Nope, you decided making your dad happy was more important than
Out of curiosity, she opened the walk-in closet to find that a wardrobe had been provided for her. Her wardrobe, in fact, right down to the running shoes her stepmother hated.
She couldn't help nodding in appreciation of the sheikh's attention to detail. Though with a country full of people to carry out his orders, it couldn't have been that hard to get someone to steal her clothes from her hotel room and bring them here.
He probably thought it would make her more comfortable. She couldn't have felt more violated.
The copy of the crown with the Palm of Askar that Elise had made her sat on a low table in front of the couch, she noted. It had been moved out of her luggage.
She got out of her dress and into some Lululemon loungewear, trying not to think of some unknown person's hands all over her stuff. Ugh.
She checked the clock on the bedside table. 11:30. Sleep probably wouldn't come tonight. Not after the day she'd had. Oh well. She might as well lie down and try.
And that was when the sea shanty started.
What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? the voice in her head belted out with enthusiasm. That stupid voice, back with a vengeance.
Ignore. Ignore. Ignore, she told herself. You're not going crazy. You're just stressed, she assured herself. You need some sleep.
But the voice continued. Irritatingly, it didn't seem to know any of the other words to the song, but just kept repeating the line she did know.
What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we--
What. The. Hell.
Just like herself, the voice had zero singing talent.
Stop. Please just stop , she begged, sitting up straight in the bed.
Oh, so now you're talking to me, the voice responded, mercifully giving up the singing.
Who are you and what are you doing in my head? she asked.
The better question, the voice suggested, sounding even more like an eleven-year-old girl, is why don't you remember me? You used to listen to me all the time.
Who are you? Noelle repeated.
Me? I'm the one who's going to get you out of here, matey, declared the voice.
Something familiar teetered on the edge of Noelle's memory.
Matey?
Noelle swore she heard the voice sigh. When did you turn into a landlubber?
Why do you talk like a sailor? she asked. Oh God, she really was losing it.
Sailor! As if! The voice's indignance filled the air. Well, the air inside her head, at least. I'm no mere sailor. I'm Bonnie Read, pirate princess, at your service. Yarrgh!
Two
B ONNIE R EAD . T HE name sent Noelle's brain spinning.
Bonnie Read was... Well, Bonnie Read was Noelle. Or she used to be, at least.
When she was a kid, she'd read about the lady pirate Anne Bonnie. Anne had been a pirate in the 1700s and discovered a fellow woman dressed as a man on one of the ships she'd taken--Mark Read was, in fact, Mary Read.
The two women had bonded over the patriarchy and piracy and gone on to be feared across the seven seas. As a kid, Noelle had decided that she was going to be a pirate princess when she grew up, and she'd taken the name Bonnie Read.
Bonnie Read had been her imaginary friend, the voice inside her head that had talked her into doing all the bad things that had made her dad mad at her. That tree she'd fallen out of had been a ship's mast. The bully she'd punched had been a rival pirate. The silverware she'd buried in the backyard? Hidden treasure. Which maybe wouldn't have been so bad if she'd remembered to make a map to it.
Nothing is better than buried treasure. X marks the spot , Bonnie declared, unapologetic. Then you decided to ignore me. You shoved me aside. You weren't my friend anymore.
I grew up , Noelle countered.
Nope, you decided making your dad happy was more important than
Similar Books
Seize the Moment
Richard Nixon
Rose
Martin Cruz Smith
Fitness 4Play: One Night Stand (Novel 1)
Marcus Woods
Dead Boogie
Victoria Houston
Dead in the Water
Stuart Woods
Death in Cold Water
Patricia Skalka
Lincoln in the World
Kevin Peraino
A Prisoner of Birth
Jeffrey Archer
A Chick in the Cockpit
Erika Armstrong
Darkness peering
Alice Blanchard