by Leslie North
www.LeslieNorthBooks.com
EXCERPT
Chapter One
Raed, third in line to the throne of Qasha, lounged in the backseat of the SUV that had brought him to the garden party, phone held up in front of his face for a FaceTime call with his brother. Hamid, King of Qasha, peered through the screen at him, his wife Tali moving back and forth behind him.
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be there,” Hamid said, seeming to search Raed’s face for signs of trouble.
He laughed. “You don’t have to look so worried. It’s a garden party, not a political summit.”
Hamid clicked his tongue. “You know better than that. Any gathering at the British consul’s house is a political summit.”
“I don’t think the consul wants much political summiting at his grandson’s birthday party,” Raed said lightly. “You worry too much.” He sat up straight and pushed a hand through his hair, using the phone as a mirror to make sure he looked good. He did, of course. “Everything’s fine here. Mother is well, and I’m here on your behalf—at least, I will be once you let me off this phone call.”
“And everything else—”
“Everything else is going exactly how I thought it would. Mubarak and Mahir are clashing over who gets to be the one to assist me with everything, and they’re running up against boundaries with Stephen.”
“How is Stephen, by the way?” Hamid’s brow knitted together. “It’s been a while since I asked after him. He won’t be—”
“He won’t be causing any trouble with your councilor or your secretary, Hamid.” The two men were doing plenty of that for themselves, what with all their posturing and politeness. “May I go now?”
“Let him go,” Tali said from some distant point in the room. “We have places to be, too.”
Hamid let out a breath. “Relax and enjoy the garden party.”
“Ha ha.” Raed peered out the window toward the garden gates. The consul’s garden was extensive, almost an attraction unto itself, and the SUV had brought him to its separate entrance. The party was visible through the open gates—flashes of bright fabric and soft flowers, and the intense green of a manicured space. And children running here and there and everywhere. “The Consul’s grandson has about a hundred friends in attendance. I doubt there will be much relaxation.”
“Raed—” warned Hamid.
“I’ll relax,” he shot back, then ended the call. So it wasn’t his scene—not with all the children and the noise. That didn’t mean he could slink away. Hamid had asked him to be here, so he would, with a smile on his face.
Raed climbed out of the SUV, and all three of his advisors—his assistant Stephen, plus Mubarak and Mahir from Hamid’s staff—turned to look at him from where they stood by the garden gates. Very casual. He could hardly tell they’d been waiting for him, milling around just like his driver had been doing. He gave them a wave and strode past, through the stone and wrought-iron gates and into the garden.
It was even noisier than he’d imagined. The guests gathered around standing tables, shifting like butterflies on the wind as they greeted one another and exchanged pleasantries. Waiters in dark uniforms circulated among the crowd with trays balanced neatly on their palms, offering appetizers and flutes of sparkling champagne. The hum of conversation overpowered the sound of the bees making their lazy way from one flower to the next.
Oh, he wanted a quiet room to keep planning for the Bahir Foundation, his project that would change the world. Success was so close Raed could practically taste it. All he had to do was get there.
“Hello,” he said, shaking hands with the first person he came across, the man’s name eluding him. Only for a moment, though, because the man offered it to him, the way people usually did when he greeted them. As if he was too important to remember such small things.
“Of course, of course.” Raed clasped arms with him like they were old friends, and then he was off to the races. One by one. Greet them all. Make them all feel special, as if he were seeing into their souls. People remembered that. And even if Raed couldn’t keep all their names in his head, they would remember him. Connections spun out from those handshakes and arm clasps like invisible strings. A prince of Qasha could never have too much influence, Raed had decided a long time ago. He could buy it at events like these garden parties.
Raed turned away from a pair of guests—a lady in a purple dress and her companion, who wore a dark traditional robe—and caught a flash of blonde in the corner of his eye. Long blonde hair in a sleek ponytail. The image tugged at something deep inside him. Two years ago, he’d met a woman with similar blonde hair. She’d been teaching a class at a college in London. A short class. Not nearly long enough to get his fill of the way she moved and spoke. The memories came quickly, one after the other. Two weeks at Lafayette College, where she’d been his teacher for “English for International Business.” Everyone in the class had been hot for her, with that glossy ponytail and her smart little suits and her glasses.
But only Raed knew what was underneath those suits. He couldn’t keep the grin from his face, thinking about the two weeks after the class. He’d taken her to his penthouse, which had a view of the Thames, but that hadn’t been enough for him. He’d wanted to give Lise everything. So they’d gone to dinner in Paris via his private jet and spent a weekend in a Scottish castle and ridden ponies in the New Forest. He’d even taken her up in a hot air balloon over the Cotswolds.
And then—
Then. He’d been called back to Qasha. She hadn’t liked that. What would have happened if he’d stayed? Raed let himself linger on the thought for one more moment, then stepped back into the crowd. He’d never know.
The woman turned, as if she’d heard his thoughts, and his heart came to a crashing stop behind his breastbone.
It was her.
It was Lise.
That nose, the bow of her lips, the rise of her cheekbones—he’d know her anywhere. How had he thought it was anyone else? She wore a tea-length dress that displayed the perfect curve of her hips. And she was coming toward him right now.
The clink of silverware and the buzz of garden-party conversation fell away. Gorgeous, gorgeous—his heart beat harder with every step she took toward him. But his brain fought for control. The consul is coming over. Look alive.
He managed it at the last moment, shaking the consul’s hand with a firm grip. “Sir Richard,” Raed said. “Lovely party.”
“It is, it is,” Richard agreed. “Your Highness, I’d like you to meet Annelise Danbury. You need to hear her ideas. Lise, this is Prince Raed Al-Qasha.”
Raed couldn’t hear anything over the recognition in Lise’s eyes. “Hello,” he said, and he reached for her hand, taking it in his and raising her knuckles to his lips. A fleeting kiss. More glancing than anything they’d shared during those two weeks. Her green eyes narrowed, but she kept her professional smile firmly in place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Her gaze was cool, and she took her hand back with exquisite care. “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine.”
No, it wasn’t—he was sure of that.
“Lise, Raed is establishing a foundation with the kind of reach that would do your project justice.” The consul planted himself between the two of them, his gaze moving from Raed to Lise as he spoke. “What she’d like to do is scope out the possibility of a language school here for Lafayette College.” His voice was so warm, but her gaze was sharp. “But not just any language school. Lise would develop tailored programs for client organizations with teachers placed inside clients’ companies rather than having busy executives come to the school.” The consul put a careful hand on Raed’s shoulder. “You’ll find it absolutely fascinating. If you’ll excuse me—”
He disappeared before Raed could formulate a goodbye, which was good, because he could not keep his eyes off Lise.
“You’re still stunning,” he managed.
“And you’re a prince.” She held her champagne glass tightly, s
hooting stealthy glances at the people around them. “Somehow, you didn’t mention that when we met before.”
More than anything, he wanted to touch her. If he could just run his hands down the line of her waist, if he could just brush his lips against hers, Raed was sure things would fall back into place. The cold tug between them would turn into something hot and alive. But Lise stood ramrod straight, her gaze steely.
“When we met before,” he said carefully, “I had no idea how things would turn out. I didn’t know how I’d think of you—” The admission threatened to overwhelm him. “I’ve thought about you a lot. Those two weeks we spent together were...transcendent.”
Lise snorted, looking away. “So transcendent that you never thought to look me up? So transcendent that you kept your identity a secret? Who does that?” She dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “Who doesn’t mention that he is a prince?”
“The heat of the moment was intense,” Raed reminded her. “We were in Paris, we were in Scotland, we were all over each other—” He could almost feel her body against his now, the way she’d moved, the sounds she’d made. They’d been music to his ears. They’d been so warm and wanting and so unlike anything he thought he’d have as a prince. Raed had spent his life preparing for an arranged marriage. If it wasn’t handled by his parents, his business circumstances would dictate his choice. Raed’s wife would be a partner in his royal goals, but romance wouldn’t enter it. But now, looking at Lise...
“We were all over each other, that’s true.” Lise pressed her lips together and looked him up and down. “But you can’t relive the past, Raed. You can’t go back and be honest now.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“Mummy!” The toddler’s voice was high and clear, and Lise’s head turned, her face lighting up in a little smile that Raed knew on instinct. Her child. A little boy in a puppy mask came toddling through the crowd, followed closely by a maid. He ran fast on his chunky legs and collided with Lise’s knees. “Mask off!” he cried. “Off, off.”
She bent to him, helping him untie the party mask he’d been wearing. “Better?”
He reached for her, and Lise picked him up. Then Raed saw his face.
His own face, made smaller and younger and more perfect than he’d ever seen it. His own face, on a child. The noise of the party dropped away, a rushing filling his ears. Like being at the seaside, only worse. It clouded his thoughts. There was nothing but the little boy in Lise’s arms, nothing, nothing, nothing.
“What the h—” He put a hand to his mouth, then dropped it away. “You never told me that you—that we—have a son!”
“How could I?” Lise met his gaze without flinching. “You never even told me your real name. I—”
Raed held up a hand, desperation replacing the whoosh of his blood in his head. “We can’t talk about this here.” Not here, not at the garden party, with people watching. They’d be tracking his every move. They’d be listening in for gossipy tidbits. They’d already said too much, and Raed could feel the scandal coming like a dark cloud on the horizon. A son. He had a son. “I’ll be in touch.”
And before she could answer, Raed turned on one heel and signaled his advisors. They could stay or come with him. He had to get out of here.
Grab your copy of
The Sheikh’s Unexpected Son
Available 12 November 2020
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BLURB
Laila Tindall is only in Raihan to hone her pottery skills and visit her ailing grandfather. Marriage was never in the picture. But when her grandfather is tricked into signing a binding marriage contract to a man she finds repugnant, she has one choice: Run away. Her flight ends with a fortuitous meeting with Zayid Hasan, Crown Prince of Raihan, who offers the perfect solution to Laila’s predicament: marry him and solve both their problems. Zayid’s younger brother must marry his pregnant fiancé, and ancient laws dictate the oldest brother is required to marry first. Desperate for a way to protect both her grandfather and herself, Laila agrees. After all, their marriage will last only until Zayid’s brother can marry—and her marriage to the brooding, handsome prince isn’t much of a sacrifice. It’s not like she’s going to be foolish enough to fall in love…
Zayid doesn’t know what to think about his new half-American wife. He doesn’t really want to think about her at all, but for some reason, he can’t stop himself. Strangely enough, all the royal functions that used to bore him silly are now entertaining with Laila by his side—even though he knows she’d much rather be alone creating her art. Though the marriage of convenience was his idea, he can’t help but start to wish it was the real deal. No way can he ignore the simmering chemistry that’s driving them both a bit crazy. He’s much better at ignoring what’s in his heart—until he realizes it just might break if he can’t convince Laila to stay with him forever…
Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s American Lover (Sheikhs of Hamari Book One) from
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EXCERPT
Chapter One
Laila looked down on the city of Raihanabad, the capital city of Raihan, and drank it in. The colors. The evening sunlight pouring down on ancient stucco buildings snugged up next to modern glass structures. None were higher than the palace in the center, surrounded by its green gardens. What would it be like, to trace the shapes of the city in clay? She could feel those edges beneath her fingertips. An arch here, a rough corner there, and a gleaming palace at the heart with all the swoops and falls of Spanish architecture.
Her grandfather’s house had an amazing view. Part of her wanted to stand here forever, looking across a perfect morning in Raihan. The house hugged a tiny vineyard on one side and a custom fountain in the back. She took another long, deep breath and listened to the water burble in that fountain. The sound moved through the house on the breeze. So peaceful.
“Papa?” she called, splitting the silence. “I have to get back to the city.” How long had she been standing at the window? She turned away and scanned the large living room, which led into a spacious kitchen and dining room, with a den on the other side. A hall on the left led to two guest bedrooms and the master suite. All of it had been done in a shade of white that made her think of chalk, if chalk were the most elegant thing in the world. Simple, yet high quality. That was her grandfather’s style. But where was the man himself?
A car door slammed in the back, and she moved into the kitchen and toward the noise without thinking. He couldn’t have left and come back. Could he? If he’d needed something from the city, it wouldn’t make sense to go in the middle of her visit. Although his dementia made him forget the teakettle and sometimes call her by her mother’s name, she hadn’t known him to wander off without telling anyone. Yet. The hairs on the backs of her arms pointed up and away. No, she thought. Let this all be all right. It would probably be fine. She did a quick breathing exercise to calm her nerves.
“Papa?” The door at the back of the kitchen swung open, letting the orange sunlight in along with her grandfather. “There you are,” she said. “I thought you might have gone to the city without me.”
Labeeb, her grandfather, came around the kitchen island and gave her a smile. “Gone to the city? Not when it’s time for the ceremony, no.”
“What ceremony? I didn’t plan on any ceremonies today. I have to get back to the studio.” Her pottery studio was a rented space in the center of the city. Tiny, no air conditioning, a postage stamp of a courtyard, but it had everything she needed while she was in Raihan. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “I’ll come visit next week.”
“No, you’ll stay.” He put his wizened hand on her elbow. “It’s time. Harb, come in.” A confused look flashed across his face and was gone. “It’s almost dinnertime.”
“That’s right, but I have plans.” And Harb—she did not want to see Harb. The man was a creep. He’d shown up at dinner with her grandfather her first week in the country, and he’d made her stoma
ch turn. He always looked like he was plotting something when he looked at her—something she knew she would not enjoy.
The man himself stepped into the doorway. The smug smile on his face threatened to unseat her lunch.
“Hello,” she said. “See you next week, Papa.”
“Don’t go just yet, my dear.” Harb stepped fully inside, and Laila backed into the living room. Harb laughed. “No need to be shy. In a few minutes, we’ll be married, and you’ll have no time to be bashful.”
A terrified laugh bubbled up into her throat, but she swallowed it back. “I promise, you’re wrong about that. I’m not marrying anyone, least of all you.”
Herb raised his eyebrows at her grandfather. “You didn’t tell her? Labeeb, you’re losing your edge.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his linen pants. “I’ve come to claim you as my bride. The deal is set.” Harb handed her the paper. Laila willed herself not to throw any punches.
She read the words printed there, which spelled out the marriage contract—including a bride price, of all things—but the signatures at the bottom dealt the final blow. Harb’s and her grandfather’s.
He was already talking.
“—perform the ceremony.” She looked up to find a third man in the room. The imam. “We’re ready to begin.”
The imam cleared his throat. “Stand together, and the ceremony will commence.”
“You’re joking.” Laila couldn’t get a breath. “This isn’t a valid contract.”
“It’s signed and witnessed. It’s valid.” Harb stood next to her. “Proceed,” he said to the imam.
“My grandfather has dementia. He wouldn’t have signed this if he were in his right mind.” It hurt her, saying it in front of him, but what did they think they were doing? “You can’t possibly believe this valid.” Even as she said the words, she could see her grandfather nodding from the corner of her eye.