by Leslie North
THE SAFAR SHEIKHS SERIES
The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement
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The Sheikh’s Instant Family
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The Sheikh’s Sham Engagement
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
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RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, AUGUST 2019
Copyright © 2019 Relay Publishing Ltd.
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All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Leslie North is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Romance projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.
Cover design by LJ Mayhem Covers.
www.relaypub.com
BLURB
Ancient law dictates that Sheikh Fatim Safar has to marry or be disinherited by his 30th birthday. Fatim isn’t worried—he married years earlier and had two children with his wife before she died. But there’s a catch: the law states he must be married at age 30. Two weeks from his 30th birthday, there’s no time to change it or fight it...it’s more expedient to marry.
Calla Clark is out to prove her parents wrong. Instead of marrying well like her mother wanted, Calla’s in the Middle East to prove her design prowess. And what better way to do that then becoming seamstress for the royal family and getting to drape fabric over the sexy Sheikh’s rock-hard body. She can’t act on her temptations, of course. She’s got goals to crush. Still, when she watches the way the Sheikh commands his tribe, and cares for his kids, she can’t help but feel an undeniable attraction.
Fatim has taken a liking to Calla, too. She’s smart, thoughtful, and good with his children. With his birthday right around the corner, Fatim offers her the position as his wife. It’s only temporary, and in return for marrying him and helping with his children, he’ll give her everything she needs for the upcoming Fashion Week. Calla agrees...so long as he helps keep her dream alive.
With so many differences between them, Fatim and Calla’s powerful pairing could raise the tribe up to modern heights, or send it to the bin like last season’s cast-offs.
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
End of The Sheikh’s Wife Arrangement
Thank you!
About Leslie
Sneak Peek: The Sheikh’s Instant Family
Also By Leslie
1
Calla Clark tipped her head back to look up at the King of Amatbah. His crotch was technically in her face, and this wasn’t the first time. As the royal seamstress, she was often on her knees in front of King Fatim.
“Hrmmghhgm,” she mumbled from around the pins jutting out of her mouth.
“Come again?” He didn’t look down at her as he scrolled on his phone. This was so routine for him he probably didn’t even care that a twenty-something woman of child-bearing age was in the classic, submissive pose, eye-level with the royal jewels. But for Calla, it was all she could think about every time they met to tailor his outfits. She’d tailored countless men’s slacks, caftans, and robes—enough that she no longer had feeling in her thumbs from sticking herself so often with pins. But Fatim threw her decade of professional experience out the window.
She ripped the pins out of her mouth and sat back on her heels. “Could you, uh…” She hated correcting the king. Or anyone from his family. Really anyone. “Stand up straighter?”
Fatim sniffed and straightened his posture. His dark chocolate eyes swept her way, and for a moment their gazes locked. Electricity snapped through her. It always did when she looked at this man, or thought too much about him, or got within a ten-foot radius.
“Thank you,” she said, returning to the seam she worked on. Today’s project was a new pair of traditional linen pants—not her own design yet, but soon. Calla had the king’s measurements, but many of the fabrics she worked with in the Amatbah tribal kingdom were slippery, diaphanous, and billowy. These slacks were no exception.
As she returned to her task, the door to the sitting room clanged open. Footsteps stormed their way, and before Calla could turn around to see who it was, Fatim spoke.
“Nasser,” Fatim said with a sigh. The king’s younger brother, the youngest of the three. Calla had only been working at the palace for a handful of weeks, but she’d come to learn the quirks of the three brothers very quickly. Fatim had been exasperated with Nasser of late.
“Don’t start with the tone.” Nassar let a disgusted groan. “Always the tone, with you.”
Calla rolled her lips inward, fiddling with a seam that didn’t need fiddled. Really, she could have been done already. But she loved these quiet visits with the king—even better if she got the scoop on some drama. As the palace’s newest employee, she wanted to gobble up everything. To establish herself as the royal seamstress, sure, but her path didn’t end there. The goal posts stood much further away than that. Calla aimed for the esteemed position of royal designer, which would hopefully lead her to the ultimate goal within the next five years: showing her designs at the world-famous Amatbah Fashion Week for the first time in her life.
She just had to keep her head down, work hard, and do an amazing job. And don’t let the king’s naughty area distract you.
“I have no tone,” Fatim said. And it was true. He sounded quite monotonous when he spoke. As if he’d already heard and dealt with it all in his stint as Amatbah’s youngest king. “You’re the one flinging yourself around like a petulant child.”
Nasser scoffed, heading for the far wall. A round window overlooked part of the royal gardens. He scowled out at the scene.
“What’s the issue?” Fatim asked.
“Nothing,” Nasser spat. Calla glanced up at Fatim, almost wishing he would glance her way just then so they could share the yeah, right look. But she wasn’t part of this family. She was just an outsider, peering in.
“I don’t believe that.” Fatim pocketed his phone, twisting a little to look at his brother. “You broke up with Alana two weeks ago. I thought you’d be over it by now.”
Nasser grumbled something.
“You need distraction,” Fatim went on, sounding bored. “And trust me, I can give you plenty.”
Nasser huffed in response but didn’t disagree.
“I have a slew of projects coming up that I could use help on,” Fatim said. Calla tugged at his pants, wishing that just once she could catch a glimpse of the body beneath. Last week, she’d seen him in his undershirt as he switched from old caftan to new, and she just about tipped over. This was the result of so much time spent in the handsome man’s nether regions. It had rendered her incapable of thinking about anything else. “Charities that need the royal touch. Military shows that could use a family member in attendance. Or how about the routine inner-city visits?”
“No, no, and no,” Nasser said, tugging at the front of his hair. Fatim’s mouth turned downward. Calla licked her lips, going over a seam for the third time.
“Then what is the plan? Continue partying like a playboy after your break-up?” Fatim scoffed, his voice finally breaking out of its monotone. “It can’t go on forever. And I can only give you so many perfectly valid ideas.”
The heat in Fatim’s voice sent a thrill through her, even though she shouldn’t be enjoying this family dispute so much. Still, it was hard to pull herself away. She wanted to know more about this side of Fatim—what he was like when angry. Damn near everything about him fascinated her. Working on his wardrobe was one of the highlights of her job.
She missed Nasser’s response, only felt the shift as Fatim pulled away from her. She tilted her head up to look at him and found him staring directly at her.
“What do you think?” Fatim asked.
Calla blinked a few times. He couldn’t possibly be talking to her. “Excuse me?”
“What do you think my lovesick brother should do to get his mind off his ex?” Fatim’s lips curled up on one side, and Calla realized with a jolt that she would never tire of looking at his face. Not even if she worked here for the next century.
“Um,” she began, furrowing her brow, trying to recall the past few weeks of clandestine eavesdropping and general research. “Well, Your Highness, I think you had a great idea with the charities needing a royal touch.” She swallowed, wracking her brain. “It seems like whatever connections Nasser has been making out and about could potentially be used for increasing donations to the charities.”
Nasser smirked. “From taking shots to giving to charities.”
“Perfect headline,” Calla cracked.
Fatim nodded slowly, turning to his brother. “Satisfied?”
Nasser didn’t give a definite answer, but his lack of a response was overshadowed by the doors bursting open again. Fatim’s nanny scurried through, dragging each of his two children by their wrists. She didn’t look pleased.
“King Fatim,” the nanny began.
“Excuse me, Fatim, we need to speak.” A man strode into the room behind the nanny and children, wearing the common burnt orange and sienna caftan of the tribe. He clutched folders at his side and hurried past Fatim’s children.
“You let your father speak in peace,” the nanny hissed to the children in a low voice as the newcomer approached the king. Calla got to her feet, the sudden flurry of activity signaling that she needed to wrap this up. The nanny yanked at Fatim’s daughter’s hand, causing the girl to stumble forward. “Did you hear me?”
Fatim’s dark gaze swept toward the nanny.
“Your Highness,” the man insisted, crowding toward him. “This is an urgent legal matter.”
Fatim raised a hand to silence the man, his gaze laser-focused on his children. “Ms. Rosa.” That was the nanny. The harried woman glanced up at the king. “You may leave. Consider yourself terminated. You may not speak to or handle my children in that fashion. Goodbye.”
The nanny gaped for a moment, but when Fatim added a second stern, “Goodbye” she stumbled out of the room. Calla gathered her scattered items as confusion took over the room.
“Papa, can we get ice cream?” His son, unfazed by the dismissal of his nanny, skipped up to Fatim.
“Sir, I really need to speak with you in private,” the lawyer continued.
“Papa, is that woman coming back?” his daughter asked, looking toward the door the nanny had rushed out of. “I didn’t like her very much.”
“She won’t be coming back, peanut,” Fatim murmured, that monotonous quality back in his voice. She liked to imagine it was the King Tone—probably what he had to employ to keep his shit together. Fatim asked the lawyer, “Yaret, can we speak later?”
“Sir—” Yaret began.
“I can watch your children,” Calla blurted, straightening suddenly from stashing pins, scissors, and thread in her toolkit. Her heart raced, though she didn’t know why. She crossed paths with them enough in the palace, and they seemed like sweet angels. This couldn’t be so hard. “While you, you know, do your thing.”
Fatim studied her a moment, then his gaze slid to his kids.
“Is she our new nanny?” His daughter asked.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Fatim’s umber gaze sizzled on her. She offered a bright smile to the kids.
“Of course not. I can spare a few hours. Why don’t you just take your time and then find us out in the gardens when you’re ready?”
Fatim nodded slowly, as though he didn’t quite believe the offer. Calla swept toward the kids, brought herself to their eye level, and said, “For now—do you two want to go play on the swings?”
Their excited shrieking was all the answer she needed. She took their hands in hers and guided them out of the king’s sitting room. She’d come back later for her toolkit—just one more excuse to run into the king later.
As she headed out of the room, she couldn’t tell if the tingling on her ass was her imagination or the king’s gaze burning a hole through her.
2
Fatim tried his best to focus as Yaret took a seat at the nearby round table. A fitting, a nanny firing, and urgent business matters all in the span of ten minutes—this was the life of the king. He’d been in the role for nearly six years, but he still struggled at times to keep his head from spinning right off his shoulders.
Even though a hundred things demanded his attention right now, his mind lurked on the retreating figure of his new seamstress. The delectable arc of her ass as she bent over in those cream pedal pushers, her shifting, drapey sweater leaving her top half to his imagination. He knew her name was Calla, but only because the second he’d met her, he’d mentally paired her with a lily. She was quietly elegant like a calla lily. But beyond that and her studious, determined work ethic, he didn’t know much about her. Other than he had an interest in her that he absolutely needed to squash and too many fantasies about tracing the curve of her bare ass with his hands.
“There’s an issue,” Yaret said, flopping open his folder. He lobbed a heavy sigh, adjusting the low-sitting spectacles on his nose. “With your upcoming thirtieth birthday.”
“It can’t possibly be the fact that I’m turning thirty,” Fatim said, attempting a joke but unsurprised when it fell flat.
“I wish it were that simple.” Yaret frowned, papers rustling as he searched for something. He grunted when he revealed a specific document. “Here it is. Since you are the eldest, you are the first this will affect.” Yaret looked over the rim of his glasses at Fatim. “There is an ancient decree that dictates you must be married on your thirtieth birthday ceremony or step down from the throne.”
“I was married,” Fatim said slowly, trying but failing to see the issue. “I have an heir and one to spare.”
“Correct,” Yaret said, “but you’re not married now.”
Fatim blinked. “She passed away.”
“I know, I know.” Yaret sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “But you must understand. The wording in this decree is very obtuse. I’ve been studying this nonstop for days. And the verdict is in: if you are not a currently married man on your thirtieth birthday, this ancient law requires the crowned king to abdicate.”
That made him pay attention. Fear snaked through him, hot and sinuous. This sounded like a joke. Like a horrible, unfunny joke.
; “This has to be wrong,” Fatim spat, storming over to the papers Yaret had produced.
“But it’s not,” Yaret urged. “And we’re just lucky I caught this before your birthday!”
His birthday was two weeks away. Fatim refused to consider the idea that he’d be married by then. Married again. As if once wasn’t enough.
“How sure are you that this is law is solid?” Fatim asked, scanning the text of the decree. But it passed by in a blur. He couldn’t focus on the words to save his life.
“One hundred percent.” Yaret said slowly. “And that’s a conservative number.”
Fatim huffed, pushing away from the table. This was bullshit. He stormed over to the round window overlooking the gardens, scowling out just as his brother had twenty minutes ago. Near a small cluster of trees, Calla sat on a stone ledge, braiding Nara’s hair, while his son Rashid hopped like a frog between bushes. He smiled briefly. He’d known the last nanny wasn’t ideal, but he thought she’d work out well enough. His kids weren’t poorly behaved. They were simply high energy and still in some ways, Fatim believed, dealing with the death of their mother.
His children wanted a mother, and badly. Nara sometimes even picked out mommies at the market, and Fatim always begged she not shout to her chosen one across the square. He couldn’t blame them. The cancer that had claimed their mother had arrived stealthily and swiftly. The best royal doctors could do nothing. And then Fatim was a widower.
“I never wanted to get married in the first place,” Fatim said, turning back toward Yaret. “I hardly want to do it a second time.”
Yaret had been with the family long enough to know about Fatim’s austerity when it came to interpersonal relationships. Nobody beyond the nucleus of family got Fatim’s affection. Everyone else—countrymen and colleagues alike—were respected and adored but in a distant way. In a ruler-and-subject way.