The Sheikh’s American Fiancée: Desert Sheikhs Book Three
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The Sheikh’s American Fiancée
Desert Sheikhs Book Three
Leslie North
Desert Sheikhs
The Sheikh’s Royal Seduction
The Sheikha’s Unexpected Protector
The Sheikh’s American Fiancée
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.
RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, SEPTEMBER 2018
Copyright © 2018 Relay Publishing Ltd.
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.
Cover Design by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations.
www.relaypub.com
Blurb
Christina is in the tiny country of Kattahar for one reason and one reason only—she’s looking for a potential donor for her adorable niece who’s desperate for a kidney. While cleaning out her parents’ attic, Christina stumbles upon a family secret: her sister, Kasha, is adopted and her birth mother, Sabrina, a potential kidney donor, is living in Kattahar. With her world thrown into a tailspin, Christina heads to Kattahar to seek Sabrina out. What’s not in her plans is becoming involved with anyone, including the sinfully hot man she can’t keep her eyes off. But when he asks her to be his fiancée, she’s more than a little intrigued.
As desperate as Christina is to find her sister’s birth mother, Dakaric, King of Al Qalb, is just as desperate to keep power-hungry, crown-seeking women from distracting him from his goal of making his country prosperous. Christina just happens to be the perfect woman at the perfect time. She’s only in Kattahar for one week, just long enough to pose for some PR photos and prove his “fiancée” exists. If she agrees to the ruse to keep the gold diggers away, he’ll help her find Kasha’s mother. The only hitch in his plan is his growing attraction to Christina, who is beginning to look more and more perfect in every way.
But desert sand isn’t all that swirls around them. Secrets and lies threaten their blossoming attraction before it can take root. Now Christina and Dakaric must decide if they want their temporary engagement to become an everlasting one.
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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
End of The Sheikh’s American Fiancée
Thank you!
About Leslie
More Books By This Author
1
Christina blew stray hair off her forehead for the fiftieth time as she hunched over at an awkward angle under the slanted roof of the attic. She and her sister Kasha had been meaning to clean this space out for months. Ever since their mother’s death two years ago. But now, with Kasha just about twenty weeks pregnant, there was no more waiting. If it didn’t happen now, it never would.
“Mother of…” Christina finished the swear in her head when she knocked her butt against the same jagged wood of the rafters while shifting a box of knickknacks. She had to bite her tongue; her niece Hope was three years old and in that stage of repeating everything.
“Mother of,” Hope said in her tiny voice. She danced a Barbie doll around a peeling hat box, one of the many items in that gray area between throw away and keep forever in a different attic. Christina grinned over at Hope for a moment, until the reality of their situation burned at the edges of her mind once more.
Hope was sick. Really sick. And the only reason they had finally gotten around to cleaning this damn attic was because they were going to sell their childhood home. Medical bills were piling up, and there was no donor in sight. Hope needed a kidney yesterday, and neither Christina nor Hope’s dad was a match to donate. With Kasha pregnant, she was off the list too.
So that left exactly nobody within arm’s reach and a skyrocketing number of bills threatening any solace they were able to find in the midst of such uncertainty.
Kasha groaned, slowly pushing to standing. She’d just started to pop this week, and her bathroom visits were what she often called “relentless.”
“Girl, I’m not sure I can hang up here much longer. Between the heat and the overactive pee party, I’m dying.”
Christina wiped a line of sweat from her brow. “Go downstairs and rest. I can keep rummaging through this stuff. If I find anything I’m unsure about, I’ll bring it down.”
Kasha sent her an uncertain look, her pitch-black hair frizzing at the temples. Black hair that must have been a recessive gene, they always joked, when compared to Christina and their mother’s golden-brown tresses. Their father’s hair had been the darker side of brown, but still a far cry from the jet-black hair that made Kasha often look like a Middle Eastern princess.
“I really should be helping.” Kasha’s gaze fell to Hope, who hummed as she bent the Barbie to sit on the edge of the box. Her niece’s energy levels had been notably dropping in recent weeks. The formerly lively, rambunctious girl was now often sullen and quiet. And like her mother, she peed with startling frequency. But unlike her mother, it was because her kidneys were failing.
“You two need to stay near the bathroom.” Christina tried to make it sound lighthearted, but the same tension rimmed her words that underlined practically everything in their lives anymore. Time is running out. We have no donor lined up. We’re drowning in medical bills. It had been all hands on deck for months now, with no clear end in sight.
Kasha grunted, wiping off some soot from her knee. “I need a catheter. Why does my gyno keep saying ‘not medically necessary’? It’s my necessity, and it’s medical!”
Christina cracked a grin. At least her sister’s humor never wavered, despite the rough blows life had dealt her as of late. “Try again at your next appointment. I’m sure you can wear her down.”
Kasha laughed as she tugged Hope up by her armpits. The girl barely put up a fight. A few months ago, she would have been screaming and kicking to stay with Aunt Christie. “Baby girl, it’s time to go back into the air conditioning. And then we’re going to cook Aunt Christie a mega lunch for being such a good helper.”
Christina grinned to herself as Kasha and Hope clomped down the wooden stairs, their steps growing fainter until they disappeared altogether. In the heavy, hot silence of the attic, Christina let the enormity of her task return. All of this needed to be cleared out by the end of the month, before they officially staged the house and put it up for sale.
And then, it was a waiting game. Waiting for interest. Waiting for a donor. Waiting for a miracle.
Christina huffed, abandoning her task with the knickknacks. She needed to start fresh, in an area t
hat needed the most work. Across the attic, a cluster of boxes called to her. Dusty and forgotten. If she could clear that area out by evening, then she’d really be getting somewhere. Clear goals always helped nearly every situation in life. She wiped off her forehead before digging in. The cresting late morning sun didn’t help her focus in this hot eastern-Maryland summer.
Christina moved all the boxes out from the corner and then started with the bottom. Dust plumed as she opened the flaps of the box. Unfamiliar folders and tins filled the space. She rifled through the documents of the first folder—the deed to what had been her grandmother’s house, long since razed when new owners bought it.
More of the same everywhere she turned. Outdated documents, light bills from the seventies. She hadn’t pegged her mom for such a closet packrat, but that was probably why the attic was off limits to the girls growing up.
An emerald green tin with golden script snagged her attention. It looked like a foreign alphabet, somewhere between Hindi and Arabic. She turned the tin over in her hands, inspecting the finely drawn swirls and patterns.
The tin creaked as she opened it. A square photo stared up at her, faded and yellowed at the edges.
A woman and a baby in what looked like a hospital bed. Christina flipped it over, finding a curious handwritten message.
Sabrina and Kasha.
Christina furrowed a brow, flipping over the picture once more. The baby had to be Kasha. But who the hell was Sabrina?
Pitch black hair flowed around the woman’s shoulders. Despite the fading photo, there was an unmistakable familiarity in that woman’s face. So familiar that if it weren’t for the eighties hairdo, she would have sworn it was Kasha today.
Christina stared at the photo for what felt like an eternity. And then she dug deeper into the tin, a single conclusion trembling at the brink, too scared to tumble into reality.
A folded letter underneath the picture was addressed to Judy, Christina and Kasha’s mother. Christina swallowed, reading the faint letters with trepidation.
Kattahar remains unstable. This uprising hasn’t calmed as I’d hoped it would. Kasha’s father remains unreachable. I need my darling to stay with you a bit longer. I know you love her and treat her as your own. Thank you, my angel friend. You have done both of us a favor greater than words can describe.
Christina reread the letter until the words didn’t make sense anymore. And then she read it one more time.
She sat back on the dusty floorboard. “Ho-ly fuck.” Kasha was adopted, and their mom had never said anything.
Disbelief swarmed her, followed by confusion. Maybe this wasn’t real. But how could she have never said anything? Neither their mother nor father had ever given any hint that Kasha wasn’t theirs. Nor did she think her parents to have been the type to keep such an enormous secret. How could they do that?
She didn’t know what to do. If she told Kasha, it might add a whole new level of stress and questions that her sister absolutely didn’t need right now. But she couldn’t be the sole bearer of this secret. Besides, if she found out Kasha had kept something like that from her for any length of time, she’d be irate.
Christina fingered the edge of the picture. And then she gasped.
If Kasha was adopted, that meant that she potentially had an entire family in the Middle East that could serve as a positive match for Hope’s kidney transplant.
Christina sat stunned and pondering in the attic until Kasha called her down for lunch. Thinking of game plans. Imagining trips to Kattahar. Wondering just how far she’d go to save Hope. An hour and a half must have passed. She was drenched with sweat, unsightly pit stains blooming across the heather gray of her T-shirt.
But by the time she clambered down the rickety stairs, she already knew what the next step was. What it had to be, if this family had any shot at being happy and normal again. It might be extreme, but so was Hope’s illness. Desperate times, desperate measures, to the max.
“I made our childhood fave,” Kasha began, glowing despite the chill of central air throughout the rest of the house. “Grilled cheese and—”
“I have news,” Christina blurted, heart racing as she struggled to find the words for this half-cocked plan formed in the delirium of attic heat. She dragged her forearm over her face. “I was called to go out west.”
Kasha lifted a brow. “Did you win a sweepstakes? Or maybe this is to appear on Ellen Degeneres?”
Only if my plan fails. She wouldn’t risk worrying her sister now. Not when she had so much on her plate. Besides, she didn’t want to break the news about adoption and potential matches until she was sure. But with the information in that tin, she had plenty to go on. Further letters detailed surnames, Kasha’s birth city, even the hospital she was born in. It was practically a treasure map with clearly marked arrows.
All she had to do was follow them.
“No. It’s a conference for librarians.” Christina sighed, tracing a finger over the countertop. “My boss called while I was upstairs. It’s next week.”
Kasha nodded. “Sounds very librarian of you. Why the short-notice travel plans?”
Her mouth went dry for a moment as she thought. “A space opened up last minute, that’s why. I had heard about it but didn’t think I’d get to attend.” She swallowed. “It’s in Vegas.”
“Vegas!” Kasha exclaimed. “How cool! Promise me you’ll send all the pictures of the gamblers and strippers.”
Shit. Vegas is too interesting. “Oh, no, sorry, I meant…Albuquerque.” She forced a laugh, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island where an empty plate awaited her. “I don’t know why I mixed those two up. Fresh news, I guess. Can you pass me that water?”
Her throat was sandpaper. She was never good at lying to Kasha. And now she had the actual mother of all secrets resting in her possession. She needed to get to Kattahar fast and resolve this unnerving conundrum.
“Hey. Albuquerque is still cool.” The enthusiasm had drained from Kasha’s voice. “Not as cool as Vegas, but I’ll get over it…”
Christina quickly changed subjects, steering her sister toward a discussion about current prices for antiques and how much they might be able to get for some of Mom’s older items. Once lunch was done, in lieu of continuing work on the attic, Christina left for her apartment.
She had work to do. And it started with researching flights to Kattahar.
2
Dakaric sipped at the ice-cold lemonade, relishing the tart zip down his throat. He swirled his glass, the clinking ice cubes barely registering as he overlooked the back patio of the inn.
“So have I completely fucked myself over?”
His best friend and confidante, Zatar Balizar, king of Kattahar, smiled over at him. This was their second pitcher of lemonade, and the entire first one had disappeared amid plans and worries as Dakaric unloaded on his friend.
Because Dakaric had some things on his plate. Namely, the fact that despite being the new and modern king to a small neighboring kingdom, Al Qalb, the press hounded him daily for updates on his marital situation. Being modern and new wasn’t enough. The people demanded a queen.
Dakaric had been in the post just two months, and while the press gobbled up all the changes he’d already set in motion for their struggling and often-forgotten nation state, they just couldn’t let go of the eligible-bachelor aspect of his reign.
So he’d invented a fiancée. Simple as that. It had just rolled off his tongue a few days ago during a conference call with the Al Qalb Sentinel.
“Lying to the press is always a dangerous idea,” Zatar said, the grin still lingering on his face. “But it’s also sometimes essential. You’ve created the perfect solution.”
“Right. A woman who doesn’t exist.” Dakaric crunched on an ice cube, recalling the words he’d used with the reporter. “The daughter of an old friend from America who used to spend her summers in Al Qalb. I’m shocked nobody saw right through that. That place has probably seen one hundred Americans s
ince they wrote their Constitution.”
Zatar snorted. “You couldn’t have concocted a better story?”
“It just came out. I felt pressured. You know how the press can be. They’re like hungry dogs, scouring the trash for bones.” Dakaric sighed, setting his glass down on the wicker side table separating his and Zatar’s chairs. Through the rungs of the balcony, his work-in-progress patio yanked at his attention. This inn had consumed the majority of his life—first, as his childhood home and then as a never-ending project once his parents passed away and left the peaceful and popular inn to him, their only son.
Nobody ever thought Dakaric would come within arm’s reach of the throne. That’s why he’d been raised in Kattahar, practically a commoner. His great-uncle had designated his only son—his mother’s cousin—to inherit the crown. But when the crown prince—his something-removed cousin—committed suicide, the grief forced Uncle Assar to abdicate. The whole thing had been a painful, grimace-inducing saga that ultimately left Al Qalb in the lurch. Dakaric was the only remaining male descendant. The heir to the throne that nobody had seen coming. What else could he do but step up?
Even if stepping up brought with it a hefty learning curve and lots of frustrations, Dakaric was mostly certain it had been the best choice. The only downside, aside from the heavy stress of leading a nation that seemed, at best, wary of an outsider, was the sheer number of marriage proposals received via post and email.