by Leslie North
Grab your copy of
The Sheikh’s Pregnant Foreigner
Available 5 November 2020
www.LeslieNorthBooks.com
EXCERPT
Chapter One
“Nothing’s gone wrong here, Skandar,” the crown prince’s sister Shahd said, her voice crackling over the satellite connection. Shahd was in Mahamar, the capital, and Skandar was out in the desert, and it all seemed off. “Focus on the ritual.”
“I can’t focus on the ritual until I know that everything’s well at the palace.” Skandar was more aware of the anticipation in the tribe members gathered around him by the second.
“I told you, it is. Everything is as you left it. I’m going to hang up now.”
He ended the satellite call, but Skandar didn’t feel reassured. The fact that he was participating in this ritual at all was a sign of larger problems lurking in the background. His father’s health hadn’t been at its peak in years, but one morning he’d been missing from breakfast, and not long after a message for Skandar had come informing him that he needed to take his father’s place at the desert gathering.
He wished he’d been able to talk to his secretary, Zaki Sabra, but the man had gone to bed. That had left Shahd, who hadn’t said a peep about his father.
“Prince Skandar.” The low call came from Abd, one of the tribal elders of the Turala. He waited with the rest of the members with a patience Skandar had never felt in his life. They stood by a fire that had burned down to embers. The moon had just crested the horizon, and the ritual was due to begin.
They were waiting for him.
Skandar tried to shake off his unease as he joined them, all of them arranging themselves in a circle around the fire. Night in the desert was crisp and clear, the sky unburdened by clouds, and he took a breath of the firewood scent and tried to focus on the matter at hand. Here he’d been, making a satellite call when they were supposed to be honoring the tradition of their nomadic ancestors. Some of the members, like Abd, still lived that lifestyle. Such a calm acceptance. Such faith. Skandar did not feel calm, even as Abd took a seat next to him.
“May the ritual assure a plentiful harvest.” Abd folded his hands in his lap. “As it has done so many times before.”
They watched as Fadel, the tribal mystic, cast the circle, the fire glowing back to life.
Skandar knew his line. “It’s my honor to represent the royal family in this ancient gathering.”
“It is our honor to have you in the circle with us.”
The circle held all of them, and it was exactly this kind of ritual that reinforced his family’s ties to the nomadic tribes and vice versa, should their support be needed in some matter of the kingdom. Maybe that was why his father had sent him here—for the experience. Not because his health was failing at this very moment. Of course that wouldn’t be the reason. Skandar tried again to focus his mind on the fertility the tribes needed to survive—goats, in this case—instead of the worries crowding his thoughts. If this weeklong ceremony could go off without a hitch, then certainly that would have a positive effect on his father. Perhaps it was a test of some kind in advance of Skandar taking over the kingdom. If it was a test, then he was going to pass it with flying colors.
Skandar breathed in and back out again, relaxing his shoulders as the chanting began. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it started in the circle, but after a couple of heartbeats it didn’t matter. Their voices rose in unison, saying the ancient words and layering on intention under the starlit sky. Fadel cast something into the fire, and the smoke rose and curled around them, white against the midnight blue above them.
It was a long ritual, meant to take up all of the heart and mind, and Skandar felt himself falling into it as the moon rose. Time slipped away, twisting itself into the words, and he closed his eyes. The rhythms of the chant rose and fell and rose again. They said the words that their ancestors had many times before. And it would work, as it had many times before. Whether that was through the ritual or their actions didn’t matter as much as the commitment. These words—they were like the tides. Unstoppable and inevitable. What had he been so worried about?
A small sound pulled him back to the surface, and he let his eyes come easily open.
A jolt—his heart. A startle. Who was that? The woman stood just outside the sacred circle, and that was not allowed.
Anyone who was present at the ritual had to be part of it. Skandar rose to his feet before the rush of adrenaline could dissipate. It was only a few steps around the circle to her and he took her arm in his, pulling her back to his place and down beside him. Red hair spilled over her back, catching the orange light from the fire, and her eyes were wide with surprise. The chanting had not been interrupted.
“Do you know the words?” he whispered urgently.
“I—yes.” Her eyes met his, and another bolt of intensity went through him. She had been so close to ruining this ceremony. Did she know?
“Then say them. Once someone joins the circle, they can’t leave until the ritual is over.”
She gave him a crisp nod and faced the fire again, joining in as much as she could with the chant. She didn’t quite know the words, as Skandar discovered, but she knew enough of them that her voice blended with the other women’s in the group.
Who was she? He’d never been so aware of another person as he was of this strange woman sitting six inches away from him in the circle. He could almost feel her breathing. What had she been doing, wandering out in the desert on this night of all nights? He ached with the need to know.
Around them, the chant reached its peak, and Skandar struggled to focus on it, to give himself over to the ritual. All he wanted was to take her into his tent and demand answers. His entire body thrummed with the need to know, know, know more about her. As hard as he tried to keep his attention on the fire and the chant, it was still impossible to do completely, with her hair flickering in the firelight and the shape of her body in the corner of his eye.
Something shifted in the chant, almost imperceptibly, and Skandar felt the approach of the final round. By unspoken consensus it came to an end, a silence settling over the circle. The silence held and held, and then the tribal members—and Skandar—rose as one. Relief washed over him. She hadn’t interrupted the ritual. That was the most important thing.
Skandar clasped arms with Abd to his left, murmuring words of farewell and a quick explanation of the woman’s appearance. “My guest,” he said, looking apologetic enough that nobody questioned him about it. “Of course, my guest.”
And then the tribe dispersed to the tents arrayed around the circular courtyard in the center. A few curious glances swept over the woman as they went. He forced himself to relax. They’d go along with believing she belonged with him. That would be better than anyone thinking the ritual had been disrupted in any way. Abd released his arm and turned away, and before he had gone three steps Skandar had swept his arm around the woman’s shoulders.
She came with him without hesitation. “Where are we going?”
“My tent. We need to talk.”
The woman brushed a hand through her hair, shaking out the red waves. Skandar’s tent was at the edge of the settlement. It was the largest one, kept for the royal family, and the heavy draperies of its entrance resisted his hand as they went through. A young man from the tribe was already inside, lighting the low lanterns and bathing everything in a golden glow.
“Your Highness.” He gave a bow and slipped out, leaving Skandar alone with the mystery woman. Her eyes danced over the interior of the tent—its separate bathing area, the wide alcove that housed the bed, the feather-light drapes embroidered with scenes from the tribal history. A breeze from outside rustled the fabric of the tent. The world was breathing with him, Skandar thought, a little wildly.
Her gaze came to rest on his face, and her eyes went wide. “Prince Skandar.” Her cheeks darkened, a pink that pleased him more than he expected. His name on her lips was ano
ther little thrill. “I’m sorry, I—” She bobbed something between a curtsy and a bow, and he fought the urge to laugh.
“You’re not from the tribe.” He kept his voice light, but as she straightened to face him, the pressure descended on his shoulders again. Did it have to feel so literal? He wished he could put it aside for a moment. “How did you find yourself at the ritual?”
She lifted the hair from her neck and twisted it but didn’t secure it with anything. Skandar had the sudden urge to hold it in place for her. He balled up his hands at his sides, then willed them to relax. “I’m Virginia Allen, but everybody calls me Gina. I’m working on a biodiversity conservation field project for the Global Conservation Monitoring Centre,” she began. “The rest of my team—my colleague and the guide we were working with—are both down with food poisoning.” She scrunched up her nose. “We only have permission to be in the Basran desert for a short time to conduct the survey, and I didn’t want to miss my chance at the data collection, so I—I came out at night by myself.” Her eyes flicked to his and stayed. “I was on a rise above the settlement, trying to reach for a specimen that only blooms at night, and the sand gave way. The slope of the dune was a little ways off from the fire. Maybe that’s why nobody noticed me. I tried to climb back up, couldn’t, and then what?” She shrugged. “It was either stay in the desert alone overnight or walk toward the fire, so I did.”
“Gina,” he said. “I hope you understand that you’re part of the ritual now.”
She quirked an eyebrow, a smile flickering across her face and disappearing. “Really?”
“Yes. If you enter the circle, you have to stay and finish out your part, or the rites will be ruined.” All the laughter left her expression, and the seriousness on her face was so lovely it took his breath away. “These rites—they’re important to the tribe, and to me.”
“Of course I’ll stay.” She lifted her chin. “Of course I didn’t mean—but I’ll stay for the rest of the ceremony.” Gina cocked her head to the side. “Isn’t it over, though? The chanting—”
“The chanting was only one ceremony in a long chain. This isn’t just one ritual. It’s a series of rituals.” A series of rituals that had kept him away from the palace for the last three weeks. A series of rituals that had kept him in the dark about his father’s health for three weeks. “These are the most important rites of the year because of what they’re designed to do—bless the harvest. And there’s another week to go.”
Gina’s mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut, her eyes intensely bright even in the low lighting of the tent. “A week?”
“It will all play out on the lands of the fourth and final tribe, up to the next full moon. You’ll have to come with me. To participate. But I don’t expect you to do that for nothing.” Of all the things he thought might happen on this desert circuit, bargaining with a gorgeous woman was not one of them. “What can I do for you?”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and the tent seemed to heat around them, but Gina answered in a clear voice. “Nothing. I’ll help. I’ll square things with the home office—they owe me leave, anyway, if I have to take it.”
He let himself look at her then—really look at her, head to toe, the curves of her and the shadows dancing over her cheekbones and the way her lips parted when she was thinking. There was a subtle shift, it seemed, in the way the earth felt beneath him—as if it were tilted toward her, now. He liked it. He liked what he saw and felt, even if it was too soon to like anything. If she didn’t want anything from him, then he’d make it up to her some other way. Skandar had a week to figure it out.
“Okay.” Gina reached into her pocket and came up with a tube of lip balm. Applying lip balm should have been the most mundane thing in the world to do, but Skandar couldn’t take his eyes off the movement of her wrists and the glistening layer it left on her lips. “Is there...an extra tent somewhere that I can stay in? I assume we’ll be traveling...”
“My tent.” It came out too forcefully, and more color whispered across her cheeks, her eyes going wide and bright. Skandar cleared his throat. “I’ve explained to the tribal elders that you’re my guest, so you’ll have to sleep in my tent.”
Gina took a step forward, and once again her eyes traveled over the tent—the antique furnishings with burnished wood, the luxurious hangings, and the single bed piled high with pillows and blankets. But then her gaze settled on him, and a new heat coursed through every inch of him. She was the one who had tumbled down a dune in the desert and been swept into an ancient ritual, but Skandar felt like he’d fallen into a new world. And at the center of that new world was Gina.
No—it couldn’t be. He needed the ritual, not the woman. But then again, she was now essential to it. They couldn’t finish without her.
A slow smile spread over her face, and an answering glow lit in his chest. “There’s only one bed,” she pointed out.
“There’s room for both of us.”
Gina stretched her arms above her head, which had the effect of tugging her shirt up to expose a thin crescent of skin above her pants. When she lowered her arms, her eyes burned into his. “Are you tired, Prince Skandar?”
I’ll never be tired again. “Exhausted.”
“Then we should go to sleep.”
Grab your copy of
The Sheikh’s Pregnant Foreigner
Available 5 November 2020
www.LeslieNorthBooks.com
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 Marriage Bargain (Hasan Sheikhs Book One) from
www.LeslieNorthBooks.com
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.”