by Snihur, Erin
The Sheikha’s Determined Prince
The Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains (Book 6)
Erin Snihur
Copyright © 2019 by Erin Snihur
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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About the Author
Erin Snihur is a proud Canadian Indie Author with a love for reading and writing. While working full-time you can often find Erin writing her next romance novel or hiking with her dog!
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Also by Erin Snihur
Paranormal/Fantasy Romance
Curse of the InBetween (Book 1 of the InBetween Series)
Hero of the InBetween (Book 2 of the InBetween Series)
His Angelic Queen (Book 3 of the InBetween Series)
The Sheiks of the Arabian Coast Series
The Sheik’s Missing Mistress (Book 1)
The Sheik’s Forced Bride (Book 2)
The Sheik’s Pregnant Paramour (Book 3)
The Sheik’s Forgotten Princes (Book 4)
The Sheik’s Beautiful Thief (Book 5)
The Sheik’s Arabian Christmas (Book 6)
The Sheikha’s of the Arabian Mountains Series (NEW SERIES, PRE-ORDER NOW)
The Sheikha’s Determined Prince (Book 1 of the Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains Series)
The Sheikha's Unforgettable Lover (Book 2 of the Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains Series)
The Sheikha’s Seductive Protector (Book 3 of the Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains Series)
The Sheikha’s Fierce Attraction (Book 4 of the Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains Series)
The Sheikha’s Billionaire Advisor (Book 5 of the Sheikhas of the Arabian Mountains Series)
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Also by Erin Snihur
Prologue
Prince Maarku Majeed stares down at the invitation in his hands. Around him, turbulence rattles the private jet and Maarku briefly glances out the window. There isn’t much to see. The cloud cover in the mountains made air travel practically impossible, though his brother, Sheik Khalid Majeed had claimed Maarku had to arrive in the Arabian country of Kulaz a few days before the crowning celebration began. For recon, Khalid suggests.
Kulaz’ new Sheikha will be crowned in only a few days and during that time, Maarku’s mission, to strengthen the alliance between Kulaz and Aman was all he must focus on. It was all Khalid had asked of him when he’d been welcomed back into the family. Now, with his sister-in-law, Amelia, pregnant with their first child, his brother, Khalid was more nervous than ever when it comes to building strong, friendly alliances with their neighbors.
When the jet rocks once more and Maarku lunges forward to keep his glass from slipping off the table between him and the seats facing him, he curses his brother and the foolish goose chase he’d been sent on.
In front of him, wearing an impeccable, dark suit and white dress shirt, his brother’s head of security and Maarku’s self appointed babysitter, Haseem el-Meer, snorts in amusement.
“Something funny, Haseem?” Maarku mutters and slips the invitation back into his suit jacket pocket.
Shrugging, Haseem pretends to flip through the manila folder on the table closest to him, “You’ve jumped off planes into African jungles and hiked mountains without proper equipment and still after all these years, turbulence brings out your fear?”
Rolling his eyes, Maarku makes a show of checking his phone briefly before deigning to answer, “How much further do we have left of this ridiculous flight?”
“We should be arriving in under an hour. The weather reports indicate it is much nicer in the capital of Kulaz,” Haseem explains, his lips quirking in a teasing grin.
“Good. I think I’ll take some time and visit the capitals market and observe the locals,” Maarku murmurs and when Haseem shoots him a look of curiosity, he explains, “Just to get a feel for what Kulaz might require of Aman.”
Haseem nods reluctantly and then coolly croons as he raises a newspaper from his piles of paperwork up over his face, “His Highness was very clear. There shall be no scandals during this trip. No partying either. Unless it is for the benefit of Aman.”
Damn you, brother, Maarku inwardly cursed, is that all you think I can accomplish? Have you not seen what I’ve done for our companies and our country's coffers? I’ll show him. I’ll secure such a substantial deal he will never question my loyalties again.
* * *
Don’t let them see your fear, dear one, Sheikha Amina Aqila’s father’s words rush over her inwardly and she raises her chin, ignoring the sneering looks from her deceased father’s advisors and council members.
“There is no need to allow the local people to partake in your celebration. I assure you we have sent the necessary invitations to the notable countries in the surrounding area,” her father’s most cutthroat advisor, Abrar Irani, continues his hissing speech, “My nephew, Sahl, will also be attending. He has just returned from the United States and is looking forward to becoming reacquainted with you, after so much time has passed.”
“Reacquainted, my Lord?” Amina snorts and at her side, her head of security and most trusted confidant, Alexander Tarik, visibly shifts. Amina watches in amusement as he rolls his eyes at Abrar’s display.
Waiting until she can keep control over the laughter in her voice, Amina forces a cool smile on her face, “I should hope your nephew does not still wish to pull my hair and plant frogs in my bed, my Lord?”
Snickers rush through the room as Abrar flushes bright red in embarrassment, before controlling himself and bowing slightly at the waist, “Of course not, your Highness. You were both so young then. Sahl is a man now and has graduated at the top of his class at Harvard.”
Shrugging, Amina lifts up a spreadsheet that Abrar had given her detailing the cost of her crowning celebration, “I still do not see why even the most impoverished citizen of Kulaz cannot enjoy the festivities? Is it a matter of cost, my Lord, because, as I recall, under my father’s reign, the cost of the many celebrations you were in charge of were significantly higher than the cost of my celebration? Such celebrations, my father never even attended or approved of while you acted as his right hand.”
Silence fills the room as Abrar eyes bug out and a few of the men at his back shift uncomfortably in their seats at the round table. Inwardly, Amina is giddy. This man thought that after her father’s death she would be like a frightened little mouse and not have the confidence to read every last bit of data on the country she was now the Sheikha of. How her father became so swindled by this man was beyond her. Though she couldn’t get rid of him.
Yet.
“No. I mean, yes, but what I think would be appropriate⎼,” Abrar stammers his excuse.
Rising from her throne atop the raised dais, Amina smiles to all who are present as they all rise with her, “Then it is decided. The good citizens of Kulaz will celebrate with their Sheikha and my guests. Have every village and city given the required supplies in order to celebrate, be it remotely or in the capital. Not to worry, my Lord, the citizens will celebrate in the city’s main square, so you shouldn’t have to worry about rubbing elbows with the ones who pay taxes towards your salary.”
If possible, Abrar’s face turns even redder and his fists clench tightly at his sides. As he shifts to approach Amina more closely, Alexander moves as well. His hulking body and towering figure is enough for the angry man to exhale and his face pales slightly at the unspoken threat.
Not allowing the man or any of her other advisors and counselors to question her word, Amina raises her hand, waving them all away, “You are all dismissed for the day. Thank you.”
As soon as the last of them have departed, Amina lets out the breath she had been holding in and collapses back into her father’s throne. Her throne, if she can accept all of the challenges that come with it.
“Oh, Papa, what have you done?” Amina asks softly to the empty room, feeling her father’s presence even though he’s been deceased for months.
“He has chosen a strong leader for the good of Kulaz,” Alexander remarks, knowing full well, she isn’t speaking with him.
Smiling at her friend, Amina watches as Alexander, more relaxed now that they are alone, leans against the table before her, which holds mountains of paperwork.
“They really want me to give up my birthright to someone else, don’t they?” Amina mutters as she motions to the stacks of paper that only seems to grow larger with every day.
“They are only trying to intimidate you. They don’t know how smart you are or how much time and effort you put into helping your father in his later years,” Alexander explains, “They push you; you push back. You hold the crown, not the other way around.”
“I wonder if my father realized when he made the declaration that I was his sole heir and could rule without the influence of a husband, that he was effectively throwing me to the lions,” Amina wonders aloud.
Chuckling at her humor, Alexander shrugs, “They are not lions, my Sheikha, but mere kitty cats that you have not shooed away with a broom yet.”
Laughing along with her friend, Amina shakes her head and glances at the time, “Abrar is throwing a masquerade tonight to welcome some of the guests that will be attending the celebration. He expects my attendance and I expect he will introduce me to some fools under his thumb that deems appropriate for marriage.”
Alexander's booming laugh echoes through the room, “A marriage trap. I never thought of men trying to trap women into marriage, but I suppose with enough power on the line, anything is possible.”
“I’ll just have to keep my wits about me, tonight,” Amina teases back and with a wink adds, “Or have you kept the jackals at bay.”
Giving her a mocking bow, Alexander winks back goodnaturedly, “With pleasure.”
A loud bell sounds outside of the palace, in the small monastery, signaling the beginning of noontime. Feeling exhilarated at the thought of the hour, Amina stands and puts her hands on her hips.
“Do you think you could sneak me out? I heard a few of the servants talking about performers in the city center this afternoon,” Amina begs and bats her eyelashes at him.
When he’d first come into her father’s service, Alexander had never been able to deny Amina anything. Now, with her father’s sudden death and her rise to the throne, he’d seemed to age some with her independent actions.
Tilting his head as he contemplates, Amina shrugs her shoulders and innocently moves towards the large doors of her throne room, “If you don’t escort me, I’ll just sneak out myself.”
When she is halfway out the doors, Amina calls out, “Alone!”
With a laugh, when Alexander curses, Amina gleefully rushes to her private chambers, intent on changing so that she might blend in with her people. What better way to get to know what her people truly desire then by walking amongst them?
1
Maarku smirks in amusement as the crowd oohs and ahhs over the fire breather currently entertaining them. Scanning the area, he finds himself impressed with Kulaz’ capital. Instead of the entertainers merely serving as a distraction for petty thieves to loot the pockets of the observers, the capital city of Kulaz is well guarded and protected. Even the most impoverished person does not seem to be starving or homeless. He’d yet to see one beggar.
I wonder if it is their Sheikha’s advisors that take on the task of keeping their city so well maintained or if she is as invested as Khalid is with Aman? Maarku thinks inwardly.
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Maarku moves away from the fire breather and instead begins walking through the open market. Stalls filled to the brim with fabrics made from the sheep that were hand sheered in the mountains, to spices that Maarku had yet to experience, abounded everywhere. It would take him days to go through and examine each stall. Kulaz is definitely prospering, although it amazes him as he had always thought the mountain countries in the Arabian lands remain out of reach from the others due to their need for privacy.
Snorting to himself, Maarku inwardly cringes at the conversation he would need to have with Khalid. From the looks of things, Kulaz does not need a stronger alliance with Aman. They are prospering perfectly without an alliance.
As he stops before a stall that sold colorful garments, Maarku’s eyes are instantly drawn to a green fabric that is long enough to be made into a hijab or shawl. His mother would love the rich green color. Reaching for it, Maarku let out a growl of displeasure when it is snatched away at the last minute by a tiny hand.
Turning to get a look at the person who stole the fabric out from under him, Maarku freezes, stunned at the sight of the thief. A woman. She wears a long, brown dress that covers her from neck to toes and the wide billowing sleeves are the only thing that shows the skin of her small tanned hands as she holds up the green fabric to the sun.
“This is perfect, Marta,” the woman murmurs to one of the stall attendants. Neither woman seems to even notice Maarku as he stands there in shock.
Clearing his throat, he gains their attention finally. The stall woman’s eyes go wide and a trace of fear is behind them at the sight of him, but the thief, the one holding the green fabric, is another story.
She slowly lowers the fabric and instead of calling her out for stealing the fabric he’d been about to buy, Maarku is frozen once again in place. Wearing a brown hijab that covers her hair, but reveals her face, Maarku instantly feels the cockles of his heart begin to warm and thud back to life. They haven’t done that since… no, don’t go there, Maarku, he growls inwardly, shaking himself of this thief’s spell.
“That was to be my purchase, woman,” Maarku growls loudly as he steps forward and takes the end of the fabric. He gives it a soft tug to make his point across.
The woman and the fabric do not budge and Maarku immediately meets her silvery, grey eyes. They squint slightly before her lips pull back into a teasing smile.
“First come, first serve as you American’s say, sir.”
Damn woman, Maarku inwardly curses, she thinks I’m American?
Giving the fabric another tug, Maarku’s glare intensifies and the stall woman rushes away to fetch the owner, a large burly man with a fluffy, grey beard.
“What seems to be the problem, Mina?” the stall owner asks nervously, his eyes flitting between the two of them as the woman, Mina, clutches the green fabric to the brown fabric at her chest.
“This man is trying to steal the fabric I wish to purchase from you, Adam,” Mina innocently smiles at the man and bats her long eyelashes at him.
Clever minx, Maarku inwardly croons b
efore turning his attention on the stall owner while still keeping his firm grip on the fabric, “I was reaching down to pick it up when this harpy snatched it away.”
The woman, Mina, gasps at his use of the word harpy and Maarku’s heart twinges at the look of shame splash red over the woman’s tanned skin. She is not a harpy, no, her voice is as beautiful as any song bird. However, there is no way he is going to tell her that!
Sputtering, the shop owner waves his hands in the air as Mina tightens her hold on the fabric and the sound of a rip is heard through his sputtering. Gasping in shock and perhaps pain at the thought of his work being torn, Adam, the shopkeeper lunges forward and snatches the fabric away from both of them. Maarku happily releases the fabric, though the woman, Mina, appears to not want to as it slips out of her fingers.
“We cannot afford to damage the product! Mina, is what he said true? Did you steal it from his hands?” Adam asks uncertain as he gazes into the young woman's face. Maarku can tell the old man holds the woman in high regard. His own father would never have stooped so low as to ask for the viewpoint or opinion of a woman. Maarku, too, wishes to hear more of what she has to say. Though, deep down, Maarku’s mind drifts to a dream of dragging her into a dark corner of the market where they can both lose themselves to their angry passion. Would their lovemaking be as passion fueled as their argument over a scrap of fabric?