Olivia Gates - The Desert Lord’s Bride

The second book in the Throne of Judar series, 2008

Dear Reader,

When the throne of a phenomenally prosperous desert kingdom is at stake, and with it the peace of a whole region, what will its heirs do to secure it? Anything, of course! Even if that duty is the worst thing that could happen to sheikh princes who value freedom above life-entering the permanent prison of a marriage of state.

In The Desert Lord’s Bride, Shehab has to secure the throne by marrying a woman he not only despises, but one who has point-blank refused to be the instrument of peace. What else can he do but seduce her into fulfilling her duty?

The three-book THRONE OF JUDAR miniseries is, I hope, the wonderful beginning to my writing for the Desire line. I immediately felt at home creating irresistible, larger-than-life heroes who meet their matches and destinies in passionate heroines; they are brought together on tempestuous journeys filled with pleasures and heartaches, until they reach their gloriously satisfying happy ending.

The miniseries began in May with The Desert Lord’s Baby and will conclude in September with The Desert King . I hope you’ll read all three books!

I would love to hear from you, so please contact me at www.oliviagates.com.

Olivia

It was happening.

And Shehab ben Hareth ben Essam Ed-Deen Aal Masood could still barely believe it.

Ya Ullah. Was he really standing in the middle of the ceremonial hall of the citadel of Bayt el Hekmah-which had witnessed every major royal event for six hundred years from the joyous to the grim-draped in the ceremonial garb he’d never thought he’d ever wear, the black-on-black robes of succession?

Yes. He was really here. So was every member of Judar’s Tribune of Elders, every member of the royal family, every noble house representative, every gaze focused on him.

He blocked out all but his older brother, Farooq, standing right there in his own ceremonial robes, white on white, signifying the transfer of power, his golden eyes flashing his regret, asking understanding.

Shehab squeezed his eyes shut once, acknowledging, everything once again explained and sanctioned through the elemental bond that had bound them since Shehab was born.

Yes. Shehab understood. And accepted. Farooq was only doing this because he had to. Because he knew Shehab was capable of shouldering the burden.

Then Farooq spoke, his voice reverberating in the gigantic hall, fathomless in tone, final in intent. “O’waleek badallan menni.”

I bequeath you the succession in my stead.

Then their uncle, the king, barely upright on the throne with the toll of crises, both physical and political, made the intent a reality, in a voice ravaged by infirmity and deep worry.

“Wa ana ossaddek ala tanseebuk walley aahdi.”

And I validate naming you my heir.

Shehab went down on one knee in front of his older brother, extending both hands, palms up, to accept the bejeweled sword of succession. The moment the heavy weapon rested on his upturned hands, it felt as if he’d just taken the weight of the world there.

And he had. He’d taken on the weight of Judar’s future.

He closed his eyes as the cold steel singed his flesh.

Ya Ullah. It was real.

Days ago he’d been going about his multi-billion-dollar IT business, his contribution to his kingdom being to ensure its avant-garde position in the global technological race. Days ago the throne had been a nonexistent specter with an older heir in his prime preceding him in line to it.

Then came today. Came now.

In place of the freedom to lead his own life, there loomed in his future undreamed-of power. And unspeakable responsibility. All it had taken was ten words.

And now he was Judar’s crown prince. Judar’s future king.

If there remained a Judar to be future king of. If there remained a throne for him to sit on.

Neither was certain any longer.

Not if he didn’t fulfill the terms of the pact demanded by the Aal Shalaans, the second-most powerful tribe of Judar, who formed Judor’s most influential minority.

Not if he didn’t marry a woman he’d never laid eyes on.

H ot as hell, cold as the grave.

Shehab’s lips thinned as he recalled the catchphrase, his eyes slicing through the sea of costumed people who impinged on his senses and turned the ballroom into a battleground of material excess and self-serving agendas.

Still no sign of the woman who’d warranted this slogan.

He played it again in his mind, unwillingly finding the rhythm to it, humming it along with the exuberant live orchestral performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 9.

Hot as hell, cold as the grave.

One man had even added insatiable as death.

Now that was a summation if he’d ever heard one.

The descriptions sounded like titles. Like the ones he’d been saddled with since birth. Sheikh Aal Masood. His Royal Highness. And now His Majestic Eminence the Crown Prince.

But according to common consensus, hers had been earned.

And he was expected to marry the woman.

No. He wasn’t expected to. He was going to. He had to.

His every muscle clenched. His teeth grated against each other.

Ya Ullah. He should be resigned by now, numbed. It had been over a month since he’d known the fate he had to succumb to, to safeguard Judar’s throne.

At times he could almost hate Carmen.

It was because of Farooq’s overriding love for his wife that he’d thrown the burden in Shehab’s lap.

Still, Shehab could have endured a fate he’d always proclaimed worse than death, an arranged marriage, if the designated bride had been anyone acceptable.

But Farah Beaumont, the illegitimate daughter of King Atef Aal Shalaan, king of Zohayd, wasn’t acceptable.

Not because she’d been born out of wedlock. And not because she’d refused to acknowledge her heritage, or to be the instrument of peace. The first she had no hand in, the second could have been a temporary inability to deal with the revelations about her past, the upheavals it promised in her future.

But neither was why Farah Beaumont-whom her mother had so sneakily given an Arabic name popular in the West-spurned her father and could afford to turn down the prospect of becoming a princess. The real reason was what made her so repulsive.

She’d been born into privilege, having been adopted by the French multimillionaire her mother had married. Then, ever since his fortune had been lost after his death, Farah had been clawing her way back to the top. She’d reached it when she’d become the right hand and mistress of world-shaper Bill Hanson, a married man almost old enough to be her grandfather.

By evidence of her actions and by everyone’s testimony, Farah Beaumont was a cold, promiscuous, seriously twisted woman.

She was also crucial to a whole region’s peace. But she’d refused to do her duty. Point-blank.

Now he had his duty. To pulverize her refusal.

He forced his teeth apart, answered the infringing stare of a couple in Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI costumes.

Instead of deflecting attention by making an appearance as a Kel Tagelmust, a man of the veil, a Tuareg Sahara warrior, Shehab was attracting nothing but. At least he remained anonymous. He couldn’t risk recognition. Hence the masked ball, where he could take the masked part literally.