Susan Stephens - Claimed by the Desert Sheikh - The Sheikh and the Pregnant Bride / Desert King, Pregnant Mistress / Desert Prince, Expectant Mother

Under the scorching heat of the desert sun these powerful princes’ thoughts turn to seduction!

CLAIMED BY THE

Desert

SHEIKH

Three exotic and compelling books

by three exciting authors:

SUSAN MALLERY

SUSAN STEPHENS

OLIVIA GATES

Claimed by the Desert

Sheikh

The Sheikh and the Pregnant Bride

Susan Mallery

Desert King, Pregnant Mistress

Susan Stephens

Desert Prince, Expectant Mother

Olivia Gates

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Sheikh and the

Pregnant Bride

Susan Mallery

New York Times bestselling author SUSAN MALLERYhas entertained millions of readers with her witty and emotional stories about women and the relationships that move them. Publishers Weekly calls Susan’s prose “luscious and provocative,” and Booklist says, “Novels don’t get much better than Mallery’s expert blend of emotional nuance, humour and superb storytelling.” While Susan appreciates the critical praise, she is most honoured by the enthusiastic readers who write to tell her that her books made them laugh, made them cry and made the world a happier place to live. Susan lives in Seattle with her husband and her tiny but intrepid toy poodle. She’s there for the coffee, not the weather.

Visit Susan on the web at www.susanmallery.com.

Maggie Collins hated to admit it but the reality was, she was a tiny bit disappointed by her first meeting with a real, live prince.

The trip to El Deharia had been great. She’d flown first-class, which was just as fabulous as it looked in the movies. When she’d landed, she’d been whisked by limo to a fancy hotel. Until then, her only other limo experience had been for her prom and then she and her date had been sharing it and the expense with six other couples.

Arriving at the exclusive Hotel El Deharia, she’d been shown to a suite with a view of the Arabian Sea. The living room alone had been about the same size as the two-bedroom house she’d grown up in back in Aspen.

She also couldn’t complain about the palace. It was big and beautiful and historic-looking. But honestly, the offices where she was supposed to be meeting Prince Qadir weren’t anything special. They were just offices. And everyone was dressed so professionally in conservative suits. She’d been hoping for harem pants and a tiara or two. Of course, as she’d mostly seen men, a tiara was probably out of place.

The thought of the older British gentleman who had shown her into the office wearing a tiara made her giggle. She was still laughing when the door opened and a tall man in yet another suit walked in.

“Good morning,” he said as he approached. “I am Prince Qadir.”

Maggie sighed in disappointment. Yes, the prince was very handsome, but there was nothing different about him. No medals, not even a crown or a scepter or some proof of rank.

“Well, darn,” she murmured.

Prince Qadir raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Had she said that aloud? Oops. “I, ah …” She swallowed and then squared her shoulders. “Prince Qadir,” she said as she walked toward him and held out her hand. “Very nice to meet you. I’m Maggie Collins. We’ve been corresponding via e-mail.”

He took her hand in his and shook it. “I’m aware of that, Ms. Collins. I believe my last note to you said I preferred to work with your father.”

“Yet the ticket was in my name,” she said absently as she dropped her arm to her side, aware that even though she was five-ten, he was still much taller than her.

“I sent you each a ticket. Did he not use his?”

“No, he didn’t.” She glanced out the window at the formal garden below. “My father …” She cleared her throat and returned her attention to the prince. This was not the time to get sad again. She was here to do business. “My father died four months ago.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Qadir glanced at his watch. “A car will return you to your hotel.”

“What?” Outrage chased away any threatening tears. “You’re not even going to talk to me?”

“No.”

Of all the annoying, arrogant, male ways to react. It was just so typical. “I’m more than capable of doing the job.”

“I don’t doubt that, Ms. Collins. However, my arrangement was with your father.”

“We were in business together.” The last year of her father’s life, she’d run the car-restoration business he’d started years ago. And lost it, although that hadn’t been because of anything she’d done wrong. The medical bills had been massive. In the end she’d had to sell everything to pay them, including the business.

“This project is very important to me. I want someone with experience.”

She wanted to deck him. Given the fact that she was female and he was well-bred, she could probably get one shot in, what with the element of surprise on her side. But to what end? Hitting a member of the royal family was hardly the way to get the job.

“There were exactly seven hundred and seventeen Rolls-Royce Phantom IIIs built between 1936 and 1939, plus ten experimental cars,” she said as she glared at him. “The earlier models had a maximum speed of ninety-two miles an hour. Problems started showing up early because the cars weren’t designed to be run at maximum speed for any length of time. This became an issue as owners took their cars to Europe where they could drive on the newly built German autobahn. The company’s initial fix was to tell the drivers to go slower. Later, they offered a modification that was little more than a higher-ratio fourth gear that also made the car go slower.”

She paused. “There’s more, but I’m sure you already know most of it.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“I’m a professional.” A professional who desperately needed the job. Prince Qadir had a 1936 Phantom III he wanted restored. Expense was no object. She needed the money he offered to pay off the last of her father’s medical bills and keep her promise of starting up the family business again.

“You’re a woman.”

She glanced down at her chest, then back at him. “Really? I guess that explains the breasts. I’d wondered why they were there.”

One corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were amused.

She decided to push while he was in a good mood. “Look. My mother died right after I was born. I grew up in my dad’s garage. I learned to change oil before I learned to read. Yes, I’m female, but so what? Cars have always been my life. I’m a great mechanic. If what they say is true, that classic cars are female, who better to understand them than me? I can do this. I work hard, I don’t get drunk and knock up the local girls. Even more important, with my father gone, I have something to prove. You’re a man of the world. You know what a difference the right motivation can be.”

Qadir stared at the woman before him and wondered if he should let himself be convinced. If Maggie Collins restored cars with the same energy that she was using on him, he had nothing to worry about. But a female in the garage?

He reached for her hand and took it in his. Her fingers were long, her nails short. She was attractive, but not delicate. He turned her hand over and stared at her palm. There were several calluses and a couple of scars. These were the hands of someone who worked for a living.