Emilie Rose - The Desert Lord's Bride / Wed by Deception - The Desert Lord's Bride

The Desert Lord's Bride by Olivia Gates

This was all wrong. He was supposed to be the one performing the seduction.

He was always in control, taking what was on offer or leaving it. No woman had ever had him a breath away from insanity.

But as Shehab broke the kiss and gazed over Farah’s swollen lips and shining eyes, over the perfection posed in a mind-blowing offering, he couldn’t remember how this had started, or why he must not take what his body was bellowing for, come what may.

He’d been wrong about her. This unpredictable enchantress was nothing like the hardened vixen he’d expected.

And she was infinitely more dangerous for it.

Wed by Deception by Emilie Rose

Lucas wanted to kill the man who’d stolen his wife from him.

But with Kincaid already dead, vengeance was beyond reach. Or was it?

Why give up an eleven-year-old vendetta just because he wouldn’t get to see his enemy writhe in defeat? He could still have the satisfaction of knowing he’d won, and that was what really mattered.

He stared at the door Nadia had slammed in his face. He could still have the pleasure of holding all his nemesis once possessed. Beginning with Nadia.

OLIVIA GATES

EMILIE ROSE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

by

Olivia Gates

OLIVIA GATES

has always pursued creative passions – painting, singing and many handicrafts. She still does, but only one of her passions grew gratifying enough, consuming enough, to become an ongoing career: writing.

She is most fulfilled when she is creating worlds and conflicts for her characters, then exploring and untangling them bit by bit, sharing her protagonists’ every heart-wrenching heartache and hope, their every heart-pounding doubt and trial, until she leads them to an indisputably earned and gloriously satisfying happy ending.

When she’s not writing, she is a doctor, a wife to her own alpha male and a mother to one brilliant girl and one demanding angora cat. Visit Olivia at www.oliviagates.com.

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 mini-series 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

To my wonderful mother, husband and daughter,

for the support, enthusiasm and inspiration.

To my amazing editor Natashya Wilson,

for always getting the best book out of me.

Can’t do it without you all.

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.

One

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.