Willow may not be her son’s biological mother, but she’s fiercely protective of her little boy. Can Hadi, a gruff, taciturn man, learn to be a patient, caring father? Sure, he’s the sexiest man she’s ever met, but that’s not the point. Still, it’s hard to keep her priorities straight when she gazes into the Sheikh’s smoldering eyes…

  With the public demanding a fairytale marriage, can these two opposites find their very own happy ending?

  Grab your copy of

  Sheikh’s Surprise Son

  Available December 30, 2021

  Available for pre-order now

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  Hadi paused in the doorway, AC in his face and the morning sun on his neck. His phone was buzzing again.

  Family, I’ll take it. Anyone else, they can wait.

  He glanced at the screen and stepped back outside. “Ilyas. Hello.”

  His cousin’s rich laughter came rolling down the line. “Talk about frosty! Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  Hadi leaned on the cool sandstone wall, under the TOMA SCHOOL sign. He pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a headache. “I’ve got time,” he said. “I’m at Lale’s school. It’s meet-the-teacher day. But you know me, always early. What’s on your mind?”

  Ilyas made a grunting sound, maybe amusement, maybe sympathy. “I called to check in on you, see how you’re holding up. All that nonsense in the press, first the line of succession, and now there’s this prophecy—”

  “Nonsense is the word.” Hadi closed his eyes. A faint afterimage remained, like a mirage on a hot day, the Mehara skyline rising to the west. Even now, the city was buzzing, nearly two million voices clamoring to be heard. “I’ve had my fill of gossip,” he said. “Come on. Distract me. What’s new with you?”

  “Well...” Ilyas cleared his throat. “Do you remember Stefan van Glief?”

  “Prince Stefan?” Hadi laughed. “What’s he done now?”

  “He’s getting married, that’s what. I was just at his engagement party, and you won’t believe who I ran into.”

  “Who?”

  Ilyas hesitated. “Well, before I tell you, answer me this. Have you ever spent the night with someone you knew you really shouldn’t—but at the same time, it felt right? Like you might even want to do it all again?”

  Hadi snorted laughter. “Me? A one-nighter?” He did a quick scan for eavesdroppers, but the schoolyard was empty. “Just tell me. Who was it?”

  “Avoiding the question, are we? Do I sense a guilty conscience?”

  Hadi sighed. He had stepped off the straight and narrow once, years ago, a few weeks before his wedding. Before his bride had been chosen, his life’s path locked down. He’d met a stranger and wooed her, and she’d taken him to her hotel. Her face had blurred in his memory till just a vague impression remained, gold hair and a sweet smile, a gap between her teeth. Her name had been English, some kind of plant. Juniper, maybe, or Sweetgrass, or...

  “Well?”

  “Once. But I’m warning you, this stays between us.” Hadi moved under the trellis, where the sun was less fierce. Fern, her name had been, like the fronds along the garden fence. That night, she’d been freedom, a taste of the forbidden. “I was set for an arranged marriage,” he said. “She was my last chance.”

  “To be loved?”

  “By a stranger?” Hadi laughed. “Nothing so noble. I wanted to do something irresponsible, something just for me. To jump in without thinking, tomorrow be damned. Men like us, we don’t do that. Every choice we make, we make it for millions.” Hadi had, without realizing it, begun to pace. He came to a stop, embarrassed. “Sorry. Just, it’s infuriating. I can’t make a move without protest from the peanut gallery. And now there’s this prophecy—I’m meant to remarry? To find a bride, tie the knot, and all because some astrologer said I should? Nonsense, Ilyas. I tell you, it’s—what’s so funny?”

  Ilyas choked off his laughter. “You said you didn’t want to talk about it. Distract me, you said. That was you, right?”

  “Fair point.” Behind him, the school bell rang. Hadi slid his thumb down the screen but didn’t hang up. “I should go,” he said. “I’m headed into a meeting. But you be careful. You’ve got your own press to worry about.”

  “Of course. We’ll talk later.” Ilyas broke the connection, and Hadi tucked his phone away. He headed into the school founded by his great-grandfather, under the placard bearing his name. He’d gone here himself, knew the halls like his own, but even if he hadn’t, the pink WELCOME, PARENTS signs would’ve shown him the way.

  “Sheikh Hadi Toma?” A curvy, smiling woman popped out of her classroom. She beckoned to Hadi, all eager invitation. “I’ll see you now, if you’re ready.”

  “Oh? Am I late?” Hadi glanced at his watch, knowing perfectly well he wasn’t.

  “Not at all—I’m early.” Her smile was dazzling close up, bright and warm and open. It dimpled her cheeks and set her eyes to dancing. She had pink hair peeking out from under her scarf. He smiled back without meaning to, charmed by its exuberance.

  “Call me Hadi,” he said. “At least for this interview, I’m just Lale’s father, not the sheikh of Tanodayea.”

  “Hadi, wonderful. I’m Willow, by the way.” She stuck out her hand. “Willow Mandrake, Lale’s teacher.”

  Hadi took her hand and squeezed it. Willow squeezed back, and Hadi swallowed sadness. If he had a type, Willow was it, round and pretty, full of energy. He could see himself teasing her, cracking jokes to make her dimple. In another world, he could see that, one where his life was his own. Where he could ask the cute teacher on a date without inciting a press storm.

  “This is one of Lale’s paintings,” Willow said. She dropped Hadi’s hand and gestured at the art wall. “That’s hers on the right, with the red flowers all over.”

  “She did that herself?” Hadi stepped up to examine the painting more closely. Lale had painted him, he realized, standing in the palace rose garden, in his robes of office and with a flower in his hair. “What was the assignment?”

  “To paint someone who inspires you.” Willow reached past him, so close her sleeve brushed his. “The flower in your hair is so you don’t have to stop to smell the roses. You can be busy, and still catch a whiff.” She chuckled, warm and merry. “She’s a kind girl, and thoughtful. A pleasure to teach.”

  Hadi’s pulse was racing. Willow smelled of dried paint and of something sweetly floral. He edged away from her, fighting to focus. “How’s she doing in math? Last year, she had problems, some hesitancy with numbers.”

  “Not this year.” Willow went to her desk and flipped through her ledger. “She’s second in math, in a class of fifteen; first in history and composition. She often helps her classmates, makes sure they’re caught up.”

  “Does she? That’s marvelous.” Hadi stood taller, flush with pride. His phone pinged in his pocket, and he flipped it to silent. “Is there a but coming? I hope not, but—”

  “No but.” Willow sat down, and though she’d denied a downside, Hadi thought she looked nervous. She set down her pencil and adjusted her scarf. “A teacher can’t pick favorites,” she said. “But Lale’s a model student, curious, enthusiastic. She’s one of those rare kids, loves learning so much she hardly needs a teacher. Not that I don’t teach her, of course, but—oh! She and Zak started a science club, all on their own, without prompting from me.”

  Hadi frowned. “Zak?”

  “Her best friend. My nephew. They’ve been inseparable all year.” She smiled out at the schoolyard, at the swings drifting in the breeze. “It’s been quite a transition for him, from London to here. But Lale took him under her wing, and...”

  Hadi sat smiling and let Willow’s praise wash over him. His interest had waned when the subject turned to Zak, but Willow’s cheer was infectious, her voice cool and soothing. He should go, he knew. He had no call to linger, now that he’d gotten his report. His phone was still buzzing, duty tugging at his sleeve.

  “...so, my desk was buried in baking soda, but Zak was so happy, and Lale was—”

  The next parent had arrived, he saw, Raina Abbas. Hadi half-rose. He’d as soon avoid her and her journalist’s nose.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I’d love to stay longer, but—”

  “Zak is your son.” Willow moved quickly, blocking his retreat. Mrs. Abbas made a startled sound, already reaching for her phone. Hadi sat down hard, chair scraping on the tiles. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head to clear it.

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  Grab your copy of

  Sheikh’s Surprise Son

  Available December 30, 2021

  Available for pre-order now

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  After losing her parents, American artist Elena set out on a trip around the world. Now, in the sultry heat of the Middle East, she’s having a hard time imagining returning to real life back home. But with half of her vacation still ahead of her, she and her friend are packed and ready to move onto their next destination when a chance encounter changes everything. A handsome stranger with a devilish grin catches Elena’s eye, but how could she know that an innocent favor is about to change her life forever.

  Asim always relies on his intuition...with business and with women. Along with his brothers, he works hard to keep their company so profitable, but he prefers to live in the moment. With pressure mounting from his mother to settle down and marry a family friend, Asim needs an escape. He’s enchanted by the beguiling American beauty he sees at the café, and she couldn’t have come along at a better time. But when he asks her to be his fake fiancée, he never could have known she would change his life forever.

  The two waste no time coming together, but when the spontaneity wears off and Elena learns of an unexpected complication, will Asim be ready to face the future?

  Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s Fake Fiancée

  (Azhar Sheikhs Book One)

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  Elena sipped at the Turkish coffee, grimacing at the strange bitter flavor that, no matter how many times she ordered it in fumbling Arabic, just didn’t taste any better than the first twenty times.

  She swallowed it down anyway—it’ll get easier; it’s part of the experience—and sighed happily, enjoying the warm breeze caressing her on the balcony. This was their last morning in Beirut, Lebanon, before she and her friend Aubrey gallivanted onward to Europe. After six weeks on the road, backpacking and sightseeing and gawking and giggling, she found it hard to accept the fact that their trip was halfway over.

  Which meant real life loomed just around the corner.

  She brought the cup to her mouth again to take a sip but thought better of it. She smiled out at the azure Mediterranean Sea, watching the bustle and clamor of the street below. Cars honked, people filled the sidewalks, and street vendors proffered strange sacks in harsh voices. Gorgeous women strutted in high fashion, oversized sunglasses complementing inky black tresses. She had to pinch herself sometimes to remind herself this was real.

  Her parents would have been thrilled to know she’d made it this far. To Lebanon, of all places. The Middle East, the farthest from home she’d ever ventured. Her heart tightened in the way it always did when reflecting on accomplishments since her parents’ passing, a mixture of pride and sadness. If only they could see her. Good lord, would they be proud of her. A fresh college grad, seeing the world. Less than two months away from taking the leap into trying to make it on her own as an artist.

  “Hey, girl.” Aubrey’s voice cut through Elena’s reverie. She turned to greet her friend, pushing aside the diaphanous drapes lining the balcony door to step inside.

  “So, it turns out checkout is in half an hour,” Aubrey said, flopping onto the skinny twin bed. Elena set her coffee down on the small dresser by the balcony door. “Leaving here at noon was apparently a pipe dream. The sign on the reception desk made it sound like there were stern consequences for overstaying our reservation. Or maybe it was just a bad translation.”

  “Shit.” Elena surveyed the explosion of clothes, the still-wet towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

  “Yeah. We better get a move on.” Aubrey let a long sigh. “Although we could always reserve an extra night here…”

  Elena tutted. “No can do. We have a schedule to maintain.” She tapped an imaginary watch on her wrist. Who knew where they’d be if it weren’t for her rigid punctuality. If left to her own devices, Aubrey would probably still be in Jordan, lurking around the haunting caverns and monoliths of Petra.

  “I know, I know.” Aubrey sighed, rolling onto her side. “But seriously, not even an extra day?”

  Elena leveled her with a look. “We paid for a ferry to Cyprus tonight.”

  “You’re right.” Aubrey groaned, rolling off the bed. “Time to fill up Ol’ Lumpy.”

  Elena smirked at the pet name for her backpack her friend had coined during their trip. The two made excellent travel partners, which didn’t surprise her because they’d also been excellent roommates in college. They’d been random roommates their freshman year, hit it off like long-lost twins, and had been inseparable ever since. If they had shared the same major, that would have been the only thing to make college better—but Aubrey’s degree in history only matched Elena’s major in fine arts in their mutual appreciation for very old art.

  Elena gathered the loose sheets of paper from the small desk near the balcony door, the sketches she’d started outlining over the course of their trip. It seemed every other turn presented her with a new sight, a new moment, a new hue to capture. She’d have enough painting material for a decade after this trip—and maybe, just maybe, it would turn into a lucrative series down the road. The only thing urging her homeward was the itchy desire to feel the acrid sting of paint thinner in the air as she started with a blank canvas.

  If only there’d been a way to fit her easel, five canvases, and the entirety of her oil paint collection in this twenty-liter backpack. Like airport security would have let you through with the paint thinner.

  “Elena, do you want these?” Aubrey held up a handful of postcards from the nightstand between the two twin beds. Elena squinted, recognizing them as the postcards she’d bought to write to her parents.

  “Yes, I need those!” She leaned forward to grab them, flipping one over to confirm the letter she’d begun.

  Dear Mom & Pops,

  Sometimes, it seems like writing these letters means I could actually send them, and maybe you’d receive them. Like any other traveling daughter experiencing the world. But I know when I get home you won’t be there. You’d think after three years I’d have gotten used to this a little bit more.

  The postcard wasn’t finished, but that could be taken care of later, during their boat ride to the island. Writing letters she’d never send had been an unexpected project during the trip—somehow a therapy and a memento at the same time. They didn’t make her as sad as she might have thought. Rather, it made her feel even closer to them, especially as she embarked upon such new adventures as a freshly minted college graduate.

  Elena organized all her papers and sketches into a small folder and then got to work stuffing her backpack. Leggings, tank tops, long sleeves—every manner of quick-drying, easily folded travel wear. Nothing spiffy, except for the one nice dress she’d brought in case of an emergency fancy outing. She still hadn’t worn it.

  “I swear my underwear count keeps dwindling,” Aubrey muttered as she stuffed some pieces into her own bag.

  “Like socks in a dryer,” Elena said. “The hotel floors must inhale underwear. Their only sustenance.”

  Aubrey frowned. “Creepy. And weirdly poetic.”

  Elena smiled and hummed as she finished packing, then did a final sweep of the room and bathroom. All set. With just three minutes to spare, she and Aubrey slung their packs over their shoulders and tottered down the stairs to the lobby of the small hotel.

  At the gleaming hotel desk, a woman with platinum blonde hair and dark roots smiled at them. Aubrey breezed up to speak first, as she’d grown accustomed to taking the reins. “We’re checking out of room 303.”

  The woman smiled sweetly and a long string of Arabic came out. Elena furrowed her brow, trying to catch any word she recognized. Marhaba was all she caught. Damnit, Elena. You should have studied harder while you’ve been here.

  Aubrey glanced at Elena then turned back to the receptionist. “I’m sorry?”

  Another string of rapid Arabic, followed by a giggle. The receptionist seemed embarrassed—or something—and Aubrey and Elena shared open-mouthed looks.

  “Well, here’s our key…” Aubrey slid their key card over the counter top, pointing at the staircase, then at the sliding doors behind them. “We’re going now.” She waved. “Done here. Bye bye. Mas el saleme. Chokran.”

  The three shared an awkward smile until Aubrey and Elena began backing away slowly.

  “Does she know we’re checking out?” Elena asked under breath. “We paid, right?”

  “We paid,” Aubrey said. “But I’m just not sure if there’s anything else to the checkout procedure. She sure can’t tell us.”

  “And we sure can’t ask her,” Elena said, hooking both her arms into the backpack straps. “God, Arabic is hard. I wish I had studied way longer than the past few weeks.” The front door of the hotel slid open as they approached it, revealing a clamorous, humid world beyond. The sea sparkled on the horizon, though the noise and chaos of the busy Beirut street made a stark contrast to the apparent calm of the water.