Ziad was many things, Fahim noted, but his older brother could be a little blind when it came to the care that some things required. Of course Fahim would do anything for his niece, but he was beginning to wish he hadn't agreed to this particular task.

  Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't had his own slight musical background. It meant that he knew the people coming in all too well. There had been good teachers with excellent credentials, but they lacked a certain spark for music that Fahim thought essential. He didn't want Jamila to be stuck with another dreary chore; he wanted her to be inspired, to at least appreciate music even if she did not choose to pursue it.

  The passionate musicians hadn't been good fits either. They were clearly enthralled with their work, but Fahim could all too easily see how they might trample a child's enthusiasm in favor of their own, and how little they could adapt to meet a mind that operated on a level that wasn't theirs.

  The day was almost done, and so far, no one had made an impression.

  One more, Fahim thought, running his hand over his eyes. One more, and then maybe it is time to tell Ziad that he needs to ask Laura or Sarah to do this. They both know more about child development than I do—they might have insights.

  The last applicant had a sticky note on her dossier, prepared by his efficient secretary. It noted no experience teaching children, and Fahim was almost ready to call it a wash, but then he read the name.

  “Rose Adams,” he said in surprise. “Surely not.”

  It seemed exceedingly unlikely that Rose Adams of the hit band Rive would be applying for a position as a princess's music tutor, but Fahim entertained himself with the idea that it was. She was, no question, a talented musician, and what a sight it would be to have little Jamila tackling her piano or violin lesson with the same verve that Rose Adams tackled her band's challenging musical lines. But there was no way it was her.

  Fahim shook off the fantasy, looking over the rest of the dossier. This Rose Adams had a degree in music history and a decade of performing experience. Beyond that, there wasn't much to go on, good or bad, and Fahim sighed.

  Likely another wash, he thought, and he texted his secretary to send her in.

  He was ready for another well-made-up young woman in tweed and cotton, or perhaps the more bohemian draping silks and loose hair, but the woman who entered wore a dark suit with trousers, looking more like she was ready for a day at an accounting firm than time with a guitar or a piano. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face in a severe fashion that left no doubt as to her identity. Fahim stared. There was no doubt about it—this was absolutely Rose Adams, the petite guitarist Rolling Stone had called her generation's stick of musical dynamite.

  “Dream of Vengeance,” Fahim blurted out, and the woman's eyes went wide. They were a pale, clear gray, and when she opened them wide, it gave her a fraught and feral look, as if she were some forest animal brought to bay.

  “What?”

  “Ah, forgive me,” Fahim said, shaking his head at his own enthusiasm. “Dream of Vengeance was my favorite album last year. I saw you when Rive stopped in London. Almost fainted at how good you were.”

  The startled look drained from Rose's eyes, leaving her with a crooked smile that was surprisingly shy.

  “Oh, you saw us? I…I suppose I didn't think anyone here would…”

  The poise she’d had coming into the room had broken, and now she flexed her hands nervously, as if trying to warm them. Fahim noticed that her fingers were slender and elegant, calloused from her guitar, but scrubbed completely clean.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, and she hitched one shoulder up.

  “I've…I've already blown this, haven't I?” she asked a little hopelessly, and Fahim found himself shaking his head.

  “Of course you haven't,” he said warmly. “I haven't even started the interview yet, just been a boorish fan at you. Come sit down, and we’ll see if you suit the position you’re here for.”

  She looked relieved, nodding and going to sit in the chair he indicated. It occurred to him to wonder why a superstar musician would be applying for the position of music tutor, and the only answers that came back were dark ones.

  “So tell me,” he said when they were both seated. “Why do you want this job?”

  Rose sat up very straight, her hands resting nervously on her knees.

  “I love music. I love inspiring people. Teaching combines those two loves.”

  The answer was one that he had heard all day, and Rose made a face after she had said it, as if she could hear how very stiff it was. Fahim was going to move on, but then she shook her head.

  “Look, can I be honest with you?”

  “I generally prefer that people are,” Fahim said, mystified, and Rose took a deep breath.

  “I'm in trouble,” she said. “I know that's not something any employer wants to hear, but I don't think I should take this job without telling you.”

  Fahim nodded, frowning. She clasped her hands in front of her and continued.

  “Very long story short, I'm pregnant. I guess if you follow Rive, you know Darius—that is, Darius Bright. He's the lead singer, he's been my boyfriend since I was eighteen, and he's…he's the father.”

  Her voice broke a little on the last word, as if she didn't even like saying it. She shook her head, a strand of curly hair coming loose and falling in her face. Fahim had to restrain himself from reaching over to tug it out of the way. The way Rose had folded in on herself, she looked suddenly more fragile—she looked afraid.

  “I'm—well, I'm scared of him. I guess I've been afraid of him for a long time, and then when I found out I was going to have a kid, well, I got more scared of what he might do if I—we—stayed than of what he would do if I left him. So I ran. Took off in the middle of the last tour, left without saying a word.”

  “Darius controlled—controls—everything. I didn't have much cash, and I've been dodging the press for weeks now. I had nowhere to go, no friends, no family that wants to see me. I need to find some kind of work, something I'm good at.”

  “So how did you end up here?”

  “Ha, oh! Right, blame that one on the Yeni Bugler.”

  Fahim made a face at that, startling a real smile from Rose. She was an attractive woman, but when she smiled, he realized she had the charisma to charm a stadium full of fans.

  “I know, I know, puff pieces and paparazzi. I'm not a fan. But I needed to leave my hotel room for food, and I grabbed a copy of the Bugler to hide behind while I waited. I saw that piece they did about Jamila, you know, needing a music tutor, and they had a thing about what instrument she wanted to play. I went on the website for hiring the palace staff, and…”

  Here she hesitated, and Fahim nodded.

  “It's all right,” he said gently. “I want you to be honest with me.”

  “Right. Well. The website had all these pictures of the palace, you know, history stuff, things like that, but what I saw were the walls and the security. I had to go through two metal detectors to get in, and the grounds are locked up tight. This place…this place looks safe.”

  She hesitated.

  “I want to be safe. I want my baby to be safe.”

  Her story was sad, sad enough to sting his heart, but he knew that he couldn't offer her a job solely on her situation. He was ready to start telling her about services in Yeni that might help her, but then the door opened, and Ziad looked in.

  “Oh, your interviews are still going? I'm sorry, I can talk with you later.”

  “No, Ziad, it's fine. Come on in.”

  Ziad was a big man, taller and broader than Fahim himself, and he cast a curious look at Rose, who had risen to her feet with her shoulders squared and her head back. No matter how afraid she was, she didn't show it now, and she shook Ziad's offered hand with a brisk confidence.

  “Rose Adams,” she said. “I'm here about the music tutoring job.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Adams,” Ziad said pleasantly, and Fahim groaned inwardly because it was obvious that Ziad had absolutely no idea who Rose was. He wanted to fill his brother in, but Ziad was already speaking.

  “Fahim's been texting me about the interviews. So what are your plans for Jamila and her brother? I know she's the one who's going to be receiving the main instruction, but Fahim thought it wouldn't be too early if you were interested in working with Hasan as well.”

  “Oh, I read about Hasan!” Rose said, suddenly brightening. “He's not even three yet, is he? I picked up my mom's guitar when I wasn't much bigger than he was. I mean, I couldn't do anything with it, but all I wanted to do was to pluck the strings and make more noise. That's how it begins, you know, with fun and with play. Music shouldn't be a chore, even if it is hard work sometimes. The best understanding of music comes when you're having fun with it.”

  “I see,” said Ziad thoughtfully. “You are proficient on guitar?”

  Fahim wanted to choke a little. Asking the lead guitarist of Rive if she was proficient was like asking Leonardo da Vinci if he painted a little, but Rose charged forward with it.

  “Absolutely. It's my first love, but I'm good on keyboard, too. Basically, if you can make a sound with it, I can turn it into music, and that was the best thing I ever learned about music in general. The whole world wants to sing and play music, and it's all right there if you know where to look. That's what I want to teach kids about music, how to find it and how best to get the music out.”

  Fahim found that he couldn't take his eyes away. With Rose focused on Ziad, he could look at her all he liked, and the woman he saw—animated, bright, and so eager—could take the breath right out of his lungs. It was an incredible change from how she had looked before.

  Ziad looked intrigued, obviously wanting to ask her more, but his phone rang. When he checked it, he shook his head.

  “Ah, that's all the time I have. Ms. Adams, good luck with the interview. Fahim, I'll catch up with you later.”

  When Ziad left, Rose took a deep breath.

  “That was…um…the sheikh himself?”

  Fahim nodded, laughing.

  “He does rather have that effect on people. But you said you could pick up any instrument and get music out of it. What about the violin? How are you on the violin?”

  The look she shot him was frankly cocky, and it made him smile in return.

  “Kind of a modern-day Paganini,” she said with a laugh. “I play both violin and guitar, like he did, and I'm about as good on one as I am on the other.”

  Which meant she was very good, given what he had seen at her show. Fahim laughed, shaking his head.

  “You'll have to give me some pointers. I left off my own practice years ago. Do you have any questions for me?”

  Rose hesitated, a cloud of doubt coming over her face.

  “Um. This is my first job interview. I'm not sure what to ask. How about…did I get the job?”

  Fahim felt suddenly strange, as if he were getting ready to step straight over a cliff or as if he were going to leap and see if he could fly.

  “A trial basis, I think,” he said finally. “I liked what you said about finding music, and I have seen what a good musician you are. You'll be teaching Jamila, Ziad's daughter, an hour after school every afternoon, and then on Saturday mornings, she'll have a longer lesson. And of course, this is a live-in position, and as you have seen, the palace is incredibly secure. That is, if you accept.”

  “Why wouldn't I?” Rose exclaimed, and then she shook her head, remembering herself. “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you. This means the world to me.”

  Fahim directed her towards the accounting department who would get her set up, because he wasn't altogether calm about how Rose Adams already made him feel. He had to be practical about all this. He had to talk to Ziad and bring up the whole issue with Darius, but he wasn't worried.

  How much trouble could one musician be?

  Grab your copy of

  The Sheikh’s Pregnant Teacher

  Available 27 May 2021

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  Laila Tindall is only in Raihan to hone her pottery skills and visit her ailing grandfather. Marriage was never in the picture. But when her grandfather is tricked into signing a binding marriage contract to a man she finds repugnant, she has one choice: Run away. Her flight ends with a fortuitous meeting with Zayid Hasan, Crown Prince of Raihan, who offers the perfect solution to Laila’s predicament: marry him and solve both their problems. Zayid’s younger brother must marry his pregnant fiancé, and ancient laws dictate the oldest brother is required to marry first. Desperate for a way to protect both her grandfather and herself, Laila agrees. After all, their marriage will last only until Zayid’s brother can marry—and her marriage to the brooding, handsome prince isn’t much of a sacrifice. It’s not like she’s going to be foolish enough to fall in love…

  Zayid doesn’t know what to think about his new half-American wife. He doesn’t really want to think about her at all, but for some reason, he can’t stop himself. Strangely enough, all the royal functions that used to bore him silly are now entertaining with Laila by his side—even though he knows she’d much rather be alone creating her art. Though the marriage of convenience was his idea, he can’t help but start to wish it was the real deal. No way can he ignore the simmering chemistry that’s driving them both a bit crazy. He’s much better at ignoring what’s in his heart—until he realizes it just might break if he can’t convince Laila to stay with him forever…

  Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s Marriage Bargain (Hasan Sheikhs Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  Laila looked down on the city of Raihanabad, the capital city of Raihan, and drank it in. The colors. The evening sunlight pouring down on ancient stucco buildings snugged up next to modern glass structures. None were higher than the palace in the center, surrounded by its green gardens. What would it be like, to trace the shapes of the city in clay? She could feel those edges beneath her fingertips. An arch here, a rough corner there, and a gleaming palace at the heart with all the swoops and falls of Spanish architecture.

  Her grandfather’s house had an amazing view. Part of her wanted to stand here forever, looking across a perfect morning in Raihan. The house hugged a tiny vineyard on one side and a custom fountain in the back. She took another long, deep breath and listened to the water burble in that fountain. The sound moved through the house on the breeze. So peaceful.

  “Papa?” she called, splitting the silence. “I have to get back to the city.” How long had she been standing at the window? She turned away and scanned the large living room, which led into a spacious kitchen and dining room, with a den on the other side. A hall on the left led to two guest bedrooms and the master suite. All of it had been done in a shade of white that made her think of chalk, if chalk were the most elegant thing in the world. Simple, yet high quality. That was her grandfather’s style. But where was the man himself?

  A car door slammed in the back, and she moved into the kitchen and toward the noise without thinking. He couldn’t have left and come back. Could he? If he’d needed something from the city, it wouldn’t make sense to go in the middle of her visit. Although his dementia made him forget the teakettle and sometimes call her by her mother’s name, she hadn’t known him to wander off without telling anyone. Yet. The hairs on the backs of her arms pointed up and away. No, she thought. Let this all be all right. It would probably be fine. She did a quick breathing exercise to calm her nerves.

  “Papa?” The door at the back of the kitchen swung open, letting the orange sunlight in along with her grandfather. “There you are,” she said. “I thought you might have gone to the city without me.”

  Labeeb, her grandfather, came around the kitchen island and gave her a smile. “Gone to the city? Not when it’s time for the ceremony, no.”

  “What ceremony? I didn’t plan on any ceremonies today. I have to get back to the studio.” Her pottery studio was a rented space in the center of the city. Tiny, no air conditioning, a postage stamp of a courtyard, but it had everything she needed while she was in Raihan. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “I’ll come visit next week.”

  “No, you’ll stay.” He put his wizened hand on her elbow. “It’s time. Harb, come in.” A confused look flashed across his face and was gone. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

  “That’s right, but I have plans.” And Harb—she did not want to see Harb. The man was a creep. He’d shown up at dinner with her grandfather her first week in the country, and he’d made her stomach turn. He always looked like he was plotting something when he looked at her—something she knew she would not enjoy.

  The man himself stepped into the doorway. The smug smile on his face threatened to unseat her lunch.

  “Hello,” she said. “See you next week, Papa.”

  “Don’t go just yet, my dear.” Harb stepped fully inside, and Laila backed into the living room. Harb laughed. “No need to be shy. In a few minutes, we’ll be married, and you’ll have no time to be bashful.”

  A terrified laugh bubbled up into her throat, but she swallowed it back. “I promise, you’re wrong about that. I’m not marrying anyone, least of all you.”

  Herb raised his eyebrows at her grandfather. “You didn’t tell her? Labeeb, you’re losing your edge.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from the back pocket of his linen pants. “I’ve come to claim you as my bride. The deal is set.” Harb handed her the paper. Laila willed herself not to throw any punches.

  She read the words printed there, which spelled out the marriage contract—including a bride price, of all things—but the signatures at the bottom dealt the final blow. Harb’s and her grandfather’s.

  He was already talking.

  “—perform the ceremony.” She looked up to find a third man in the room. The imam. “We’re ready to begin.”

  The imam cleared his throat. “Stand together, and the ceremony will commence.”