Oh, god. What the hell am I doing?

  She swallowed against the sandpaper coating the inside of her throat and reminded herself to breathe. Standing on the threshold of the red carpet runner leading up to the altar erected specifically for this ceremony, she spotted her groom at the opposite end of the aisle. He looked strong and handsome and aloof, his expression unreadable as he stared back at her. He’d insisted, through his assistants, on including touches from the West in the ceremony to make Stella feel more comfortable. She appreciated it but had never felt like turning and running more in her life.

  But no. She wasn’t a runner. Or a quitter. She’d committed to this, and she’d see it through, because that’s what she did. She hadn’t gotten her own tech business to world-class status without being strong-willed and outspoken. She could handle this. She would handle this. And sure, it would’ve been nice to be in love with the man she was marrying, but that could come in time. What mattered even more to her at this point in her life was stability, and you couldn’t get any more stable than a sheikh, right?

  She gave a nervous little snort and blinked hard.

  Calm down, girl. You got this.

  It was the same mantra she repeated to herself before a big meeting for her gaming company. The same words she spoke when she had a new idea to pitch to the venture capitalists. The same steadfastness she summoned now to walk down the aisle and into a future she hadn’t planned but was facing nonetheless.

  Rather than give the nervous fire threatening to burn out of control inside her any more fuel, she concentrated on her soon-to-be husband instead. He was taller than she remembered, but then she’d only seen him in passing, usually from across a room, or in press coverage. Based on the men around him, she guessed he stood at six-foot-five or maybe even six-foot-six. Well-built too, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, all highlighted by that fantastic Arabic wedding outfit he was wearing. Dark hair, dark eyes, same as Naziha. But where his sister was petite and pretty, this man had nothing soft about him. He was all male and heart-stoppingly hot.

  Whew. If she hadn’t had her hands full of calla lilies, she would’ve fanned herself.

  As it was, she just took another breath, more for courage than anything, then took her first step and…

  Whoops. Nearly tripped.

  Not good, Stella. Not good at all.

  Luckily, she caught herself before she face-planted on the scarlet runner stretching down the center of the walkway and continued on in the step, halt, step, halt, cadence she’d practiced the night before in her hotel room. One foot in front of the other, over and over until boom. She was there. At the altar. The music stopped, and her heart thumped as she turned slowly and stared up through her veil at the man she was going to marry, praying he wouldn’t be disappointed when he lifted her veil and saw her for the first time either. Prince Kadir Oman.

  He stared at her a moment then smiled, and the world seemed to fall away and it was just them. She’d always figured that was a thing that happened in rom-com movies, but nope. It was happening to her now. The man officiating the ceremony was talking, his mouth moving, but all Stella could hear was her blood rushing and her mind whirling through the words she’d need to recite all too soon. The vows. She’d practiced those last night too, in her mirror. Except now she was distracted, mainly by Kadir. When he kept smiling at her like that, it was hard to think. He was movie-star gorgeous. Finally, he stopped smiling and bowed slightly to her before he took her hand. His skin was warm and soft against hers, and that’s when she felt it. A slight tremor through him.

  He’s as nervous as I am.

  She wasn’t sure how she knew. She just did. He covered it well, though, not betraying any of it through his outward demeanor as they turned slowly to face the officiant. The rest of it went by in a blur—the I do’s, the vows, the exchanging of rings. Stella managed to say the right things at the right times, and then it was over. Good thing she’d rehearsed.

  Then it was time for their kiss.

  Time seemed to slow as Kadir lifted her veil. Without the gauzy white material covering her face, it all became even more real. He leaned in, his lips brushing hers and pressing slightly. Fast and sweet, and she gasped. He paused before taking advantage, sweeping his tongue over hers, just a quick taste, then gone. Vaguely, she registered the taste of him—mint and tea. An odd mix of anticipation and astonishment flooded her system.

  Kadir pulled back and whispered, “Nice to meet you, wife.”

  “You too, husband,” Stella managed to squeak out past her constricted vocal cords.

  They held hands and turned to face the cheering crowd, and Stella found herself grinning like an idiot, not exactly genuine, but not far from it. Perhaps it was just the excess adrenaline in her bloodstream talking, but she suddenly felt excited, exuberant, exhilarated.

  Maybe this would be okay. The ceremony had been good. Better than she’d imagined. And for the first time all day, she began to think that maybe this new adventure just might not be a mistake.

  Grab your copy of

  The Sheikh’s Stubborn Bride

  Available 05 August 2021

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  BLURB

  Sheikh Tarek of Zahkim doesn't believe in superstitions or hunches, so when an old woman tells him an angel will fall from the sky and save him and his kingdom, he ignores such a prophecy—until Tess Angel crashes into his life.

  Literally.

  Now he's struggling with an attraction to this very modern woman—but her life is worlds away from his own. There’s no chance of a future for them, but in the present moment, he can't keep his hands off her.

  After her jet crashes, Tess Angel is stuck in Zahkim with a gorgeous sheikh, and she has a hunch they could be soulmates. But he's a rational man who doesn’t believe in true love, and while his grandmother is scheming to keep Tess stuck in Zahkim, Tess can’t see a future for them—despite the heat raging between them.

  Can she convince him there's more to this world than facts and numbers—and that true love can overcome any obstacles?

  Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s Captive American (Zahkim Sheikhs Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

  EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  Five years later…

  Tess coughed, choked, and panicked in that order. She couldn't move. A hammer pounded her left temple. A wave of nausea threw bile into her throat. She swallowed it and pushed both the nausea and the dizziness down. Glancing around, she saw a silver tray canted against a seat, her laptop upside down on the floor—and in two pieces—and all manner of other items scattered around the interior of the plane. The broken computer brought memories rushing back—Phil's voice on the jet's PA telling her to buckle up, the sea of brown, broken by a flash of green, the scream of metal, and impact somewhere in a desert. She'd been reviewing balance sheets and the proposal from Riya about investment in Sharma Entertainment, not paying attention to their route.

  Now she was more worried about living to see another day.

  She glanced down. Still strapped into the flight attendant's seat, right behind the cockpit, she could hardly move. Where Phil had told her to go—safer than the passenger seats. The straps that had saved her life now held her captive. Her chest ached where she’d jolted against them upon impact. A laugh of relief bubbled up. She released the buckles, stood, and staggered a step. The floor slanted to the right and forward, as if the mid-size jet had buried its nose and wing in the sand.

  "Tess?"

  Phil's voice came out faint and slurred. He'd been her pilot for years and her father's pilot before that; she'd never forgive herself if something happened to him on the job. Miraculously, the door to the cockpit swung open freely. Phil's lucky pilot's hat still perched on his tight gray curls. A bloody gash oozed red on the side of his head, and his black skin had an ashen cast.

  Glancing back at her, he asked, "You all right?"

  "Better than you. What happened?" Tess eased up next to him. The control yoke had been pushed into his right thigh, pinning his leg to the seat. She glanced out the cracked windshield to see nothing but sand and rocks.

  "Bird strike. A whole damn flock of something came out of nowhere. They were the same color as the desert—I could barely see them." He shifted in his seat and grimaced. "Help me get out, then we'll figure out what to do next."

  Tess started unbuckling his harness. "Radio?"

  Phil shook his head and put a hand to the bleeding gash. "I got off a mayday. But I expect the birds took out the antenna. Breadcrumbs are going—someone with a locator should be able to find us—but I don't want to wait. I've seen a guy crushed under a car before—I'll end up losing this leg if I don't get free. Push the yoke forward, and I'll slide out. On three."

  Tess shoved the yoke forward. Sweating and swearing, Phil pulled himself up and out of the seat. When he was free, she grabbed his arm and helped him out of the cockpit. She lowered him into the seat she had just vacated.

  Sweat dripped into her eyes and stuck the back of her shirt to her skin. She wished she'd put on shorts, not jeans. At least her long-sleeve boho shirt was loose and light. They'd lost air conditioning, and the interior of the plane was heating up quickly. She grabbed the first aid kit and some water from the galley, stuffed them into her backpack, and came back to find Phil standing on one foot and popping open the door. A blast of hot air rushed in.

  "We've got to get out of this tin can," he said.

  "You're going to need help. That leg doesn't look so good."

  Phil grinned. "At least I got both feet."

  Tess lowered the steps, and Phil eased himself from the jet. She followed and couldn’t help keeping one hand out as if she could catch him if he fell. Tess took one glance back at the plane—it had been beautifully sleek, but now it looked ready for the junk heap. She followed Phil's tracks to the shade of a rocky overhang.

  She gave Phil a water and then turned in a circle, looking for…anything. Sand, rock, and for a change, some distant purple mountains. It might have been a better landing spot than the Red Sea or the Persian Gulf, but not by much.

  Phil was leaning back against the rock, eyes closed. She dug out the first aid kit. When she had his head bandaged and the bleeding stopped, she turned to his leg, which was puffing up like he had a pillow under his skin.

  "You're not walking on this," she told him. "I'm going for help."

  "Not a good idea, Tess. Someone should be along. We got that—"

  "Mayday out. Yeah, you told me. And there's the transponder that should be telling folks our position. That's assuming there's tech enough around here to be listening." She shook her head. "Didn't we fly over an oasis as we were coming down? One with some black tents?"

  "Yeah. Should be due north. Five miles, maybe."

  "That’s half my daily run. And I've got a feeling we'd be better off with any kind of help."

  Phil managed a crooked smile. "You built an empire on instinct—I guess you’d better listen to it now."

  She smiled back and patted his arm. "I'm leaving you most of the water. I'll pack a couple of liters with me." She pulled out her cell phone—amazingly still intact. Thank god she’d had it in her pocket, not sitting out on the table. "No signal here, but I'll keep checking every quarter mile. What else do you need?"

  Phil grinned. "Whiskey?"

  An hour later...

  Tess would have liked to be in a cool, dark bar with a tall drink, too. She'd kept the afternoon sun on her left, set her sights on a boulder shaped like a hippo, and now figured she had to be getting close to the five-mile mark. She could do three miles in less than an hour, but that was on reasonable footing and non-Hellish temperatures. Now her feet were dragging, the dizziness and nausea from being bashed in the head kept her bending over with dry heaves every fifteen minutes, and she still had not a single damn bar on her phone.

  Trudging along, she wished she'd brought sunglasses with her. At least she had sleeves covering her arms, and now the jeans were an advantage. Too bad she also had blisters on her heels and an ache in her side. The white sand seemed to simmer with heat, sending up baking waves that blurred the ground. Hippo Rock beckoned. Worry for Phil hounded her. Aches from the crash stiffened her limbs and made breathing hard. Grit seemed to settle in her eyes. And mouth. And bra.

  The green appeared over the next rise. Squinting, she stared at what looked like palms. That meant water. She couldn't see the tents now, but they had to be there. Her gut was still saying this was the right thing to do to get help to Phil as fast as she could.

  A wave of dizziness stopped her again. Throat dry now, lips starting to sting, she passed a hand over her eyes. At least there'd be some shade under the trees. And water. Plenty of that. She pulled out her phone and managed to focus on the blurry screen. Still no damn signal.

  She started walking.

  Keeping her phone up, she made it to the palms, and to a hint of a bar on her phone. It flickered up and faded. With a curse, she stumbled into the water. At least it was cool. Eyes half closed, she could hear a hum of some kind now. An engine? She wasn't sure.

  She turned to look, and the dizziness swarmed up, sending her backwards into the water. She gasped at the cold of it, swallowed a mouthful of liquid, and then her backpack caught on something, holding her under. Panic spiked. She thrashed, struggling to get her arms free. She kicked out, gulped down more water. The world started to fade.

  The next instant, her face broke the surface and she gasped for air. A man held her, and she clutched at his arms. Struggling to breathe, she stared up at him, at dark amber eyes, a chiseled face—a face she wouldn't forget.

  He said something she didn't understand, and then asked, his voice lightly accented, "Where did you come from?"

  She grasped his arms—strong ones with muscles that held her tight—coughed and managed to get out the words, "My pilot… help."

  The next instant, the dizziness and the pounding in her head took over her world. She heard the man say something about a helicopter.

  Good—it's being handled. Her instincts hadn't lied. Closing her eyes, she let the world fade away.

  Grab your copy of The Sheikh’s Captive American (Zahkim Sheikhs Book One) from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com

 

 

  Leslie North, The Sheikh's Pregnant Teacher (Khalid Sheikhs Series Book 3)

 

 

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