The Sheikh's Marriage Trap

By Diana Fraser

A sheikh dedicated to pleasure, a woman intent on revenge, a love that cannot be denied...

Sheikh Adam ibn Mohammed Aziz enjoys a life of wheeling and dealing, seducing and flirting. He’s only doing what came naturally, and loving women happens to come very naturally to him—so long as the women understand that they can never touch his heart. That’s why an arranged marriage will suit him nicely. He only has to make sure of one thing—he’s untainted by scandal. And he’s been too discreet to allow any scandal to attach itself to him. So far, anyway.

Half-English, half-Ahmari, librarian Jasmine Delaney flirts with Adam for one reason only—he caused her beloved sister’s death. Her life will never be the same again and she needs the handsome Adam to understand the pain his careless affairs have caused. At first she’s not sure how she can do this. But all becomes clear when she discovers his Achilles Heel—he must appear to be free from scandal. So she decides she’ll give him a scandal which will destroy his future. Perhaps then he’ll understand, in a small way, the grief his womanizing has caused.

But the best-laid plans of a vengeful woman can go astray, especially when she finds herself in a setting of exquisite beauty, in the company of a consummate seducer who has spent his life perfecting his ability to give and receive pleasure...

--Secrets of the Sheikhs--

The Sheikh's Revenge by Seduction
The Sheikh's Secret Love Child
The Sheikh's Marriage Trap

--The Sheikhs of Havilah--

The Sheikh’s Secret Baby
Bought by the Sheikh
The Sheikh’s Forbidden Lover
Surrender to the Sheikh
Taken for the Sheikh's Harem

--Desert Kings--

Wanted: A Wife for the Sheikh
The Sheikh's Bargain Bride
The Sheikh's Lost Lover
Awakened by the Sheikh
Claimed by the Sheikh
Wanted: A Baby by the Sheikh

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bay Books
• Release date: Feb 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9780995141070

Diana Fraser

I write emotional, heartwarming romances with stories which make you turn the pages, and characters who feel real—whether they be sheikhs, British billionaires, medieval knights or everyday people whose lives are usually far from everyday (at least in my books).I'm an avid people watcher, hopeless romantic and dreamer who spends far too much time gazing out the window, imagining scenes where people struggle with life and emotions but always end up happily. Because, yes, I'm also an eternal optimist!I live in beautiful New Zealand, just north of Wellington in a small village by the sea. It's here, in a sunny window seat overlooking the hills and trees, that I write my books.Wherever you are in the world, welcome to my little corner, where I sit with my two cocker spaniels snoring gently beside me, creating worlds where people struggle with life and emotions but are always rewarded with love and happiness in the end. Because that's non negotiable!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Jasmine Delaney scrolled down the gossip column, stopping when she came to the photo of Sheikh Adam ibn Mohammed Aziz. He was smiling as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Her grip tightened on her phone and the anger, which was her constant companion now, pulsed louder in her ears. She forced herself to continue reading. But after another couple of sentences, she tossed her phone to one side, unable to read any further. The bastard was getting married! Married! While her beloved sister, Kamala, had died only weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe it.

But pacing the small tearoom where she and her fellow librarians ate their lunch didn’t take away the pain. She was glad there was no one to witness her tears. She stifled a sob and sat down once more to finish reading the piece. Apparently, the woman he was to marry was from a large and powerful tribe whose land bordered Ahmar’s northern neighbor—a country heavily influenced by Russia. Obviously, the marriage was a not-too-subtle attempt to bolster Ahmar’s resistance to outside threat.

Jasmine continued to scan the news item, looking for more information about the man who’d ruined her sister’s life. Instead, she learned that the tribe with whom he was about to unite was ultra conservative and adhered strictly to its customs and laws. And it was clear from the angle the reporter had taken, a condition of the marriage was that the groom’s reputation had to be spotless, without a shred of scandal.

There were a few jokes about his string of girlfriends, but essentially, no substantial scandal had been found to prevent the marriage. Again, her blood boiled. No scandal? How about the fact that his rejection of his ex-girlfriend—her sister—had put her on a road to drink which had ultimately led to her drowning? How about that?

She knew what the answer to her question would be. There would be no way that the royal family of Ahmar would allow any suggestion of impropriety to interfere with their plans. And they had the wealth and power to make sure Sheikh Adam ibn Mohammed Aziz’s reputation remained spotless.

The reason for the feature was that he was attending a party for the Royal Regatta at Henley-on-Thames, just down the road from her. Huh! He continued to swan around, living the high life while ignoring the fact that he’d ruined the life of his ex-girlfriend—her only sister. Scandal! She’d show him scandal!

The word scandal lodged in her brain, repeating itself over and over, as she stopped reading and glanced out the window at the River Thames. It flowed past the library, and on to Henley, where the man she blamed for her sister’s death would be on Saturday evening, enjoying himself, carrying on as if nothing had happened. And it hadn’t, not to him. Nothing would get to him, it would seem, because he didn’t have a heart—no empathy, no feelings whatsoever. All he did was glide through life, enjoying it, taking whatever he wanted, and avoiding scandal. If scandal was his biggest fear, then scandal was exactly what he’d get. She didn’t know how, but she’d make sure she made a scandal stick to him if it was the last thing she did. She’d do it for her sister. She’d do it for Kamala who had never hurt another soul, only herself.

Adam was beginning to wish he hadn’t come to the cocktail party. He’d got stuck with a group of business executives who were desperately trying to impress him, and were failing miserably. He stopped listening to them as soon as the woman stepped into the room. Despite her tentative movements and unsettled gaze—her eyes darted around the room as if looking for someone—she was stunning. Or maybe it was because of, rather than despite, her unsureness that she was stunning. There was none of the confident affectation which barely concealed the sense of boredom and shallowness from which most of the women he hung out with seemed to suffer.

He didn’t mind ‘shallow’ most of the time. He didn’t need a woman to challenge him, only to go to bed with him. And, as soon as they began to talk about feelings, he’d end it. Feelings weren’t his thing, which was why an arranged marriage would be perfect for him. No expectations to be disappointed, no talk of that four-letter word—love.

Sorry! He shot a charming smile to his host, who instantly returned his smile. I have to go. I’ve just seen someone I know.

Someone? His host laughed, following Adam’s gaze. Or a beautiful lady?

You got me there. His smile broadened before he turned away, instantly forgetting the man and, for the first time, glad that his staff had mistakenly accepted the invitation to the event. Until the mystery woman had turned up he’d regretted coming. But things were looking better by the minute, he thought as he approached her and admired her incredibly long, slender legs, topped with a short shift dress with demure collar and short sleeves. The dress was bright red, not tight, but glanced off her slender curves tantalizingly. All the sexiness was in its short length and the over-long feature zip, as if hinting at just how easy it would be to slip the dress off. His eyes rose to her red lips, which matched her dress. She was stunning.

Good evening, he said, scooping up a glass of Champagne from a passing server. I believe you may be looking for one of these. He presented it to her with a smile.

Up close, she was even better. Clear honey-colored skin with a narrow nose, wide mouth and eyes whose heavy makeup accentuated their cat-like shape and dark, melting brown iris. He felt himself sinking into them, rather than seeing himself reflected back. The beautiful eyes blinked once, as if in disbelief. He could understand that. And then she gave a timid smile, which did a lot more to him than a confident one could. Intriguing.

Thank you. She reached out for the glass and he deliberately held on to it for a few moments longer than necessary, so their fingers would brush each other. She looked up at him, startled. He liked that, too.

She took the glass and turned slightly away from him, placed one arm across her stomach in an endearingly awkward way, and took a large sip of Champagne. It made her cough as the bubbles caught in her throat.

Are you okay? he asked, taking her glass from her so she could retrieve a handkerchief from her bag.

She coughed and wiped her nose in a very non-glamorous way. He grinned. Well, this was a turn up for the books—a woman with the looks of a model, but with a very down-to-earth manner. He wondered exactly how earthy she was. Would she be like so many other beautiful women he came across—more interested in their latest Botox and his bank balance than making love? He hoped not. And he decided there and then, to dedicate himself to finding out.

She scooped her fingers under her eyes, swiping away some of the eye make-up which had smudged as she’d coughed. He placed his glass on a nearby table. Here, allow me. You’ve missed some. He took a serviette and swept a cloth-covered finger under one eye, instantly noting how the cloth glided over her silky skin and that her breath—because he had to get close, didn’t he?—was sweet and fresh, edged only a little by the Champagne. Then he noticed something in her eyes which made him made him feel uncomfortable, and stepped away. For a moment her glance was straight and true and he felt as if he were being scrutinized in great detail, from the inside out. The effect was both challenging and not without its warning. He took another step away.

There, that’s better, he said, ignoring the challenge and holding up the serviette, now smeared with black eye makeup. All in order and you look even more beautiful.

The compliment slipped from his lips easily, too easily, he thought as he registered she didn’t appear pleased. Only belatedly, she smiled, as if remembering it was something she ought to do.

Thank you. She took another sip of Champagne, and this time there was no problem. I don’t usually wear makeup and I don’t—she held up her Champagne glass, which was now only half full—usually drink Champagne.

She definitely wasn’t his usual type then. What else don’t you normally do?

She waggled her glass at him, her other arm defensively around her waist once more. Talk to strangers.

Ah, well, I do, so maybe I can help you out there. It’s like talking to friends—basically you assume the stranger is a friend in the making—except it’s more fun because there are plenty of questions you can ask.

He was pleased to see her lips tweak briefly into a smile which disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Okay, in your vast experience of talking to strangers, which questions should you ask first?

Oh, that’s easy. I could run a university course on Chatting to Strangers 101. What’s your name? It’s an often overlooked beginning which can tell you a lot.

Okay, what’s your name?

He raised an eyebrow. He was surprised she didn’t know. Adam. He’d leave it at that.

Just ‘Adam’? I won’t be able to tell much from that.

Yep, just Adam. And you’d be surprised what you can tell from just the first name. What’s yours?

She licked her lip, and he sucked in a quick breath. It was all he could do to stop himself from leaning forward and touching the tip of her pink tongue with his own. He wondered what she would taste like.

Jasmine.

He exhaled. I rest my case. God’s gift. Your parents were prophetic in their choice of name.

She gave an unladylike grunt, which was far too orgasmic to allow him to focus. Apparently I had an Aunt Jasmine who Mum was fond of. I was named after her.

He grinned. This was quite refreshing. He held up his finger. Now, right there, you’ve veered off the Chatting to Strangers 101 guidelines.

She fluttered her lashes in an extremely appealing way which showed confusion and, strangely, no artifice. It seemed to be an entirely natural response. How so?

On two points. First, all compliments must be gratefully accepted, and second, when choosing between the prosaic and the romantic, you should always choose the romantic. Your name, for instance. I’m suggesting you are God’s gift and you refute that by offering, instead, a far more prosaic explanation. He shook his head. "That’s not how it goes."

Even if it’s the truth?

He dipped his head to her. "Especially if it’s the truth."

Again, that little grunt which diverted his concentration. That’s an interesting way of presenting oneself to the world. Her almond eyes glittered as a sudden shaft of low evening sunlight speared the reception room from across the river. Pretty shallow, though, isn’t it? That image is like a beautiful, glittering mirage which is easily dissolved in the cold light of day.

And there you have the challenge—to resist the cold light of day. Who needs that? Who needs reality? He shrugged and took a sip of his Champagne, narrowing his gaze on her, trying to figure out how this beautiful woman was turning his chat-up lines into a deep and meaningful conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one of those.

She tapped her Champagne glass with one long, manicured, bright-red nail. He suspected he’d irritated her by his response. I do.

Then you’re in the minority. Most people try to escape the humdrum existence of their boring, everyday lives.

I always think only boring people lead boring lives. That, if one is interested in the world, whatever your life, it will be an interesting one.

Not everyone has the personal resources like you to be interested in the mundane.

Do you? She held his gaze captive as she drained her glass.

His smile faltered as he found himself more intrigued than he wanted to be. He swiftly recovered. I’m afraid not. Her eyes narrowed and he could see that she didn’t believe him. I prefer to be entertained and not to dwell on the mundanities of the real world.

She swayed back, her gaze still thoughtful. What a shame. You’re missing out. She’d obviously decided not to challenge him on the apparently obvious lie.

How had the conversation turned, so that she was now leading it, and making him feel on the back foot? Tell me about your real world. I’m curious to know why it is so absorbing. What is it you do?

Guess, she said in a super-sexy low voice, before she pressed those beautiful lips to a newly refilled glass of Champagne.

He inhaled quickly as he imagined pressing his lips to hers. He wondered what magic they could create. Model? She had to be with those looks.

No.

Actress?

Again, no. You appear to be stuck on the superficial, Adam.

He ground his teeth at her offensive. Maybe a lawyer then, or an engineer? He dipped his head closer to hers, determined to regain control of this conversation. Do I have to list all the occupations known to man?

She didn’t flinch. And he could now see that the brown in her eyes wasn’t uniform. There were flecks of dark gold in there, too. Like smoldering fires, waiting to be ignited into flame. The vision of her underneath him flashed into his mind. Her eyes would be like fire then, he was sure.

Or known to woman, she responded, her thoughts frustratingly on a very different track to his own.

He swallowed a groan, annoyed with himself for walking into that particular trap.

I’m a librarian, she said, obviously taking pity on him. I work with books, with knowledge and, most importantly, with people.

He doubted he’d hidden his surprise. He grinned. Well, you’ve got me there, and revealed all my shallow pre-conceived ideas about librarians. You are certainly a world away from the librarians I knew.

Interesting, she said, annoyingly.

Yes, it is, he replied testily. Now it’s your turn to take a guess my occupation.

Oh, that’s easy. You don’t have one.

He’d been wrong. She did know him. Then how do you imagine I survive in this world? What do you imagine I do?

I imagine you survive through family money. She took another sip of the fast dwindling Champagne and ran her finger down the lapel of his silk jacket. Your clothes shout money. She dropped her hand, but he could still feel the tingle her touch had ignited inside of him, stirring a need which was increasingly becoming difficult to ignore. She held his gaze, unsmiling. But your attitude shouts something more.

And what’s that? he said, noting his