Sheikh’s Surprise Son: The Sheikh’s Wedding Series, #1

By Leslie North

The desert stars align for passion and romance…

 

Years ago, Sheikh Hadi Toma allowed himself one night of freedom, one night to be a normal young man. Little did Hadi know, his one night of passion resulted in a son—a son who has been adopted by his daughter's quirky, pink-haired teacher, Willow. 

 

It isn't long before Hadi realizes Willow might solve a major problem. He's duty-bound to fulfill an ancient prophecy, and must marry during an upcoming astronomical event. Who better to marry than his son's adoptive mother? Now he just needs to convince Willow. But is he marrying her for love? Or just to satisfy his superstitious family's wishes…

 

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?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Relay Publishing
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201219895

Book preview

1

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?

He’s your son, Willow said. Her palms had gone sweaty, her stomach curdled to whey. She thought she might be sick.

My son. Hadi stood up. His face had gone perfectly blank. He went to the door, closed and locked it, and straightened his lapels. That’s quite a bold claim, he said. I trust you can back it up?

I can. Willow sat down again, unsure her legs would hold her. She clenched her teeth to still her shivers. This was the right thing, the honest thing. Fern would’ve wanted it, and Zak deserved to know his father. This is his birth certificate, she said, sliding it across her blotter. Your name isn’t on it, but you’ll see the dates line up.

Hadi scowled. Line up with what? He reached for the document but didn’t take it.

With this. Willow passed him her wallet, open to Fern’s picture. Her heart hurt at the sight of it, just like it always did—Fern caught laughing, eyes bright with joy. Her lips were parted, just slightly, to let Hadi feed her a strawberry. That’s you, isn’t it? With my sister, eight years ago? Just a few months before your, uh— His ill-fated marriage. His bride had died, she’d heard, just three years later. Just before your engagement?

Hadi looked up sharply. Willow’s mouth went dry.

I’m sorry, she said. "But that is you, right?"

Hadi took her whole wallet and held it up to the light. He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression unreadable. Do you have—

What?

Hadi shook his head. He touched Fern’s picture briefly, then flipped to the next one. Willow couldn’t see it from where she was sitting, but she knew it well enough—Zak’s London school portrait, his little crested blazer, his blue-and-gold tie. Zak had timed his smile wrong, and he’d ended up looking much like Hadi did now, black brows drawn together, lips quirked up at one side. Confused, half-annoyed, stiff in his starched collar.

She left a letter as well, she said. It had your number, your name.

My number? Hadi flipped back to Fern’s picture. She never called. Not once. The sun caught him sidewise, harsh light in his face. It cast his features in marble, made black pools of his eyes. He looked brutal lit up that way, a warrior carved in stone. Willow moved to lower the blinds.

I think she would have, she said. Given time, I’m sure... She trailed off. Hadi wasn’t listening, or if he was, he gave no sign. Willow watched him, self-conscious. He was a beautiful man, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, a fall of black hair across his brow. He’d make a fine statue, but the fire in his eyes marked him as flesh and blood.

Listen, uh—

Hadi straightened up. What?

You need time to process. I get that. I’ve sprung this on you out of nowhere, and... Willow took a deep breath. Let me rip off the rest of the Band-Aid, then I’ll give you your space.

Hadi just looked at her. His black eyes were burning.

Fern died years ago, when Zak was a baby. Willow’s eyes prickled, but she held Hadi’s gaze. I tried to find you, I did. I searched for years. But all I had was your picture, not even a first name.

Hadi’s brows knit. But the letter?

"I found it last year.