The Sheikh’s Christmas Lover: Christmas With The Yared Sheikhs Book Three Read online

  The Sheikh’s Christmas Lover, 20 December 2018

  PS: Do you love hot blooded Sheikhs? Then keep reading for exclusive extracts from The Sheikh’s Captive American.

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  About Leslie

  Leslie North is the USA Today Bestselling pen name for a critically-acclaimed author of women's contemporary romance and fiction. The anonymity gives her the perfect opportunity to paint with her full artistic palette, especially in the romance and erotic fantasy genres.

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  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 tiny 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 this sheikh keeps telling her he's a rational man who doesn’t believe in true love, and while his grandmother is scheming to keep Tess in Zahkim, Sheikh Tarek seems willing to let her go on her way.

  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 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 from

  www.LeslieNorthBooks.com