Heart of a Desert Warrior

By: Lucy Monroe

The sheikh’s last challenge...

Stepping off his private jet in his designer suit, Sheikh Asad returns to his kingdom ready to secure his legacy. For beneath the starched white shirt beats the heart of a desert warrior!

Iris Carpenter barely recognizes the man standing before her. He’s more magnificent than he was six years ago and even more dangerous. Especially when the searing heat of his eyes burns hotter than the fierce desert sun.

Iris can resist all she likes, but Asad knows it’s just a matter of time before the flame-haired temptress is back in his bed—where she belongs!

The rich tones that still had the power to send her heart on     a drum roll and little pops of awareness sparking along her every nerve ending     belonged to a man she had truly believed she would never see again.

Iris stopped and stared.

Asad looked back at her, his dark gaze so intense, she felt     the breath leave her lungs in a gasp.

He’d changed. Oh, he was still gorgeous. His hair still a     dark brown, almost black and with no hint of gray, but instead of cropped close     to his head as it had been back in school, he wore it shoulder length. The     different style should have made him seem more casual, more approachable. It     didn’t.

Despite his European designer suit and their civilized     surroundings, he looked like a desert warrior. Capable. Confident. Dangerous.

He was a true warrior.

Wishing, not for the first time, that she could ignore this man, she forced herself to incline     her head in greeting. “Sheikh Asad.”


“YOU LOOK like you’re ready to face a firing squad.”

Her field assistant’s words stopped Iris at the top of the grand palace staircase.

Suppressing a grimace at what she could not doubt was his all too accurate assessment, she turned to face the college intern and forced a smile. “You look hungry.”

“Seriously, this is just dinner right?”

“Of course.” Just dinner.

Where they were supposed to meet their liaison while in Kadar; Asad, Sheikh Hakim’s second cousin, or something, and sheikh himself to a local Bedouin tribe, the Sha’b Al’najid. Asad was a fairly common Arabic name, meaning lion. An appropriate name for a man destined to be sheikh. Right? There was no reason to think that the man was her Asad.

No reason other than this awful sinking feeling that had not gone away since Sheikh Hakim had mentioned the liaison’s name earlier. Ever since agreeing to this Middle Eastern assignment, she’d had a feeling of foreboding that she’d done her best to ignore.

But it was getting harder with every passing moment.

“I’m not feeling reassured here,” Russell said as he stepped onto the stairs, his tone only half joking. “Dinner isn’t a euphemism for kidnap and sell to white slavers, is it?”

The ridiculous assertion shocked a laugh out of Iris. “You’re an idiot.”

Still, her legs refused to move.

“But a charming one. You’ve got to admit it. And who wouldn’t want to kidnap this?” he asked with a wink, having stopped to wait for her.

With his shaggy mop of red hair and pale skin, he could have been her baby brother. If only. Her childhood would have been a lot less lonely with a sibling. Her parents hadn’t been cruel, only supremely uninterested. Their lives were complete with each other. They worked together, they played together, they traveled together and none of it included her.

She’d never understood why they’d had a child at all and had long since decided her advent into the world had been one of those “accidents” of faulty birth control. Though nothing had ever been said.

She couldn’t imagine what they would have done with a child like Russell; he didn’t fade into the background with grace.

No, no matter how many surface resemblances they shared, he would have been an even bigger cuckoo in their family nest than she’d been.

Nevertheless, Iris and Russell really did look like they could have come from the same gene pool. Oh, he had freckles and she didn’t, and his eyes were green rather than her blue. However, they both had curly red hair—like her mother—slightly squared chins—like her father—and skin as pale as the white sands of New Mexico. At five foot ten, Russell was average height for a man, just like she was for a woman at five-five.

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