We
in the Naughty Literati have been working our fingers to the bone getting out
another anthology of romance fun! This collection is Getting Naughty: Twenty Tantalizing Tales.
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| http://tinyurl.com/hos954c |
One of my stories in this set is Alice's Sheikh, something
I've been working on for a long time. While you might think that a sheikh story
is too cliched/romance-y for the wild and wicked Suz deMello, you'd be wrong.
In my mild-mannered persona of Sue Swift, I sold two sheikh books to Silhouette
Romance, a now-defunct division of Harlequin--and they were both bestsellers. I
am not the most canny of businesswomen, but even I understand that success
leaves clues, and two bestselling sheikh books could mean a third bestselling
sheikh book.
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| cover by the amazing Dar Albert! |
The
premise of the trilogy is contained in the Prologue to Alice
LORD DARLINGSIDE AND WIFE MARA FOUND DEAD
DRUG OVERDOSE SUSPECTED
[ROME
…one week later…
CONTENTS OF ‘MARVEY’ WILL REVEALED
[LONDON]
…Though the Winningham family solicitor, Rabbie White of White, Cheshire and
Queen (Lincolns Inn Fields) remains closemouthed, an unidentified source close
to the family states that the Winningham fortune, encompassing a manor house in
Kent, a mansion in Hampstead, and invested monies totalling some 50 million
pounds, will be divided between ‘Marvey’s’ children. However, the ‘Marvey’
trust requires the heirs make a substantial non-monetary contribution to
society. Whether each child’s acts are sufficient to inherit is a decision left
solely to White’s discretion. Apparently Lord and Lady Darlingside wanted to
ensure that their progeny did not follow the same dangerous path they trod…
Here’s a snippet to pique your interest:
Chapter One
Port Sudan Airport, six months later
The
clatter of gunfire shocked Alice Fortune into brief immobility. Dropping
everything, she ducked for cover under the nearest row of shabby seats. The
terminal’s interior lights went out, leaving a blackness so absolute that it
warned of a widespread power outage. Even the car park’s lights had ceased
twinkling through the grubby windows.
Shouts
in a language she didn’t recognize pierced the air, but otherwise, the little
terminal was deathly still. She wondered if airport personnel knew of an
impending attack, for she was alone. Her heart banged against her ribcage, and
she told herself to stop inventing tales to scare herself more. Wasn’t the situation
frightening enough?
Sticky
sweat poured off her body while the terminal, without air conditioning, rapidly
became sweltering. She huddled deeper behind the dubious sanctuary of the
chairs. After her eyes adjusted, she dimly perceived lumps in the darkness—her
luggage, including her satchel. She reached for the satchel with a hesitant
hand, but it was inches beyond her grasp. Sprawled beneath the chairs, she
wondered if she could take a chance, scoot out and grab her most valued bag.
Silence
reigned.
Darkness
remained.
I
am not a ditherer, she told herself. Fortunes do not dither. We fling ourselves
headlong into whatever fate tosses our way.
A
distant motor rumbled, the sound growing louder, coming nearer. She wriggled
out from underneath the chairs, reaching for the satchel’s sturdy leather
strap.
A
door flew open and whacked the opposite wall. Bright lights stabbed through the
thick gloom, streaming through open double doors opposite the terminal’s street
entrance. Silhouetted against the light was a man, tall and muscular. He strode
into the room, grabbed her questing wrist to haul her out from under the chairs
and onto her feet. “Hurry! We haven’t much time!” he shouted over the beat of a
helicopter’s blades, the growl of its engine.
She
stumbled, and her ankle twisted. With a yelp, she regained her footing and
jerked her wrist away. “Who are you?”
“Harry
Ashraf. I came to pick you up. You’re Alice Fort, aren’t you?” His firm,
commanding voice reflected an Oxford
Harry
Ashraf. She peered more closely at him and, despite the dim and shifting light,
recognized him from photos she’d seen: Sheikh Haroun ibn-Ashraf al-Aghiba, her
employer. Hot Harry, the tabloids called him. The appellation was beyond apt.
Large dark eyes, fringed with lashes a woman would kill for, plus cheekbones
higher than Everest and a mouth made for deep kisses.
A
masterful attitude that made her think of hot sex and multiple orgasms. Not
that she’d ever experienced either, but she read a lot. And hoped. And dreamed.
“Er,
yes,” she managed.
“So
come on. We haven’t much time. The rebels have cut the power lines and they
mean to take the airport.” He seized her again, and wisdom told Alice
But
Fortunes tended to be impulsive, not wise. She tugged her wrist out of his hold
and went for her satchel.
“Leave
your bags. Everything you need is at my palace.”
“How
do you know what I need?” she shouted at him, straining to be heard above the
helicopter.
“Listen
to me! Are these objects, these bags, worth our lives?”
“Just
this one!”
He
threw up his hands. “Fine, fine! But come on!” He sprinted toward the doors.
She
grabbed her satchel by its strap and stumbled after him, passed through the
double doors and into a tunnel, the illumination provided by the helicopter’s
lights at its end. He was far ahead of her, and she feared she was slowing him
down too much.
Without
warning, he turned and tackled her, shoving his shoulder into her midsection.
He straightened. Grunting, she folded over his shoulder, draped over him like a
poncho.
He
ran for the helicopter. Alice
Desire
thundered through her, but how could she be thinking about sex? She squirmed.
His grip tightened, and need rushed through her in hot, unwelcome waves.
Control yourself. She breathed deeply, hoping she’d calm.
He
raced through the tunnel, out of the terminal, and pounded across a short
stretch of tarmac to the waiting bird. His arm loosened, and he slid her down
the length of his muscular body, then set her on her feet. Gently.
A
wave of dizziness that assailed her. She swayed.
He
caught her around the waist. “Hang on.” His arm was around her, secure and
strong.
She
gulped and grabbed onto the front of his flight suit. His chest was solid
beneath her scrabbling fingers. She looked up, meeting his gaze.
He
smiled into her eyes, and her heart jumped. Then she remembered who he was—her
boss—and let go of him. He opened the door of the ’copter and said, “Get in.”
Gunfire popped, a little closer, and she gasped. He boosted her up and into the
small round cockpit, seemingly without effort. After he ran around to his side
of the ’copter and jumped in, she noticed he wasn’t panting, didn’t show the
slightest sign of exertion even though he’d just carried a fifty kilo woman
fifty feet and lifted her another ten.
She
slid into the ’copter’s seat, then set her satchel on the floor next to her
feet, relieved to hear no clink of broken glass or scrape of shattered pottery.
Fumbling at the unfamiliar, many-strapped seat belt, she tangled it completely
while Harry secured himself and lifted the bird into the air.
Like
what you read? Find it here:
Amazon:
http://a.co/7xZrp7I
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