We in the Naughty Literati have been working our fingers to the bone getting out another anthology of romance fun!
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| http://tinyurl.com/hos954c |
Alice's Sheikh is part of a projected trilogy called A Fortune to Win. The premise of the trilogy is contained in the Prologue to Alice's Sheikh:
LORD DARLINGSIDE AND WIFE MARA
FOUND DEAD
DRUG OVERDOSE SUSPECTED
[ROME] The jetsetting couple known as ‘Marvey,’ Harvey Winningham, Lord Darlingside and his supermodel wife Mara Tove, were found at three a.m. today (local time) drowned in the historic Trevi Fountain. An autopsy is planned, which many fear will confirm the initial assumption that the couple’s known heroin addiction caused their deaths. Reportedly, used syringes were found on the fountain’s marble balustrade… They leave three adult children: Peter, age 26, the new Earl Darlingside; daughter Alice, 23, a teacher; Sophia, 19, a model.
…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 whet your appetite...
Chapter One
P ort 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.
Alice dithered.
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 education and much
impatience.
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 not to resist his strong grasp.
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 clutched her satchel’s
strap with one hand and a loose bit of Harry’s camo flight suit with the other.
Upside down, she squeezed her eyes shut to avoid getting nauseated, and found
herself overwhelmed by other sensations. The hardness of Harry’s body. His male
scent. His strong arm wrapped around her thighs, holding her securely.
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.
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