The Secret of the Sheikh's Betrothed

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Sneak Peek

  Dedication | Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Coming in December 2017

  Don’t Miss Dreamspun Desires!

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  The Secret of the Sheikh’s Betrothed

  By Felicitas Ivey

  A billionaire and a Bedouin girl—each with a shocking secret.

  Billionaire Fathi al-Murzim is a workaholic businessman, too busy running the family’s companies to even think about marriage. Too bad he never told his grandfather he’s gay, because Grandfather just announced a childhood betrothal—to a Bedouin girl Fathi never heard about before.

  Ikraam din Abdel was raised as a woman by his avaricious and abusive older sister, who didn’t want him to be their father’s heir. He’d never thought to be married either, and is surprised when his sister informs him of his betrothal.

  When Fathi and Ikraam meet, they are drawn to each other in a manner neither of them expected. As the plans for their wedding progress, they both realize they need to tell the other the truth. But can they, with both cultural taboos and family pressures to deal with?

  Ikraam’s eyes flew open, and he blushed. Fathi noticed Ikraam was uncomfortable with him this close. He briefly thought about the years Ikraam must have spent keeping people at arm’s length so they wouldn’t discover his secret. But closer up, Fathi noticed his long lashes and the amber flecks in Ikraam’s eyes. His hair was thick and loose, falling to his waist, not contained by the head covering Sabah had given him. Ikraam’s veil was sheer enough that Fathi could see his full lips. Fathi noted Ikraam was the right height to kiss and cuddle in private.

  “Fathi?” Ikraam asked breathlessly.

  For Betty, my stepmother, because without her encouragement and her Harlequin Romances, I wouldn’t have written this story.

  Acknowledgments

  TO Desi, because she had to deal with me editing this novel while my personal life wasn’t the best. She was patient with the missed deadlines and long periods of silence while I dealt with Real Life Issues.

  For Lynn and Poppy, when they announced the Dreamspun Desires line, jumped on my pitch with wonderful enthusiasm.

  And Elizabeth for starting this wonderful company; I’ve had a lovely time here, because she makes everyone feel like family.

  Lastly, Ed for his beta reading and support; all the mistakes are mine and not his. Tamazusa, Mason, and Phoenix gave up a lot of lap time and cuddles while I typed and edited my work—the poor kitties. Such are the sacrifices my kitties make for the written word.

  Chapter One

  “WHAT are you still doing here?”

  Fathi al-Murzim looked up from the numbers on the computer screen, blinked, and focused on his secretary, Ece. “Quarterly projections,” he explained brusquely.

  He was annoyed. Ece knew there was no such thing as a forty-hour workweek, not for him at least. He was in charge of a multibillion-dollar company, dealing with Americans and Europeans who were hours behind them and usually in a snit when they had to meet in his time zone. If that was his job, it was hers too. He had made it crystal clear when he hired her. And she hadn’t protested, accepting his offer eagerly. It was difficult for a woman to get ahead in an Arabic company, even in the twenty-first century. Cultural norms were hard to overcome, which was why he made a point to have all women assistants to give them a chance to advance.

  “It’s late—” Ece started.

  “I want to go over the projections again before tomorrow’s meeting. You can go if you want. I don’t know when I’ll be leaving.”

  “And you have to be at your grandfather’s gala in about ninety minutes,” Ece finished, ignoring his explanation.

  “It’s not that late,” Fathi protested, even as he glanced at the time on his computer. It really was that late.

  He then noticed Ece wore what looked to be a formal dress and headscarf. He blinked, wondering if she had a date tonight too and if that was why she was reminding him to leave. Before he could ask, they were interrupted.

  “Why are you still here? Have you forgotten what day it is?” Rayyan, Fathi’s twin, also worked for the family business, but more in public relations and outreach than the numbers side. He spent a lot of time in Europe, being photographed by the paparazzi with the right people at the right places.

  Fathi rolled his eyes but started to shut down his computer. His office had an en suite bathroom, and Ece should have had a clean tux stashed in it for him.

  “I’ll be out in a few minutes,” he said. “Ece was nice enough to remind me of the time before going on her date.”

  He didn’t understand the looks Rayyan and Ece were giving him, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. He ducked into the bathroom to take a quick shower, then shaved and got dressed. When he got out, only Rayyan was there, staring at his phone.

  “You didn’t ask Ece to the gala?” Rayyan asked.

  Fathi shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  “She was dressed like it,” Rayyan said flatly.

  “Didn’t she have a date?” Fathi asked in confusion.

  Rayyan grinned. “I think she was hinting she wanted to be your date for the evening.”

  Fathi looked at him. “She was?”

  She had given him some subtle hints about it earlier in the week, but he had ignored them. He guessed Ece had decided to ignore his ignoring her and hoped to guilt him into inviting her.

  Rayyan rolled his eyes. “There should be some sort of class at business school about how you can tell when the secretary’s showing an interest in you.”

  Fathi sighed. “If there was, I missed it. Thank you for taking care of it for me.”

  It would have been uncomfortable and awkward dealing with Ece and telling her no. He had never shown any interest in the women who worked for him. It would be wrong. And since he was gay, they never interested him.

  “That’s what brothers are for, twin of mine,” Rayyan teased him. “So let’s get out of here before we get a lecture on respecting our elders from Grandfather for arriving late.”

  FATHI walked to the ballroom of his grandfather’s house—a sprawling mansion on the outskirts of the Ibra that was a mixture of Western and Arabic architecture. When he had come home from college, Fathi had found it easier to have an apartment in the city. While he loved his grandfather, he had enjoyed a personal life in America and wanted to maintain his privacy. He never wanted his grandfather to know he was a homosexual.

  While Grandfather wasn’t a devout Muslim, Fathi didn’t want to disappoint the man. Grandfather expected him to marry and produce heirs for the family. However, Rayyan would have to do that, but it wouldn’t be soon, since Rayyan “liked to play the field,” as the Americans would say.

  Rayyan was handsome, with dark eyes and skin, his curly black hair falling to his shoulders. He looked like an exotic desert prince. Fathi looked like the businessman he was—hair styled short, and his suit conservative. While Rayyan’s appearance screamed sexy and dangerous, Fathi was staid and bo
ring. They might be identical twins, but they didn’t look alike because of their attitude.

  Fathi and Rayyan walked over to their grandfather and hugged him. Fathi was suddenly aware how fragile the man seemed. Grandfather was in his eighties, but his exact age was uncertain since he didn’t know the year of his birth. He had been born sometime before World War II, when the Middle East was being divided up by the Europeans. He had risen to wealth using a shrewd business sense in dealing with the Europeans and exploiting their tendency to underestimate the “natives.”

  “You look well, Grandfather,” Fathi said.

  Grandfather looked up at him. “You work too hard,” he scolded. “And neither one of you brought a companion with you.”

  This was more a Western party, so women were mingling with the guests—properly chaperoned, of course. A handful of women wore niqabs that veiled their faces, while most others had on a variety of colorful embroidered hijabs covering their hair. A string quartet played something classical and Western, while waiters circulated with hors d’oeuvres, soft drinks, and sparkling cider. The noise never went above a discreet murmur as the guests talked to one another.

  “I don’t know anyone,” Fathi protested.

  “I don’t know,” Rayyan drawled. “Your secretary, Ece, would have loved to come with you.”

  Grandfather snorted. “She is not one I would like as a wife for either of you.”

  Fathi shook his head. “I don’t think of her like that.”

  And he didn’t. He had heard the rather indiscreet hints from Ece that she would be very interested in an unprofessional relationship with him. He was running out of patience and blank stares to give her. She was a lot more trouble than he was willing to deal with. Ece had lasted longer than most of his other secretaries, but they all left for the same reason—he wouldn’t have a personal relationship with them. His life wasn’t a fifties American rom-com movie where the secretary married the boss and then he showered her in luxuries while she didn’t have to work again in her life.

  “And the women you’re seen with, Rayyan,” Grandfather continued, “they are not the kind of women you marry.”

  “They are perfectly nice girls,” Rayyan said with a straight face.

  “Bah!” Grandfather shot back. “They are women who want to work. They are not ones who want to marry. Why couldn’t either one of you have found a good woman in those stupid universities you went to?”

  “Weren’t you the one who told us not to bring back any infidel women?” Rayyan mused. As Rayyan went on, Fathi choked on the drink he had just taken from a waiter. “Oh wait, woman wasn’t the word you used. It began with W, though. Help me out, Fathi, what was that word?”

  “I don’t remember,” Fathi said, not wanting to get caught in the middle of this old argument.

  It happened periodically since he came back from grad school a few years ago. Grandfather bemoaned the fact neither one of them had brought back a good woman to marry and give him great-grandsons to spoil. Then Rayyan would bring up all the things their grandfather had said to them before they left for university. It had been amusing the first time, but now it was annoying, and he didn’t know how to tell his grandfather he was gay and there would be no great-grandchildren from him.

  Rayyan shot him a look of betrayal, while Grandfather shook his head. “Teasing a poor old man like me. Such ungrateful children you are.”

  “I think that is a signal to mingle,” Rayyan said, hugging his grandfather again before making his escape.

  “It’s a nice party, Grandfather,” Fathi said. He knew that sounded idiotic, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  “I would be better with you two married,” Grandfather grumbled.

  “I don’t know any women, and Rayyan knows too many,” Fathi said. “So unless someone actually arranges for me to meet a nice woman, I doubt I’m getting married.”

  Fathi ignored the calculating look his grandfather gave him, and went off to network with the businessmen there.

  A FEW weeks later, Rayyan and Fathi were invited to Grandfather’s home for dinner. As they ate, the three of them made small talk, discussing the business and current events. Fathi had a feeling Grandfather wanted them there for a purpose, but Grandfather would just smile at them when they asked about it and change the topic. Finally they withdrew to Grandfather’s study, where one of the servants poured tea and then discreetly withdrew before shutting the doors to the room behind him.

  “I called you here for a reason,” Grandfather said, cradling the delicate china cup in his hand.

  Fathi looked at Rayyan and saw his own fear and worry reflected in his brother’s eyes. They both turned back to their grandfather. Fathi felt the delicious dinner he just ate turn into a stone in his stomach. This didn’t sound good, and the pain when he had been told of his parents’ death echoed through his heart.

  “Are you all right?” Rayyan asked softly, his voice showing the fear he felt.

  Grandfather snorted. “I’m fine. Except for the fact neither one of you are married! I need great-grandsons to spoil.”

  “You need to be married to have children,” Fathi said. That wasn’t exactly true, but Grandfather was a firm believer in marriage.

  “But you are,” Grandfather said with a sly smile, “married. Betrothed technically, since I have always considered the contract to be binding…. However, if it makes you feel better, I will say you are betrothed instead.”

  Fathi stared at his grandfather in shock. “I’m what?” he said, his voice unconsciously rising an octave.

  He must be overtired if he’d heard Grandfather tell him he was married. Wait, it was betrothed. Not as bad, but still not something he could believe. And Rayyan, blast him, was laughing.

  “Betrothed,” Grandfather repeated calmly.

  “Better you than I,” Rayyan chortled. “I’m so glad I’m not the oldest right now.”

  Fathi glared at him since his amusement wasn’t helping things. His brother at least was sexually interested in women. What in the name of all that was holy was he going to do with a bride?

  “When I was attacked in the desert years ago by terrorists, I was rescued by a tribe of Bedouin,” Grandfather reminisced, a small frown on his face. “In gratitude for their help, I promised the leader my oldest grandson’s hand in marriage to his youngest child, since I had no unmarried children. This was something they could understand; money or possessions don’t mean much to them. I did give them a large herd of goats as a guarantee of my promise, as a partial dowry for the girl. Muna died years ago, so his son-by-marriage, Hashim din Abdel, is the one who leads the tribe now.” Grandfather sighed. “Poor Muna had had only daughters.”

  “She’s twenty at least,” Rayyan said, having quickly done the math in his head.

  “If this is a desert tribe, how are you going to find them?” Fathi asked.

  He wondered what he was going to do with a bride. A bride who probably was expecting a groom very different from him and who would be hurt by his rejection, even if it wasn’t her fault. Fathi bit his lip to keep from laughing hysterically when all he could do was think of the bad breakup line “It isn’t you, it’s me.”

  Grandfather smiled at him. “I contacted Hashim a couple of weeks ago, after my birthday celebration. The tribe should be arriving at al-Saʽd al-Maṭar in a week or so.”

  Al-Saʽd al-Maṭar had been the palace of one of the Umayyad amirs. The place had changed hands several times over the centuries and had fallen into ruin before Grandfather discovered it and restored it to its former glory, turning it into the home he loved most out of the many that he owned. The problem was that even in the twenty-first century, with a lush oasis in the desert, it was an isolated glory. The palace was more stronghold than luxurious dwelling because of this, its high, sun-dried brick walls surrounding the beauty and the water within. The palace itself was made of granite, the rock causing the interior to be cool, even on the hottest day. The interior walls and floors were covered w
ith mosaics of flowers and fantastical beasts. Fathi had fond childhood memories of the place, but he hadn’t been there in several years.

  “That was why you’ve spent so much time there recently,” Rayyan said thoughtfully.

  “You keep track of me?” Grandfather demanded. “I’m not in my dotage, boy, to be watched like an infant!”

  Rayyan looked at Fathi. He shook his head. “This is your problem, big brother.” Rayyan paused for a moment. “But if you want to exchange problems….”

  “A bride is not a problem,” Grandfather snapped. “A woman to keep you warm at night—”

  “I can turn up the heat,” Fathi said.

  “To help you with your problems—” Grandfather continued.

  “Because his new bride managed to get an MBA out in the desert,” Rayyan commented.

  “Or a degree in marketing,” Fathi chimed in, fighting the urge to shout something stupid and hurtful at Grandfather. “I’d take that too.”

  “You two need to take this seriously,” Grandfather shouted, out of patience with their impertinence.

  “You’re marrying me to a woman none of us have seen and we know nothing about, and neither of us have a say in the matter because of something that happened years ago,” Fathi shouted back. “I am taking this seriously. What would you have done if I’d gotten married in America? If Rayyan had also? Would you have married her instead?”

  “None of that happened,” Grandfather replied, matching him in tone and volume. “Now I have decided to take matters into my own hands because you are my family.” He pointed at Rayyan. “You whore around with a different woman every night.” He then stabbed his finger at Fathi. “And you are celibate, only working. Neither of these things are right.”

  Grandfather turned and stormed out of the room, leaving his grandsons to stare at each other in shock.

  “I guess he put us in our place,” Fathi said, needing to break the uncomfortable silence between them.