Shadow of the Sheikh

His chest was magnificent—broad and lean and olive tan. His abs were a rippling six-pack, all angled shadows, bisected by a light V of black hair.

He walked over to the basin, sat down on the rim and pulled off his riding boots. “What are you waiting for,
kalila?
”

She blinked.
Oh, lord.

“You want to…” She glanced at the swirling water as he poured a handful of crystals into it and they began to foam. “Together?”

His brow rose. “That's generally how it's done. Unless you Americans have invented a new way I'm unfamiliar with?”

He obviously wasn't talking about bathing.

He untied the waistband of his trousers. They, too, dropped to the floor.

Leaving him completely, wonderfully, rampantly naked.

Not what she'd expected.

But oh. My. God.

Impossible to refuse.

Dear Reader,

The Sheik.
Since the breathtaking story penned in 1921 by E. M. Hull, the fantasy of being carried off by a handsome desert sheikh has captured the imagination of every woman who ever read that sizzling tale of passion, or has seen the groundbreaking movie based upon it. Who could forget Rudolph Valentino's sultry performance as the notorious hero who took what he wanted and won the heart of his reluctant heroine?

Shadow of the Sheikh
is my modern retelling of the classic fantasy…with a slight twist. The hero, Sheikh Shahin, is an immortal shape-shifter. Which makes him even more dangerous…and attractive…to the heroine, Gemma.

Shadow of the Sheikh
is book 2 of Immortal Sheikhs, a trilogy that features three American sisters living in Egypt for the summer who suddenly find themselves in the middle of a five-thousand-year-old war—and falling in love with three powerful men who are determined to possess them…forever.

Writing this series for Harlequin Nocturne has been amazing. As an Egyptologist, I have always wanted to set a book there. Now, finally, my dream has come true! And what a series. Based on the mythical conflict between the gods Seth and Horus, the story spins out a present-day continuation of the epic battle between light and darkness. You may be surprised how it turns out….

I hope you enjoy the continuation of Gillian, Gemma and Josslyn's frightening, sensual and most of all very romantic journeys to the twilight of the ancient gods as much as it thrilled me to write them!

Good reading!

Nina

Once experienced, the desert life burrows into the blood and reposes there, never quite letting go the soul.

—Sir Richard Burton

Before the time of the pharaohs, each of Egypt's great gods and goddesses chose one mortal, a man, to serve as their high priest on earth. These men became demigods, and were granted great magical powers, including the ability to shape-shift. Each high priest in turn chose two-hundred loyal followers, the
shemsu,
to guard the god's temple and keep the scared rituals alive.

But Sekhmet, the lion-headed Goddess of War, Mistress of Dread and Keeper of a Woman's Moon, became discontent with the arrogant male demigods, and schemed to gift her temple priestesses with even more power. Sekhmet gave these women the secret of immortality.

The high priests were enraged, and demanded eternal life, as well. Sekhmet agreed. But…

She was a clever and merciless goddess, and demanded a price of the demigods. Over the course of a year she slowly drained the vitality of their blood. If not replenished, the high priest would die. So to preserve his immortality and regain his strength, each year the high priest must undergo a Ritual of Transformation…and drink the blood of a mortal woman.

He must become…a vampire.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Present Day
The Nubian Desert, Upper Egypt

T
he sound of thundering hoofbeats came just split seconds before a half-dozen Bedouin riders burst around the far corner of the temple ruins.

Gemma Haliday leaped to her feet in alarm, the papers in her lap scattering around her like snow in the desert. She'd been sitting on a blanket in a sliver of shade next to the crumbling Temple of Sekhmet, quietly working on her current transcription, this one of a local vampire legend.

The camels bore down on her, hell-bent with
tassels flying, riders urging them on in loud shouts.

“Joss!” Gemma screamed to her older sister, who was sketching hieroglyphic inscriptions on the other side of the temple wall.

“Already here,” Josslyn said right behind her, accompanied by the welcome sound of a shotgun being locked and loaded.

The beasts coming at them were huge, yet stopped on a dime at their masters' command, forming a snorting, braying semicircle around the two sisters. She and Joss were trapped, a tumble of massive stone blocks cutting off any possibility of retreat.

The riders were dressed in the traditional garb of nomad warriors—black trousers, black boots, billowing black
bisht
cloaks over tunics crisscrossed by leather weapons belts and straps, curved scimitars at their sides, flowing black turbans covering their heads and faces. The kind of outfits you hardly ever saw anymore, other than in pictures in museums.

The men themselves were huge, too. And they looked mean. Unsmiling. Like they meant business. Especially the guy in the middle. He sat tall in the saddle, his shoulders broad, his features arrogant.

And he was staring right at Gemma.

Her pulse went into hyperspace. Her usually loose tongue forgot how to move. Along with her feet.

Stories of kidnapped women and ruthless slave traders ripped through her mind.

Oh. My. God.

Joss stepped forward so they stood shoulder to shoulder, the shotgun pointed at the ground but visible and at the ready. Josslyn was the oldest sister and always took charge in a crisis. Thank God. Gemma was more of a negotiator. Somehow she didn't think that was an option here.

“What do you want?” Joss asked the middle rider who seemed to be in command, using her firmest we-may-be-women-but-we-won't-take-any-of-your-male-chauvanist-bullshit voice.

The man didn't answer. Nor did his sharp black eyes stray from Gemma. They swept down her body, then back up, to drill her with a deep, penetrating stare.

She felt herself blush under the power of it. The look was blatant, unapologetic…and sexual. Like he was stripping her naked and laying her bare by the sheer force of his regard.

Unbidden and unwanted, a zing of response clenched low in her belly and tightened her nipples. The man was terrifying…but, she had to admit, sexy as hell. The kind of savage, untamed man who came to a woman in her deepest, darkest erotic fantasies.
Ho
-boy.

At some silent signal, the man's camel dropped
to its knees and he swooped down from it, landing on his feet in a flurry of dust and billowing cloak.

Joss raised her shotgun. “What do you want?” she repeated, louder, switching to Arabic.

Gemma's heart pounded like crazy.

Wordlessly, the man advanced on Gemma as though he didn't even see the weapon, which was impossible to miss because Joss put it to her shoulder and took aim right between his black eyes.

The good news was that the other riders didn't move an inch. The bad news was that Gemma couldn't either. She stood rooted to the spot, her feet like lead weights, her heart beating in her throat like a bird caught in a net. And still the man advanced on her. “Stop.
Now.
Or I'll shoot,” Josslyn ordered him sharply. She aimed the gun over his men's heads and started to pull the trigger. Without missing a step, the leader raised a hand and flicked the air as though brushing aside an insect. The gun made a clicking noise. Joss cursed.

With the same hand, he then reached under his robes and withdrew something. Gemma gasped, expecting a weapon—a pistol or a knife, or even a hypodermic needle.

It was an envelope.

She blinked in surprise.

He stopped in front of her. There was nowhere
to run. He was tall. Muscular. Hard. Too big. Too powerful.
Too
close. He was so close that when his eyes captured hers, she could see there was a ring of gold between the black of his pupils and equally black irises.
Predator eyes.

She could smell his body—musky with the heat and the dust of the Egyptian desert, and spicy from some exotic oil of the kind men usually wore to please a woman. Before she could stop herself, her nostrils flared and she drew in a lungful of his arousing scent. His gaze snapped down to her nose. Then lower, to her lips as they quivered slightly.

Something brushed over her skin, hot and electric. Like an invisible wave of energy emanating from his powerful body. Or from that piercing gaze. The earth trembled under her feet, subtly, like a small temblor. Or maybe it was just her knees shaking.

She swallowed. Transfixed.

He reached out, grasped her hand and placed the envelope in it. “A note, from your sister,” he murmured in perfect English.

She grasped the stiff square of parchment, the shock of his words rendering her even more speechless.

From Gillian?

With one last, bone-shivering sweep of his eyes over her body, the man turned on a boot, strode back to his camel and swooped up onto it. In less time
than it took to realize he was leaving, the animal had risen again, and the riders had thundered away, leaving nothing but a storm of dust in their wake.

When the cloud lifted, they had vanished completely.

Stunned, she and Josslyn stared for a long moment at the empty space where they'd disappeared. “What the
hell
was that?” Joss asked, eyes wide.

Gemma shook her head slowly. “Wow. He was…”

“Really pushing his luck,” Joss muttered, lifting her shotgun to examine it. “I can't believe it misfired…” She broke it open and checked the cartridges, frowned, snapped it shut and fired off a round harmlessly into a nearby hillock. The blast echoed off the
gebel
behind the temple.

Gemma jumped. “Would you put that thing away! They might think we're shooting at them!”

Joss glanced up at the cliffs where they'd disappeared. “Somehow I don't think they're too worried about us.”

Gemma followed her gaze and shivered, half-terrified the man and his mysterious riders would return.

Half wishing he would…

“Who do you think they were?” Josslyn asked thoughtfully. “Didn't seem like locals. Not even
the usual nomad types. Have you ever run into anyone who looked like them on your ethnographic interviews?”

Gemma was a cultural anthropologist, an ethnographer, assistant professor at Duke University specializing in the bounty of traditional stories, myth and lore found here in this remote area on the west bank of the Nile, a bit north of the first Egyptian cataract. Josslyn was an archaeologist with the Royal Ontario Museum in Canada. Her current project was studying the hieroglyphic inscriptions of the Sekhmet temple they were standing in front of.

“Not unless you count Sheikh Shahin and his death warriors,” Gemma answered, her voice tightening inexplicably on the notorious name. The villages in this area were rife with legends of his deadly exploits. And his lethal charm…

“
Death
warriors?” Joss's eyes bugged out, then rolled in comprehension. “Ah, you mean the evil shape-shifters the village women tell their kids about, to keep them from wandering into the desert and getting eaten by jackals. Yeah, call me crazy, but I don't think that was them.”

Gemma wasn't so sure. She didn't exactly believe all the stories and legends she listened to the local village women tell, faithfully transcribing them
word for word for posterity. But she did believe there were things out here that one couldn't explain. Egypt was a land of mystery and contradiction, the ancient blending with the modern in a way that defied logic or reasonable interpretation. She didn't even try. She just kept her mind open about what she saw and heard, and knew she'd be forever fascinated by the country.

And by that man, too. Oh. My. God. She'd never seen such a toe-curling exemplar of drool-worthy masculinity in her life.

“Oh, please,” Joss said, spotting the speculative look on her face. “
Please
tell me you don't think we just met this death sheikh guy. You know it's just a
story
, Gem. He doesn't actually exist.”

“I know. But damn, there was something about him…. Something mysterious and very…attractive.” She shot her a sinister grin. “No. Very
dangerous
,” Josslyn corrected firmly. “Don't even think about going there, little sister. Look at what happened to Gillian. One eyeful of a mysterious stranger and she takes off with him, without a word to anyone. God knows where she is or what she's doing.”

Gemma shook off her crazy feelings and looked down at the envelope in her hand. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea what she's doing,” she drawled, earning an amused eye-roll from Joss.

“Jealous?” Joss teased.

Gemma made a face at her sister. “Get real.” Though honestly? A little part of her might envy Gillian. Love had always been illusory for Gemma. Everyone kept telling her she just hadn't met the right man. Whatever. “Anyway, maybe this note will tell us where she is. I sure hope so.”

Their baby sister Gillian had disappeared over a week ago after phoning to tell them she'd met an incredible man and decided to stay with him for a while at his nearby estate. As yet they hadn't started to worry—she was an adult after all—but it was good to hear from her.

Albeit in the most bizarre method of communication imaginable.

Gemma tore open the envelope and read aloud.

Gemma blinked. Frowned. And felt suddenly unsteady on her feet.

“What?” Josslyn grabbed the note from her and read it silently again. Her face was a portrait of incredulity. Gemma swayed toward the nearest sandstone temple block and abruptly sat down on it. Stars? Wedding?

And Isobelle Haliday was alive?

The three sisters had practically grown up in Egypt, traveling first with both their parents, then later with just their Egyptologist father as he threw himself into his work, pursuing his dark demons after their mother's abrupt disappearance twenty years ago. She had vanished not far from here, and after ten years missing had been declared dead.

Her father had refused to accept it. He had returned obsessively to search for her, season after season, year after year, eventually abandoning their South Side Chicago home for good. Until one day he chose to walk away from his life, from his daughters, and disappeared into the burning desert to be forever close to the woman he'd loved too much to get past her loss.

“This is insane,” Josslyn said. “Our mother is
not
alive. It's impossible.”

Gemma agreed. It
was
impossible.

And yet…

“They never found her body,” Gemma pointed out. “What if she
didn't
die? What if she was kidnapped, or has had amnesia all this time, or…”

“Or nothing.” Josslyn took an angry pace away. “Dad searched for almost twenty years and didn't find a trace of her. You
know
I wish it were true, Gem, but it's not. This is just Gillian being Gillian, still trying to fix things so everything will go back to being perfect, like it was before Mom died. But some things can never be fixed.”

“You're probably right,” Gemma conceded. “Especially now, if what she says about this new man of hers is true. The stars and the moon? A
wedding?
Jeez, she must really be serious about this guy.”

Josslyn made a noise of disbelief. “After only a week? Sounds to me like the guy is angling for an American passport.” Joss was ever the skeptic of the family.

“Didn't she tell us on the phone that he was an expatriate British lord?”

Josslyn snorted again. “And if you believe
that
load of bull, I've got a couple of pyramids I could sell you, too.” She handed Gemma back the note
and shouldered the shotgun, glancing back at the
gebel
. “In any case, why don't we pack it in for the day. I could definitely use a drink after all this bizarreness.”

“Yeah. Me, too,” Gemma heartily agreed.

They gathered their things and climbed into the Land Rover, making their way back to the small villa they'd rented for the season, each lost in thought.

Later, after dinner, sitting on the verandah sipping a cocktail together, they watched dusk settle over the valley. The view was spectacular. It never failed to fill Gemma with peace and a feeling of home. In the near distance, the Nile River was a broad, winding ribbon of silver green, reflecting the oranges and pinks of the setting sun. A flock of birds, hundreds of them, dipped and soared across the sky, all turning as one, their white feathers flashing in the fading rays of the day's light, their calls echoing off the water. The smell of the river and the surrounding cultivation fields was earthy and fecund under the spicy scent of an exotic vine that blossomed profusely along an overhead trellis, and rustled gently in the evening breeze.