Dear Reader,

      When the throne of a phenomenally prosperous desert kingdom is at stake, and with it the peace of a whole region, what will its heirs do to secure it? Anything, of course! Even if that duty is the worst thing that could happen to sheikh princes who value freedom above life – entering the permanent prison of a marriage of state.

      In The Desert Lord’s Bride, Shehab has to secure the throne by marrying a woman he not only despises, but one who has point-blank refused to be the instrument of peace. What else can he do but seduce her into fulfilling her duty?

      The three-book THRONE OF JUDAR miniseries is, I hope, the wonderful beginning to my writing for the Desire™ line. I immediately felt at home creating irresistible, larger-than-life heroes who meet their matches and destinies in passionate heroines; they are brought together on tempestuous journeys filled with pleasures and heartaches, until they reach their gloriously satisfying happy ending.

      The mini-series began in May with The Desert Lord’s Baby and will conclude in September with The Desert King. I hope you’ll read all three books!

      I would love to hear from you, so please contact me at www.oliviagates.com.

       Olivia

      To my wonderful mother, husband and daughter,

      for the support, enthusiasm and inspiration.

      To my amazing editor Natashya Wilson,

      for always getting the best book out of me.

      Can’t do it without you all.

      Prologue

      It was happening.

      And Shehab ben Hareth ben Essam Ed-Deen Aal Masood could still barely believe it.

      Ya Ullah. Was he really standing in the middle of the ceremonial hall of the citadel of Bayt el Hekmah—which had witnessed every major royal event for six hundred years from the joyous to the grim—draped in the ceremonial garb he’d never thought he’d ever wear, the black-on-black robes of succession?

      Yes. He was really here. So was every member of Judar’s Tribune of Elders, every member of the royal family, every noble house representative, every gaze focused on him.

      He blocked out all but his older brother, Farooq, standing right there in his own ceremonial robes, white on white, signifying the transfer of power, his golden eyes flashing his regret, asking understanding.

      Shehab squeezed his eyes shut once, acknowledging, everything once again explained and sanctioned through the elemental bond that had bound them since Shehab was born.

      Yes. Shehab understood. And accepted. Farooq was only doing this because he had to. Because he knew Shehab was capable of shouldering the burden.

      Then Farooq spoke, his voice reverberating in the gigantic hall, fathomless in tone, final in intent. “O’waleek badallan menni.”

      I bequeath you the succession in my stead.

      Then their uncle, the king, barely upright on the throne with the toll of crises, both physical and political, made the intent a reality, in a voice ravaged by infirmity and deep worry.

      “Wa ana ossaddek ala tanseebuk walley aahdi.”

      And I validate naming you my heir.

      Shehab went down on one knee in front of his older brother, extending both hands, palms up, to accept the bejeweled sword of succession. The moment the heavy weapon rested on his upturned hands, it felt as if he’d just taken the weight of the world there.

      And he had. He’d taken on the weight of Judar’s future.

      He closed his eyes as the cold steel singed his flesh.